Another long pause.
I'm trying. It's harder than it sounds.
I know. Goodnight, Robin.
Goodnight, Vaughn.
I set my phone down. My lion paces, restless, unhappy.
Something is wrong in that kitchen. Something worse than a demanding boss. And Robin can't see it because he's spent years telling himself it's normal.
I can wait. I'm good at waiting.
But my patience has an expiration date, and it's getting closer.
Chapter 13
Robin
The pan hits my arm at 11:47 AM on a Thursday.
I know the exact time because I was checking the clock — counting down to the end of service, counting down to the bar, counting down to Vaughn — when Gordon threw a sauté pan at the wall behind my station and it didn't hit the wall.
It hit me.
Left forearm. The handle catches me across the muscle, a hard crack of metal on bone that sends a jolt of pain up to my shoulder. The pan clatters to the floor. The kitchen goes silent.
Gordon is red-faced, breathing hard. He'd been screaming about the plating — too slow, too precious,why does everything take you so fucking long— and the pan was supposed to hit the tile behind me. It always hits the tile. Towels, whisks, the occasional cutting board — he throws things at walls, not people. That's the rule. That's how I've justified years of this. He throws things at walls.
Except today his aim was off. Or today he didn't care.
Sarah is the first to move. She's at my side in three seconds, pulling my arm toward her, pushing up my sleeve. The bruise is already forming — dark red, spreading, the outline of the pan handle printed into my skin like a brand.
"Robin." Her voice is careful, controlled, the voice you use when you're trying not to scream. "That needs ice."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. He hit you."
"He missed the wall."
"Robin." She grips my shoulders, turns me to face her. "He threw a pan and it hit your arm. That's not missing the wall. That's assault."
Assault. I want to reject it — it was an accident, he didn't aim for me, he's never aimed for me — but the bruise is throbbing and the kitchen is still silent and everyone is looking at me with the expression of people who've been waiting for this to happen.
Gordon clears his throat. "Back to work. All of you."
The kitchen moves. Heads down, hands busy, the careful choreography of people pretending they didn't see what they saw. Gordon doesn't look at me. Doesn't apologize. Doesn't acknowledge that his pan connected with my arm instead of the wall. He just walks back to his office and closes the door.
Sarah pulls me to the walk-in. Presses a bag of frozen peas against my arm. "You need to report this."
"To who? He owns the company."
"The police. OSHA. Anyone."
"And say what? My boss has a temper and he missed the wall? It's not—"
"If you say 'it's not a big deal' I'm going to scream."