"Yet."
I rinse the pan, set it on the rack, and start the next one. Sarah watches me for a long moment, then squeezes my arm and goes to finish her own station.
She's not wrong. I know she's not wrong.
But I've been here for years. Gordon was the one who hired me out of culinary school when no one else would. I was twenty-one and green and desperate, and he gave me a chance, and I've been repaying that chance every day since by being the best pastry chef he's ever had while he tells me I'm barely adequate.
I drive to the bar after. Still in my kitchen blacks, too tired to go home and change. The pride is there. Knox behind the bar with Toby tucked against his side on a stool, Vaughn working on a crossword, Jason and Ash sharing a plate of nachos, Ezra arguing with Silas about something that sounds like whether a honey badger could beat a wolverine in a fight.
"Robin!" Jason waves me over. "Settle this. Honey badger or wolverine?"
"Honey badger, obviously. They're psychotic. It's not even a contest." I slide onto a stool and paste on my smile and become the version of myself these people expect — bright, loud, flirty, fun. "Who's buying me a drink? I've had a day."
"That bad?" Toby asks, because Toby always asks, because Toby is the only person in this bar who consistently looks past the performance.
"Nothing a whiskey won't fix." I wink at Knox. "The good stuff, alpha man. I've earned it."
Knox pours without comment, which is its own kind of kindness.
I drink. I laugh at Jason's honey badger impression. I flirt with Ezra about his hair. I let Silas tell me about the book he's reading — some fantasy epic with dragons and political intrigue — and I actually listen, because Silas is sweet and earnest when he talks about stories and I like who he becomes when he forgets to be shy.
And then Vaughn pushes a second whiskey toward me without being asked. Doesn't say a word. Doesn't look up from his crossword. Just slides the glass across the bar until it touches my hand.
I wrap my fingers around it and hold very still.
No one else noticed. The bar is loud and everyone's talking and this tiny gesture disappeared into the noise of the evening. But I noticed. And the fact that Vaughn knew I needed a second drink without me asking for one — knew it the way he knows when an engine needs oil, quiet and certain and without fanfare — makes me almost smile despite my day.
"Thanks," I say.
"Mm," he says, filling in a crossword clue.
That's it. That's the whole interaction. And it's the best part of my day by a margin so wide it's embarrassing.
It's way too late when Vaughn walks me to the car. Everyone else is in bed. Ash and Jason left hours before. "You look tired."
"Charming."
"Robin."
"I'm fine. Long day. Gordon was Gordon."
He stops walking. In the parking lot, under the one streetlight that works, Vaughn stands perfectly still and looks at me with those steady eyes and says, "You don't have to be fine."
I don't know what to do with that. I literally don't know how to respond to someone giving me permission to not be okay. So I do what I always do — I smile, I deflect, I make it a joke.
"Careful, big guy. Keep being nice to me and I might develop feelings."
He holds my gaze for one more beat. Then he nods and walks back to the bar.
I sit in the Audi for five minutes before I can make myself turn the key.
At home, I text Toby because I see he sent me a meme recently so he's probably up and currently unoccupied with his lion. We really didn't get to talk tonight with everyone around:Gordon changed the entire dessert menu two hours before service. I made 200 panna cottas from scratch and he told the client it was his recipe.
Toby:Robin. When are you going to quit?
I stare at the ceiling of my room in my brother's house and type:It's fine. It's just the industry.
I don't send it. Delete it. Try again.