see through to the kitchen - Chapter 1 - overnights (2024)

Chapter Text

When we loved

like fierce mountain storms, with

the blood

of eagles in our hearts, exchanging

grocery lists

that just said you you you you all the way down.

- Christopher Citro, fromOur Beautiful Life When it´s Filled With Shrieks

The dinner rush at Providence isn’t a rush at all - it’s more like a god damn tsunami. They’re slammed from the second the doors open at five pm, and there isn’t an empty table in the place for more than ninety seconds until they close at midnight; this is who they are, this is what they do. Back of house is chaos, a constant stream of dishes and demands, and Fatin navigates it flawlessly.

It’s chaos, yes, but it’s organized chaos. She knows every inch of this kitchen, every knife on the chopping block, every step on the tiled floor. She knows the flow of it all, the familiarity. Steam off the soups and the char on the steaks and the spices strewn on top, and she thrives in it. This is her job, after all, and she’s f*cking good at it.

“Four people on thirty-five, chefs,” she calls. She turns to the sauce chef. “Eighty-six the bearnaise.” The pastry chef: “Watch the strawberry glaze, it was a little tight on your last dish.” The grill chef: “Fire extra spring veg for twenty.” The fish chef: “Fire two salmon on the fly, sixteen is returning the filet mignon.” The kitchen at large: “Wait on nineteen, fire twenty-five. Hands, now.”

The replies ring out in a chorus: yes chef, yes chef, wait on nineteen, chef, got it, chef. Fatin plates the swordfish for eighteen, grabs herbs and tweezers, garnishes a tuna tartare for thirteen. Smirks to herself a little while she does it; she’s CDC at age twenty-four, Friday night at LA’s highest-class upscale bistro, and she’s f*cking killing it.

“Chef? Phone for you.”

Fatin spins towards the source of the voice: one of the hostesses, young and blonde and quintessentially LA. Fatin swears she’s never seen this girl before in her life, but here she is, holding out the restaurant’s phone with an apologetic look on her face.

Fatin glares at her. “What?”

“Sorry, chef,” the girl says, her hands shaking a little now. “It’s just that, um. This guy called the restaurant and asked to talk to you? Said it’s an emergency.”

“For f*ck’s sake,” Fatin says. “Give me that and get back to front of house - hands, please!”

The girl’s expression slides to terror and then relief. She hands over the phone and walks away quickly, like she’s worried she’ll get yelled at if she stays a moment longer - which, in all honesty, was pretty goddamn likely. Fatin sighs and presses the phone to her ear, even as she’s nodding approval over a pot of French onion and directing a Hollandaise pour-over with the gestures of her free hand. Whatever this call is, she doesn’t have f*cking time for it.

“Hello?” Fatin says impatiently. “Look - fire twenty, walking nineteen - it’s not a great time, can I call you back?”

“Fatin? It’s me.”

Fatin freezes, stops dead on the spot. Suddenly the rush of the kitchen fades away into nothing. She’s seventeen again and back in her father’s house, ignoring her brother’s quiet voice and a knock at her door even as she slips out the window to another party that wasn’t worth it in the end. She’s seventeen, and she’s scared.

“Ahmad,” she says, so quiet that she can barely hear her own voice above the back of house racket. “What’s up?”

“You weren’t picking up your phone, so I called you here,” Ahmad says. A pause,“Look - something’s happened, it’s Dad, he’s - he’s dead, he was sick and we didn’t know and you need to come home,” and Fatin feels like a gun’s gone off in her chest. Feels like she’s dying right alongside him - and wouldn’t that just be f*cking ironic, for all the wrong reasons.

“Fatin? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” Fatin says, the word a bitter acid against her tongue. “Yeah, I’m here.”

+

Her hometown is smaller than she remembers. Small and dull and tucked away against the coastline, like a mistake that someone’s tried to hide. There’s something to that, Fatin thinks wryly, looking out the window of the cab. This town’s always felt like a mistake to her.

“Pull up here, okay,” she says to the driver. It’s not quite her stop, but she can’t take one more minute of the sports talk station he’s got blaring from the radio.“Thanks.”

The cab drops her off in the middle of town, on the sidewalk between a neon-lit bodega and a bookshop: cracked sign, faded awning. Fatin stands on the cracked cement for a minute, stares up at the buildings around her; it’s a city, technically, but it holds up to LA like a match to a forest fire. It’s so much dimmer here, lacking the lights and the clubs and the action. Lacking the electric feel of three million lives pressed into what feels like the biggest and brightest place on earth.

Fatin f*cking hates it.

“Okay,” she mumbles to herself, shouldering her bags. “f*ck this. Let’s go.”

A cool breeze sweeps along the street, sending a chill down Fatin’s spine as the smell of sea salt washes over her. Fatin grimaces, pulls her jacket tighter around herself. f*ck the ocean, right - that’s just one more reason to be miserable that she’s back in this piece of sh*t town.

She grabs the handle of her suitcase and starts walking in the direction of her old house, every step like a hammer strike to her chest. Even though it’s not possible, she swears her luggage grew heavier in the last two minutes.

+

It’s Jadmani’s that breaks her, in the end. She survives the awkward misery of seeing her brothers, the night spent within the four crushing walls of her childhood bedroom. Even the tears in her mother’s eyes and the time-worn lines of her face that Fatin swears weren’t there eight months ago. She survives all of that, because she’s made it through worse. She’s been balanced on a cliff’s edge for the last three years, and so far she hasn’t fallen.

Standing in the kitchen of the restaurant that used to be her father’s, though - that’s the sh*t that might just push her over.

“Un-f*cking-believable,” Fatin says, shaking her head. “How can this place even still be standing?”

Ahmad, leaning against the walk-in, shrugs one shoulder. He looks about as tired as Fatin feels, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep and an overnight flight. “Dad made it work, I guess.”

“Sure, if you call this working.” Fatin waves her hand in a broad gesture, indicating the general nauseating state of the kitchen. Stained counter, rusted stove coils, dull knives on the chopping block. Giant metal barrel of bottom-tier olive oil sitting by the wall for no apparent reason, a full year past expiration date. If French Laundry was a person, they wouldn’t let their dog eat at this place. “It wasn’t like this before. Who the f*ck is even running things here?”

“It’s been in rough shape for a while now,” Ahmad admits, “but there’s a new chef who came in recently. She’s been here what, almost a year. Can’t remember her name, but she’s good - was running the place, actually, after he retired. He talked her up a lot, especially in the months before…you know.”

There’s a sting to that statement, despite Fatin’s best efforts not to feel it. She doesn’t need her father’s praise, hasn’t wanted it since the day she found out about the affair, but there’s still a knife’s edge of resentment working its way around her ribs. Why weren’t you talking me up, she wants to say to the father who’s no longer there, who never really was. Why were you only ever putting me down. Why couldn’t you lift me, just one time, instead of everything. Instead of this.

Alright then - whoever this new girl is, Fatin already hates her a little. Nothing personal, it’s just the principle of the thing. Keeping knives sharp even if they don’t need the grindstone quite yet.

“f*cking hell,” she mutters, circling the path from walk-in to grill to stove to line. The restaurant’s closed for the day, has been for the past week. Fatin can’t imagine that the addition of staff would do much to liven up the joint. “Jesus wept. Gordon Ramsay f*cking wept. I pity the poor bastard who has to manage this place from now on.”

“Oh,” Ahmad says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Nineteen going on twenty, and he’s tall enough that the motion makes him look ridiculously unbalanced; Fatin misses the time when he was still shorter than her. Practically ancient history by now. “Um. Well.”

Fatin looks at him, impatient, wanting to get the hell out of here already. Ahmad’s blocking the doorway now, one hand braced against the back of his head, his face equal parts sad and scared.

“What?” Fatin asks. It’s a snap, almost, but manages to pull herself back. “Do you know who it is? I swear to god, it better not be that motherf*cker Ben.”

Ahmad shakes his head. “Ben’s been gone for a year. Went to Philadelphia, I think. Fatin…”

“Or - not Alana, right? God, she was a bitch, remember that one time when—”

“Dad left Jadmani’s to you,” Ahmad blurts out quickly, like he’s getting it over with, like a punch to the jaw hurts any less if it’s traveling faster. Fatin can’t do anything but stare. This has to be a mistake, a prank - but Ahmad is serious, has never been the kind of guy to joke around even when the sun was shining and the days were good, and Fatin knows this is real.

“f*ck,” she says, and then again: “f*ck. Right. I’m gonna need a drink or five.”

+

For Fatin, the next three days go like this: two screaming fights with her mother, two tense reconciliations following said screaming fights, a pile of paperwork, one drunken MarioKart tournament with Ahmad and Kemar. Nights are for tequila and cigarettes, far too much of both. Rinse and repeat, but don’t repent. Fatin’s never worried about that last one very much, and she doesn’t intend to start now.

There’s more details, and a hangover or three as well, but it all comes down to a sh*t-sucking, soul-crushing bitch of a conclusion: Jadmani’s has to stay open, and Fatin has to stay in East Bay to run it.

“You don’t have to do this,” Ahmad tells her on the third night. Kehmar’s gone; their mother’s gone too, three states away and back to live with her own mother. Barely a whisper on the way out, can’t stand it here anymore, just sell the house, and Fatin hadn’t been surprised. Hadn’t really been able to fault her, either, although not for lack of trying. If Fatin could turn and run from this town again, she would in a heartbeat.

Ahmad’s the last one left: two hours out from his flight back to college in Delaware, bags packed and resting by the door. To the eyes of someone trapped in the hellhole that’s East Bay for the indefinite future, he’s already a dust cloud on a brighter horizon.

Fatin laughs, short and humorless. She doesn’t have to do this; now there’s a lie with a maladaptive daydreaming problem. “I do, though.”

And she does, no matter how much she wishes she didn’t. She’s a master with a kitchen knife, but she can’t slice this issue any other way. Jadmani’s is a humble establishment, sure, but it’s what keeps them going. It pays Ahmad’s college tuition, Kehmar’s as well, keeps the lights on and the roof over their mother’s head. It’s a little like their father in that sense, both the poison and glue of the family.

That’s a bad thought, the kind that needs to be killed. Fatin quickly reels herself back in, picks up Ahmad’s backpack to distract herself. Holds it out to him.

“He would be proud,” Ahmad offers, tentative, as he takes it. “That you’re…I don’t know. Accepting this.”

“I’m not doing it for him,” Fatin says sharply. “I’m doing it for you. For Kehmar. For Mom.”

Ahmad lowers his head, hiding his expression. He’s a softer touch than Fatin - always was, never quite got past loving their father even after the affair and the fallout. Fatin doesn’t hold it against him, but she doesn’t hold his hand through it either. There’s a reason she ran at seventeen and never looked back until now.

“I know,” Ahmad says. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and leans down to give Fatin a quick hug, awkward, laced with the clumsy kind of love between estranged siblings who don’t quite know how to get it right. And then he’s gone too, and Fatin’s left alone in her childhood home, right where she started. Right where she never wanted to be again.

“I’m f*cking selling this house,” she yells into the twilight that’s settling over the neighborhood. The shout echoes a little, probably scandalizes the uptight and elderly neighbors, but that’s their problem. Fatin’s already slamming the door closed behind her.

+

Jadmani’s is slated to reopen two weeks after the funeral that Fatin didn’t attend, one week after she put the old house on the market and moved into a clean white studio apartment, and ten light-years before she’s ready to deal with everything. Twenty light-years, even.

It’s not a good time, never will be, but the show must go…over, or under. Something, whatever. Fatin frowns over the phrase a moment before dropping it; she chose culinary arts over theatrical ones for a reason. She’s got better things to think about right now. Stocking for prep and meeting the staff and resisting the temptation to off herself in the walk-in, or at least do a few lines in there.

She’s at the restaurant the day before re-opening, her and no one else, letting herself in with the key she found hanging on the rack by the door back at her father’s house. And then she’s just sitting for a while, there in the middle of the kitchen, trying to get her head around it all.

How the mighty have fallen. She’s gone from the pristine white kitchens of the fine dining world to this. This, a half-collapsing halal fusion sandwich joint that’s haunted by the memory of her father and also probably black mold if the dark stain in one corner of the ceiling is anything to go by.

“f*cking hell,” she says to herself after a few minutes, and gets up to look for cleaning supplies. If she can’t fix the first issue, she can at least address the second.

She does her best to make the place look a little better; fact is, it’s pretty much hopeless. As much as she cleans, or tries at least, there’s a layer of dilapidated exhaustion that lies heavy on every wall, every surface. The place is worn out, aching in the corners. One harsh breeze away from collapse, or at least a health code violation.

Well, at least she’s trying. She scrubs and sweeps and curses her life - and then, after remembering her short-lived attempt at therapy, does her best to search for a silver lining. Finds one, finally: at least it’s mostly a takeout venue, so customers don’t really hang around inside long enough to notice the bigger flaws. Small favors and all that.

Sunlight streams through the small kitchen windows, late-winter pale but still present. Fatin looks up, sets aside the mop.

“Dad,” Fatin says, quiet. The word feels strange in her mouth, uncomfortable. Foreigner in a long-forgotten land. “Why’d you do it?”

It’s the first time she’s spoken to her father in eight years, and he isn’t even here to hear it. There’s no answer, of course. Even if he were still alive, it wouldn’t be any different. Wouldn’t change a god damn thing.

+

She oversleeps the morning of re-opening, consequence of a restless night put to bed with bourbon; drags herself into clothes, out of the apartment, across town to the restaurant half an hour late. It’s a soft re-open, thank god, staff only - but still, she didn’t want to be late.

But she is, and there’s no going back, so she flings open the door and walks in just like that: unhurried, unbothered, like she owns the place.

Because she does, she remembers belatedly. Legally, even. Jesus.

There’s already a few people there in back of house, moving around, setting things up. Fatin pauses in the doorway and lets her eyes sweep over them, narrowed, calculating.

A short, angry looking girl is stacking trays; a tall girl with flawless dark skin and legs a mile long is putting prep containers on a high shelf. There’s a gorgeous blonde standing by the window, face of a sorority sister, almost too pretty to be here. A round-faced girl is wiping down the counter with long careful strokes of the rag.

And one more: a girl with wavy brown hair leans against the walk-in, writing something on a clipboard. Tall, strong-bodied, a long line of definition in her forearm as she grips the pen. A glint of silver at her ears: one ring in her left, three in her right.

Fatin’s caught on her instantly, staring despite herself; there’s a subtle intensity to this girl, something magnetic. Trajectory of an orbit. For a moment the restaurant blurs, the walls disappear. It’s this girl and the distance between them and Fatin’s desire to close it, nothing else.

If this was LA, Fatin thinks. If this was a bar, a club, a f*cking bathroom. A desert island, even. If this was anywhere but the restaurant and her hometown and the anger she thought she’d outgrown, she’d already be halfway across the room. They’d already be halfway home.

“Rachel,” the girl says, “delivery just got here, can you grab the cases,” and everything shifts back into focus. Fatin shakes her head clear, puts away the bisexual delusions to find reality in their place - this is her, the one who’s been running Jadmani’s for the past year. The bitch who took Fatin’s place.

(Never mind that it wasn’t her place, not really, didn’t even want it to be. It’s just - it’s the principle, alright. The f*cking principle.)

“Hello, everyone,” Fatin says, loudly. Puts on one of her smiles, the one she gives on media days. A magazine cover: polished, dazzling, look at me. Camera ready.

Every head in the room turns her way; would be a lot more gratifying if she didn’t feel mildly ill at the prospect of taking charge here. This makes it too official, too real. Jadmani’s is here, and it’s hers, and this is her life now.

Well, her life can suck a fat one.

“Oh my god,” says the girl who had been wiping down the counter. Her rag is hanging loose from her fingers now, her mouth dropped slightly open. “Oh my god, wow, you’re Fatin Jadmani! I’ve seen all your cooking videos!”

The short girl scoffs, looking far less impressed by Fatin’s presence. “Uh, yeah, Marty. Her name is literally on the restaurant.”

Marty - weird name for a girl, but whatever - blinks, a little crestfallen. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense, I guess.”

Sorority blonde steps forward, extending a hand. “Hi,” she says - slow drawl, a hint of Southern twang. “I’m Shelby. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Fatin takes her hand and gives a firm shake, amused but oddly charmed. Southern manners; go figure. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

“And,” Shelby continues, “I’m so sorry for your loss. We all are.”

The other girls nod, murmur quietly in agreement. Fatin’s stomach drops, twists. This isn’t what she needs right now, or ever.

“Thanks,” she says, short, and nothing else.

“May the Lord bless him and keep him even in heaven,” Shelby says. She inclines her head: deep, respectful, perfect for accommodating the crushing weight of being a Bible-thumping Jesus freak. Maybe not a fair judgement, but who really gives a sh*t.

“Oh, no, he’s burning in hell right now,” Fatin assures her. “And he was Muslim. In theory, anyway.” She looks around the room, doesn’t really see it - f*ck, not now, not here. Push through. “He left me the restaurant, I’m gonna be managing it from now on, here we are. Ta-da. Someone wanna give me the full kitchen rundown?”

“I’ll do it,” the girl says - the girl, of course it’s her, and Fatin’s eyes are stuck on her again. Stuck like honey, molasses. Syrup at the bottom of a pan. Now that she’s looking up, Fatin sees the color of her eyes for the first time: blue, the stormy kind, blending into grey at the edges.

“I’m Leah,” the girl adds. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Really,” Fatin says. “Huh. I haven’t heard a single thing about you.”

It’s a mean thing to say, cutting. Harsh for no good reason, except that Leah’s standing here in Jadmani’s in a way that says she belongs, a way that Fatin might never learn to duplicate, and Fatin just - doesn’t want it to be like this. Doesn’t want anything to be like this.

Shelby looks taken aback, and so does Marty. The short girl stifles a derisive laugh, mouth turned quickly into her shirt sleeve, and elbows the tall one in the ribs: check it out, cat fight. Leah, though, stays calm. Cool, even, those blue-grey eyes sweeping over Fatin’s face without a visible reaction.

“Maybe you haven't been listening hard enough,” is all Leah says in reply. Then: “Come on, the new stock room’s this way.”

She turns and walks away. Fatin follows, feeling wrong-footed but unsure of where to step next.

+

By late afternoon, Fatin’s gone over line, walk-in, stock room, secondary storage. She’s learned the rest of the staff’s names, finally. Toni, Rachel. Martha, because Marty is a nickname for Toni’s use, nobody else’s. Fatin sees the look in Toni’s eyes as she says that, protectively possessive, and backs down without a fight. She’s got bigger things to worry about.

Things like Leah, last name Rilke, and now Fatin remembers that she has heard something about her, after all. There was a mention in Gastronomica, a passing comment. New, young, up and coming saucier at French Rivière. A white wine-plum brandy fusion reduction that’s second to none. Creative, intriguing, whatever.

Nothing all that memorable, in other words. Fatin’s been in culinary school since the age of seventeen; worked in several Michelin-starred restaurants, earned one of her own. Her face has been the cover of Food & Wine, June issue. She’s got no competition, really - not here, not anywhere.

Still, though. Still: there’s this ache in her stomach when she looks at Leah and thinks, This is the girl who could pull a compliment out of my father. That ache; jealousy and anger, begrudging curiosity. A flash of something else, too - something blue-grey, restless. The same shade as Leah’s eyes.

“Okay,” Fatin says, fully oriented by now, redirecting from any gay ass thoughts about the color blue. “We reopen tomorrow, officially. Be here at nine, prep starts at nine fifteen and we don’t want to fall behind during lunch rush if it turns out we don’t have enough f*cking onions, or whatever. Alright? Alright. Thank you, chefs.”

Toni smirks, doesn’t bother to hide it. Fatin narrows her eyes. “Something funny?”

“Just…chefs,” Toni echoes. “Like, you don’t have to say that to us. We’re not those rats from f*cking Ratatouille. We make sandwiches, not five course meals.”

Fatin’s jaw tenses, involuntary. She tries to rein it back. “Look, it’s a thing. In the culinary world, it’s a sign of respect, alright. So even if this isn’t a fine dining establishment, even if it’s the sh*ttiest semi-halal sandwich place in the state and maybe even the world, I’m still a chef, because I’ve f*cking earned it. And you’re gonna be chefs too. All of you.”

Toni whistles, quiet and under her breath; gives Rachel a sidelong look, eyebrows raised. She doesn’t say anything else, though, so Fatin’ll count that as a win.

“You heard her,” Leah says from her place near the walk-in. Slow drawl, quietly sarcastic. “Tomorrow, nine sharp.” She gives Fatin a little nod, fleeting, just a tip of the head. “Yes, chef.”

Fatin rolls her eyes, waves a dismissal at her new staff, leaves. She thinks about it all the way home: yes, chef. The steep drive uphill, windows open despite the hint of cold. Yes, chef. The sea breeze rising, whipping through her hair.

+

Official reopen, and they’re f*cked as soon as they begin. Before they begin, even; everyone arrives on time but they fall behind on prep anyway, and once the doors open they’re absolutely slammed. Line goes out the door, and for what - the sandwiches aren’t even that good, and neither is anything else on the menu.

The good people of East Bay seem to disagree, though. The line runs on, the printer rips through seventy tickets in the first hour and a half. Back of house is a total sh*tshow, absolute f*cking chaos, not the controlled kind either. There’s no harmony, no brigade, just five unstaged chefs playing musical chairs with the different stations and f*cking up every other five minutes no matter how Fatin yells instructions at them.

Fatin looks at the mess all around her and wishes, fiercely, for a rail or three; hasn’t touched the stuff in two years, but the day’s bad enough that she’s considering a backslide. Another disaster, everywhere she looks.

Example: Shelby, slicing more tomatoes to replace the empty bin from prep. Grip on the knife that says she’s never staged a day in her life. Not an ounce of professional training, probably more than an ounce of blood coming when she cuts a finger off. f*cking hell.

Example: Martha, on desserts, five or maybe seven minutes behind where she needs to be, tickets piling up as she carefully ices a chocolate cake, too slow, too f*cking slow. f*cking hell.

Example: Toni, lowering batches of fries into the cooker, wearing f*cking wired earbuds as she works. Thin white cable falling loose by her side, way too close to the danger zone. f*cking christ. Fatin needs more than co*ke to deal with this; she needs a f*cking gun.

“Hey,” she shouts, hurrying from the stockroom, a stack of trays in her arms. “A little more hustle, here, okay, we’re like ten minutes behind - corner - and we can’t f*cking afford that right now. We need more chicken, more falafel. Fire ten of each right now, need five more batches all day, watch the cook on those - last one came out a little too crispy. We’re serving food here, not coal.”

“Sorry,” Shelby calls out, looks genuinely guilty about it too, but Fatin doesn’t have time to soothe her god-fearing Christian conscience. She slams the trays down on the counter, reaches into her pocket for a Sharpie, finds it empty. f*ck.

“Yo,” Rachel yells over to her, coming out from front of house, “hey, Fatin - chef, whatever, there’s something up with the printer, the tickets are coming out f*cking purple and I can’t read sh*t.”

Fatin glances across the kitchen, sees the problem through the slight haze of the room - a long string of magenta tape pouring from the ticket slot, great, awesome. f*cking A.

“Alright,” she shouts back, resigned. Improbable combination of spoon and spatula and and plated chocolate cake now balanced between her hands, probably destined for the floor. “Hold on, I’ll - I don’t know, f*cking fix it—”

“I got it,” Leah says, tone low but cutting straight to the heart of the commotion. Fatin hears it closer, somehow, a drumbeat cupped right in the shell of her ear. Hears it, and wastes five seconds she doesn’t have just to watch Leah cross the kitchen in sure strides, break open the printer, put it back together with only a bare hint of struggle. When she hits the print button again, all traces of magenta are gone.

f*ck, Fatin thinks, and it’s pitched with something that reaches for admiration, almost hits it. f*ck, because Leah’s been the only touchstone in this kitchen all morning, steady in the face of complete clusterf*ck insanity, sometimes on grill and fryer and sauces all at once. Running expo and delegating side work while handling knives like she was born with a silver santoku in her mouth, and she still has time to cross the room and fix the f*cking printer. Still has time to look over at Fatin, lock their gazes together, and smirk: just the quirk of her mouth, the curve of its corner.

Fatin realizes the moment she’s been caught; she stares back, holds contact a moment longer, feels it like fire in her chest. Burn of an open-flame stove.

And then she pulls it back, breaks away, reaches for a Sharpie that actually f*cking works. Yells: Chefs, keep it tight, I don’t want to see any more f*ck-ups this shift. Gets a motley, off-beat chorus of yes, chef in return, the words still unfamiliar, not yet instinct. The real version, that’s a call and response that matches the beat of Fatin’s heart, and they’re not there yet. They will be, though. She’ll make sure of it.

There’s a crash, a yell of sh*t!, and a whole tray of diced onions goes spinning down to the floor. Fatin closes her eyes, breathes as best she can: in, out. In, think about the burning drag of a cigarette, out.

+

“I need to talk to you,” Fatin says, seven hours later. Closing, finally, and she’s so beat-down, dragged-out tired that she didn’t even make Toni clean out the grease trap before she left, in retribution for wearing earbuds on the clock. She’ll table that one until tomorrow.

“Do you,” Leah says - it’s a statement, not a question. She crosses one leg loosely in front of the other, folds a sheet of paper cleanly in her hands. Scheduling draft, probably, and even that’s annoying. That should be Fatin’s job now.

“That wasn’t a request,” Fatin says, a little sharp. Wanting to make sure she gets the point. “Chef.”

Leah smiles a little, but there’s not much humor in it. “I know.”

It’s just the two of them left now, out by the parking lot in the early-spring dark. Fatin’s locking up, and Leah’s still there for some reason. Force of habit, maybe, since it’s been her responsibility for the past, what, year now. Hers, not Fatin’s.

The last lock clicks home; Fatin pockets the keys, turns so they’re facing each other. Leah’s right there, closer than Fatin remembered her being a minute ago. Close enough that Fatin has to tip her head back a little in order to see her properly, up past the height and the long line of her throat, and that’s -

And that’s whatever, it’s not even that much of a height difference, and Fatin makes a note to start wearing platform boots to work. She flicks her gaze to the ground, sees that Leah’s wearing Converse: plain black, flat soles. Damn it.

“Just one question,” Fatin says, and then moves backwards, just a bit, so she’s not craning her neck. Backwards, but not backing down. She flashes Leah a smile, the dangerous kind. All teeth and no softness. “Genuinely, from the bottom of my heart - how the f*ck have you been running this place for the past year.”

It comes out mean, almost menacing. All of Providence would be running for cover if this tone was directed at them. They have, before; Fatin’s watched it happen.

Leah, on the other hand, just hums a little. “Only the last nine months, actually.”

“It’s a mess,” Fatin continues. Leah’s still got an impassive expression on her face, annoyingly unbothered, so Fatin barrels on. “Prep is sloppy, staff is sh*t, expo is sh*t, there’s no brigade system. No system at all, as far as I can tell. I don’t know where the f*ck you went for culinary, but—”

“I didn’t.”

Fatin stops short, confused. “Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t go to culinary school,” Leah says, and suddenly Fatin’s not confused anymore. She’s mad - blood boiling, high heat. Nightmare in the f*cking kitchen.

“What,” Fatin says. “The f*ck.”

Leah shrugs, indifferent. The movement draws Fatin’s eyes, presses them to the hint of collarbone slipping from the neck of her shirt. “I was an English major.”

“Okay,” Fatin says. There’s a sudden ache in her stomach; she probably should’ve eaten lunch today, more than just a handful of fries, but it’s not like she’d had the time. “Okay, but then how the f*ck did you work at French Riviere.”

Leah smirks. “So you have heard about me.”

Fatin opens her mouth, closes it again without saying anything - first time in ages that she can remember doing that. First time in forever that she can remember meeting someone like this.

“Listen,” Leah says, looking directly at Fatin now. Looking down at her, the arrogant bitch, as if she’s really that much taller. “You might find this hard to believe, but back of house actually worked fine before you got here, so maybe - just maybe - you should take a look at yourself instead of putting it all on us.”

It takes a minute for the words to fully hit; even when they do, Fatin still thinks she’s hearing things.

“Are you f*cking serious,” she says, incredulous. “You’re blaming me for the disaster we had today?”

Leah shrugs again, and there’s another slip of skin: warm-looking, smooth beneath the rough cotton of her shirt. “I’m just saying. We had a system, and it worked until now.”

“There was no f*cking system,” Fatin argues, almost shouts. The keys, still sitting in her palm; slight sting of metal, marks in her skin from how tightly she’s holding them. “But if you think you had one, then by all f*cking means please enlighten me.”

“Oh, no,” Leah says, shaking her head. “You’re the boss, remember? I just work here.” She opens the door of her car and slides in, all one fluid movement. Battered dark green Corolla, probably older even than the wiring in the restaurant; Fatin had noticed that car earlier, thought it was charming in an unconventional kind of way. Hadn’t known it was Leah’s until now.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, chef,” Leah calls out. One hand out the open window, a quick, sarcastic wave, and the Corolla is gone.

“f*ck,” Fatin yells at the empty parking lot, and then goes home to find a bottle of vodka. God knows she could use it right about now.

If she replays the interaction with Leah about a half dozen times, if she chases each shot with the long lines of Leah’s collarbones and the distance between their faces when they’re standing close together, well. That’s what alcohol is for: erasing the things you don’t want to remember. Quick spill of liquor, and watch - it’s gone by the morning.

+

Next couple days are marginally better, in the way that a tropical monsoon is better than a straight-up flood - some difference, maybe, but still a danger of drowning. Business is big, problems are bigger. Back of house is one endless string of expletives, and Fatin’s pretty sure her vocal cords are frayed from how much she’s been shouting.

“Fire chicken,” she yells, “ten chicken, all day, I said ten, hands! Order up, f*cking hands! Hands!”

Literally no one gives a sh*t. Shelby’s the only one even who sort of listens, looks over at Fatin like she’s confused but wants to understand. Rachel and Toni are having an argument as they slap together chicken and falafel sandwiches on the deli counter. Might be a competition, actually, and Fatin swears she’s going to commit a murder right here on the line.

“Shelby, ten chicken on the grill,” Leah says, and Shelby’s expression clears. She picks up the grill fork, reaches for her prep bin like, right, makes sense.

Fatin cannot f*cking believe this. She wheels around, three tickets for f*cked-up orders in her hand, and Leah’s there, suddenly, in her line of sight: blade in hand, slicing perfect rounds of chicken from the döner cooker. Her knifework is impeccable; annoying, and unfortunately also kind of hot. Fatin hates her so much.

“Ha,” Rachel says loudly from across the kitchen, and slaps a newly packaged sandwich onto the expo counter half a second before Toni throws one down too. “Get f*cked, pipsqueak. Told you I could do it faster.”

“f*ck you,” Toni fires back, “hey, f*ck you, you cheated, I wasn’t ready. Start again.”

“Sure thing.” Rachel reaches for more bread, nearly takes Shelby out with an elbow as she turns back around - no behind call, Shelby, what the f*ck. “You wanna get beat down again, that’s your problem. Alright, ready—”

Fatin’s there in an instant, right behind them, breathing down the back of Toni’s neck and so pissed off she thinks she could bite through sheet metal, Jackie Kennedy style. “Shalifoe!” she shouts, as loud as she can - into Toni’s ear, because she can’t reach Rachel’s. “Reid! Get the f*ck back to work and stop f*cking around! This is your f*cking job, not a kindergarten playground!”

Toni flinches away from her. “Jesus f*ck, Jadmani, alright - christ, cousin, I think you broke my eardrum.”

“f*cking good,” Fatin snaps, already on the move again. She drops the f*cked up tickets with Shelby, tells her: “Remake these, on the fly.” Passes through dish pit, where the new wash guys - total useless burnouts, both of them - are running a load of pans through the ancient machine. “Knives next, boys. We’re running out fast.”

Josh and Henry snap to attention. “Yes, chef,” they say in unison; they’re the only two people in this kitchen who seem to genuinely fear Fatin the way they should, and Fatin’s tense shoulders relax a fraction of an inch.

“Corner,” she calls out, and she’s back in the kitchen, same old dismal grey-green tile beneath her boots. “If you’ve got a minute of downtime then go to housekeeping, the last thing we need is a Biblical f*cking plague in this bitch.”

“Housekeeping,” Toni says - not quietly, either. “What the f*ck is housekeeping.”

“Housekeeping means cleaning your f*cking station,” Fatin shouts back, “including that pile of chopped-rags horsesh*t next to your cutting board. Let me try that again. Housekeeping please, chefs!”

The response comes back this time, yes, chef, still ragged and missing symphony. Sounds like a mockery of the culinary institution and all it stands for. f*ck Fatin’s life, honestly.

“Hello,” someone calls out from the front of house, “hello, is the manager there, please,” and Fatin mutters a curse under her breath, then two more out loud for good measure. Calls: “Hold line, chefs,” before striding out to the front.

Martha’s there on register, running someone’s card. She makes an apologetic face in Fatin’s direction, which almost makes Fatin feel bad - being mean to Martha, mean in her direction, even, is kind of like stepping on a puppy’s tail. Worry about that later, though, because there’s a customer wanting something, f*cking entitled bastard who’s probably—

—Fatin’s former cello teacher, an old family friend she’d dropped like a bad habit when she left to become a chef instead of the Carnegie Hall prodigy her parents were hoping for. What the f*ck.

“Fatin,” says Mrs. Abbas, smiling at her in a way that feels kinder than she deserves. “I’d heard you were back in town to take over the restaurant, but I wanted to see for myself. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know,” Fatin says. The smile she forces to the surface is almost painful, but she knows it looks flawless. “It’s good to see you, Mrs. Abbas.”

“Please,” Mrs. Abbas sighs. “You can call me Maria. I think you’re old enough by now.” She looks at Fatin, sympathy etched in the lines of her face. “I’m so sorry about your father.”

“Thank you,” Fatin says. Barely resists the temptation to yell: Hey! I’m not!

“I didn’t see you at the funeral,” Mrs. Ritchie continues, and yeah, enough goodwill wasted here, Fatin’s about to kick this old bat out the front door.

“Extenuating circ*mstances,” she says, clipped, smiling with all her teeth now. Her stomach is tight, hurting. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Fatin,” says a voice from behind her. Leah’s voice, and Fatin turns instantly, instinctive; there she is, standing in the doorway, looking six feet tall from this angle. “There’s some complications right now, you’re needed in the kitchen.”

Fatin shrugs at Mrs. Abbas, a quick movement, what are you gonna do, and leaves the register with a “Nice to see you” tossed insincerely over her shoulder. Braces herself as she heads back to the kitchen, where there’s - no problem, actually. Nothing more than usual, at least.

“Where’s the fire,” she says. Leah just blinks at her, rapid flash of soft-worn blue, then disappears into the stockroom. Her hand brushes Fatin’s elbow as she goes, so quick and gentle it must have been an accident.

+

Fatin goes for a smoke break late that afternoon, after the lunch rush dies down; makes sure the kitchen’s in order, then slips into the back alley and leans against the cold brick wall. She pulls a pack of Marlboro Blues from her apron pocket, lights up, takes a drag. It helps, but not enough.

It hadn’t really hit her before, not fully, but now it does, all the force of a head-on collision. This is her hometown, the place she grew up. Four walls of a restaurant that belonged to her father, even the car he used to drive parked out front because Fatin doesn’t have one. Didn’t need it, not in New York or LA. It’s her hometown and her history, roots with years away from daylight reaching for the sun again, and she doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want any of it.

“Hey.”

Especially doesn’t want this: Leah, here at the kitchen’s side door, leaning against the frame. Apron untied and slung over her shoulder, looking unintentionally messy instead of intentionally casual-hot, the way Fatin does it.

“You need something?” Fatin asks, and takes another drag. “Or - hell, I don’t know, want one?” She holds out the pack, flips the top open with her thumb. As peace offerings go, it’s a pretty good one.

“I don’t smoke,” Leah says, because of course she doesn’t. Damn shame, in Fatin’s honest opinion. She may be a pain in the ass, but Leah could smoke the hell out of a cig. Imagine her on the side of a pinup poster, late 50s, or a blurry, sepia-toned magazine ad today. There: that’s the picture.

“Wild,” Fatin says. Her cigarette is already half gone. “And you still work in the restaurant industry somehow?”

“I tried it, before,” Leah replies. Her eyes trace the thin silver spirals rising through the air, then slide back to Fatin. “I wanted to - well. Doesn’t matter. It didn’t take, in the end.”

Fatin inhales ash, exhales carbon chemicals, studies Leah. She looks almost faraway now, unsettled. Thinking, or maybe just remembering. It’s not nothing, the way her irises have gone darker, duller, faded into cloud-drift grey. Fatin doesn’t like it, wants to bring her back, and maybe that’s why she does it: she leans forward, extends the cig towards Leah. Filter first, like she’s handing over a knife by the blade. The decent way to do it.

“Try mine, if you want,” Fatin says. “See if it takes.”

Leah comes back to the scene a little, all at once. Looks at Fatin with surprise, and then something else - intrigue, or maybe intention. Fatin shifts her bottom lip between her teeth, bites down slightly on a subconscious reflex.

They’re closer now, too close, only the cigarette and the curls of smoke between them. The faraway look is gone; Leah’s eyes are shading back to blue, turbulent sea-storm waves. Dangerous. She moves forwards by a millimeter, two, lips parting slightly, and for a second Fatin thinks she might actually do it. Thinks she might, and feels her entire body run tight like a cut wire, sparks flying everywhere.

And then Leah’s stepping back, shaking her head, no. The corner of her mouth curls upwards a little as she says, “Tempting. Maybe next time.”

She goes back inside, lets the door drift almost closed behind her, and Fatin’s alone in the alley again. The cigarette burns down to her fingertips, goes unnoticed except for a split-second sting.

“Well,” she says to the brick wall, “ain’t that a f*cking thing,” and lights up a second one. This time, the nicotine hardly registers.

+

First week of reopen ends, and Rachel’s sister comes in to help look over the financials. Fatin hadn’t been sure about it at first - last thing she needs right now is another member of staff who’s half-competent on the best of days - but Rachel assures her that Nora’s a good one.

“She’s like, a f*cking genius with that nerd stuff,” Rachel says. “Math, science, coding. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s also a pain in my f*cking ass pretty much every day, but she’s still my kid sister. She’ll be solid.”

Toni scoffs from where she’s slouched against the front counter, eavesdropping instead of counting the totals on the cash drawer. “Kid sister? Bitch, she’s your fraternal twin. She probably popped out the womb before you did.”

“Shut up, dipsh*t, no she didn’t,” Rachel snaps at her. “I’m older by eighteen f*cking minutes, so f*ck you. Go back to pining over Little Miss Texas Sunshine.”

“I hate both of you,” Fatin declares as Toni rises up in indignation, and leaves the scene before she gets caught in the big dog-little dog crossfire. She may be the owner of this place now, but god - she’s still not paid enough.

Nora’s waiting at the door of her office, wearing faded jeans and a short-sleeve purple t-shirt over a long-sleeve white one. She’s smaller than Rachel, looks younger as well, and she’s got that little woodland creature vibe about her, shy and timid, like she could easily be stepped on or left behind. Fatin’s never exactly been good at knowing what to do with people like this.

“Hi,” Nora says, quiet. “Fatin, right? Rachel wanted me to help you with financial management.”

“Yeah, hi,” Fatin says, and swings open the door to her office, gestures to the pile of folders on the desk. “Everything’s right here. I mean, I can do most of it, I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Reopening week, you know. I guess if you want to look over the finished files, feel free to…”

Nora’s already sitting down in the hard wooden chair opposite Fatin’s ancient spinning office one, opening a folder. She picks up a pencil, scribbles something on a scrap of paper, mumbles to herself. Fatin peers over her shoulder, just far enough to see what she’s doing - looks like some kind of business math crap. Probably best to leave Nora to it; she’s got that locked-in expression about her now, and who’s Fatin to disturb her mathlete groove.

“Shout if you need me,” Fatin says, and goes to check on the kitchen. It’s quiet there: mid-morning lull, no tickets in the last half hour. Shelby’s cleaning the counter, scrubbing carefully; Martha’s humming to herself as she stirs a bowl of cake batter. Leah’s over by the stove, bent over a small plate. Out front, Fatin can hear the muffled voices of Rachel and Toni still bickering.

No kitchen she’s ever worked in has held this kind of calm, Fatin realizes. None of them were anything less than a hundred miles per hour, three hundred sixty-five degrees, every day, all the time. To be surrounded by this, back of house quiet and punctuated only by casual conversation and the mechanical drone of the walk-in, it’s - well, Fatin doesn’t really know what it is. It makes her feel odd, ill at ease. Not what she’s used to.

Leah reaches for a sprig of thyme now, places it on top of whatever she’s working on, tilts her head like she’s testing the visual. New dish, then, and Fatin wonders what it is. Shouldn’t be working on new stuff on the clock, but f*ck if she isn’t a little curious to try something that Leah made - taste her palate, test the flavors. Slide something of Leah’s creation into her mouth, see if it can live up to the weight of expectation.

The printer sputters metallically, spits out a new ticket, first of a long line. There’s a rush of noise from the front, a ring of the bell that signals a new customer. Fatin sighs, resigned once more.

“Break’s over,” she calls out, and there’s a flurry of movement in response. Leah puts her dish away in one of the side fridges, gets back to the real work; Fatin’s left unsatisfied, mouth dry and wanting.

+

Turns out the financials are f*cked, which isn’t the way Nora puts it but still the way it is. The budget is nearly nonexistent, they’re behind on bank payments, the electrical bill from last month still needs to be paid. So does the phone bill, so does the gas. They’re not in the red exactly, but they’re hanging too close to it for Fatin’s liking; edging it, even, and the only place she likes to be edged is in bed.

They’re more than halfway to f*cked, basically, and Fatin’s still in the office looking at the bills and bank statements an hour later. Nora’s gone for the day, left a neatly penned summary of everything right next to the ten years out of date desk monitor. It makes things look both better and worse than they really are.

“f*cking idiot,” Fatin mumbles to herself, sifting through the papers. She’d known her father was stupid, but this is a whole new level - he left the place knee deep in debt, borrowing and back-ordering to keep things running, absolutely zero business sense. Zero common sense, either, and now this is her mess to deal with; well, what else is new.

A tap at the door, and Shelby’s head pops around the frame a second later. Figures that she’d knock on a door that’s already open.

“What’s up,” Fatin says, dropping her papers to the desk. “Please god don’t tell me there’s another problem, I simply can’t hear that right now.”

“No, no,” Shelby hurries to assure her. “Just wanted to let you know that cleaning and side work are done.”

Fatin blinks, looks blearily at the clock on the wall; sure enough, it’s nearly eleven thirty. “Oh - yeah, thanks. Good work today, chef. Go ahead and clock out.” Adds under her breath, a hint of irony: “Save yourself.”

Shelby doesn’t go, though, just hovers there in the doorway, slightly apprehensive, like she’s waiting for marriage or the rapture or whatever else good Christian girls wait for. “I just wanted to say something,” she says, and then pauses. Her accent’s slipping thicker now, honey-sweet notes of Texas sun. A nervous tic, maybe, one that Fatin finds charming in a glitter pink cowboy boots, saddle-up-doll kind of way.

“Hit me,” Fatin says. “Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than Rachel coming up to me earlier and telling me that all male dolphins are actually unregistered sex offenders. Ruined my day, lowkey.”

“Well, thanks for sharing that lovely fact,” Shelby says. The look on her face says she really wishes Fatin hadn’t. “Um…”

“You can like, come in,” Fatin offers, waving a hand vaguely around the room, and Shelby does, perches on the edge of the other chair like she’s still not sure she’s got full permission.

“I kind of get the vibe that you…weren’t close with your dad,” Shelby says, cautious, eyes flitting around Fatin’s face to gauge the reaction. Unsure of the steps.

Fatin barks out a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose someone like that.” Shelby’s voice dips lower now, respectful. “That’s a whole other corral of horses, and I’m not tryin’ to claim that. But I do know some things about - about fathers who weren’t the best, and if you ever want to talk…”

The response that flies to Fatin’s lips, unbidden, is: and what do you know about it, but she holds it back. She glances sidelong at Shelby, looks past the beauty pageant smile and Disney princess hair, and sees someone who looks a little like herself: a girl at seven, ten, thirteen, shrinking in her father’s shadow. She sees the way Shelby looks at Toni, admiring and adoring but contained in a way, sometimes afraid to fully break away, and yeah. Fatin could understand how Shelby knows something about it.

“Thanks,” she says, and there’s a small spark of warmth in her chest. When she gives Shelby a smile, it’s small but genuine. “I appreciate it.”

Shelby returns the smile, stands up from the chair, nods like it’s been all settled. “Goodnight, chef,” she says, and ambles out. Fatin leans forward in her chair, can just see Toni waiting at the front door, catches the way Toni’s face goes all soft and her arm brushes against Shelby’s as they start walking together.

“Those crazy kids,” Fatin mutters to herself, and bites down on another smile. “Good for them.”

+

Fatin corners Leah in dining the next morning, finds her as soon as she’s clocked in. Drops the conclusion she came to the night before: “We need alcohol.”

“It’s a little early in the morning for that,” Leah says, not looking up from the set of labels she’s dating, “but sure, yeah. Whatever floats your boat.”

“No,” Fatin says, impatient. “For the restaurant. Booze. We need to start selling.”

That gets Leah’s attention. She sets down her Sharpie, turns around; there’s a fresh smear of ink along the side of her index finger, and Fatin has a weird urge to reach over and wipe it off. “Isn’t that like, haram?”

Fatin flicks a hand, impatient. “So is cheating on your wife and leaving your family when the sh*t hits the fan, but my dad did that anyway. Look, I went over Nora’s number crunch last night, and we’re f*cked financially. We need to start pulling in more rev, and alcohol is the way to go.”

Leah nods slowly, mulls it over. “Can we get a liquor license quickly enough? And, uh - that’s f*cked up about your dad.”

“We don’t need a license for beer,” Fatin says. “And yeah, thanks. I know.” She pulls a piece of paper out of her back pocket, list put down in a sleep-deprived haze. Local brews, fancy stouts and IPAs, river water draft options like Coors Light just to even it out. They’re getting the good stuff, though, no matter what it costs; Fatin’s not one to cut corners on this stuff. “Here.”

Leah takes the list, scans it thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay. I’m in.”

Fatin nods, decisive, secretly glad that Leah agrees - she may not exactly like the girl, but she’s still the closest Fatin’s got to a sous. Only one who’s even touched the industry, and that’s what Fatin needs right now. Someone who knows how to make things work.

“Okay, so there’s the beer,” she says, “maybe some wine too, I don’t think it’ll sell as well but we could get a little bit to see. Trial that for a couple days.”

“Good by me,” Leah answers. She holds the list out to Fatin, adds, “Yes, chef,” with a tone that’s light, almost playful; Fatin accepts it, and their fingers brush. It’s the lightest of touches, gone almost before it even really started, and Fatin hasn’t gotten laid in way too long, because f*ck if it doesn’t make some kind of current run through her. A river, flowing fast to the sea.

“Right,” she says, and plants herself firmly back on dry land. “I was also thinking we should change up the menu.”

There’s a shift; Leah’s expression pulls tighter, guarded now. “Change it how?”

“Modernize,” Fatin declares, a bold stride forward. “New dishes, more complex ones. We could do a taster menu maybe, see what’s a hit and what’s just bullsh*t. Add some fusion stuff, rice bowls, f*cking wood fire pizza, I don’t know. We did a garlic mushroom bloom at Masa once and people couldn’t get enough of it, probably cause there’s so many goddamn vegetarians these days.”

Leah’s shaking her head slowly, her mouth a thin line. Fatin pushes on, undeterred. She didn’t get this far in life by letting the little things stop her, even when the little things are an irritating, stubborn-f*ck sous chef with the bluest eyes she’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” she says, “yeah, okay, it would take some money to get it running, but we’d make it back, trust me. I’ve been on the scene long enough to know what’s what, and this might not be LA, but it’s still California. People’ll like it, we can flip this whole thing around—”

“So, in other words,” Leah interrupts, “you pretty much want to change everything about the restaurant.”

“Uh, yeah,” Fatin says, raising an eyebrow. “Hello, don’t you?” She jerks her head towards the dining area, the fading artwork tacked up at random, the cheap red and white plastic cloths placed on ancient tables. Self explanatory.There’s a monochrome print of Umm Kulthum over by the window, which like, why, but the image is captured in a way that makes her look like she’s screaming - relatable, if nothing else.

“No.” Leah frowns, disapproval paving the lines of her face. “I don’t.”

Fatin blinks, taken aback; she’d sort of just assumed that Leah would be on board, that anyone with a culinary background or a working set of eyes would want to overhaul Jadmani’s as fast as possible. “What? Why? This place is a disaster right now. Best thing we can do is try and bring it up to code.”

“No,” Leah repeats, mulish. “I don’t agree. Not on my watch. Alcohol, sure, but the old menu stays.”

Fatin clenches her jaw, eyes Leah coldly. “You know it’s not your choice, right. You’re not in charge here anymore. I can do this without you.”

“Hm,” Leah says, and tilts her head to one side. A challenge, and a clear one. “Can you, though? Look around you, Fatin. The girls are solid, love them to death, but I’m the only one who’s got the experience you want for this.”

Fatin glares at her. “I can hire someone else.”

“With what money?” Leah counters. “You just told me how broke we are, and you’re not even paying me as a proper sous. You couldn’t if you wanted to.” She leans down into Fatin’s space, flashes a confident smirk. “Face it, Fatin. Whether you like it or not, you need me right now.”

“I don’t need you for anything,” Fatin says, low, furious. She moves forward - she won’t be the one to back down, not now or ever, and there they are again: face to face, only breath and tension between them. Right back to square f*cking one, and she can’t believe she had even a second of softness to spare for Leah.

“Yeah?” Leah murmurs. Her eyes lock with Fatin’s, clearer blue than they’ve ever been before - drowning force, a sea full of sky. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The swinging door to the kitchen bangs against the wall, and Fatin and Leah both whip their heads around. Toni’s standing there, eyebrows raised, sh*t-starting look on her face, but all she says is, “Jesus, can you stop going at it long enough to come help with prep, or what?”

“Yeah,” Fatin says, “yeah, coming,” and walks away without a backwards glance. Still feels Leah’s gaze holding tight on her, unwavering.

+

“So what’s the deal with you and Rilke,” Toni asks, like this is a normal or socially acceptable question. Fatin, platform boots kicked up on the dash of Toni’s ancient Chevy pickup, nearly puts one foot through the windshield.

“There’s no deal,” she says, dismissive, and leaves it at that.

Toni laughs at that, loudly, a derisive and disbelieving chuckle that goes on and on. It’s way too early in the morning, and she’s driving them to the brewery to pick up the kegs because she’s the only one who’s got a car with enough space to store them. Fatin had insisted on going with her for quality control reasons, but now she regrets it. Should’ve sent Rachel instead and let the two of them duke it out, even if it did end in a car crash.

“Give me a break,” Toni says, once she’s stopped laughing. “And take your f*cking shoes off my dash, they’re so hideous it’s actually hurting my eyes.”

“Excuse you, these are vintage Vince Camutos and they’re f*cking class,” Fatin says, and keeps them right where they are just to prove her point. “There’s no deal with me and Leah. Unless you’re talking about her deal, which is being a stubborn, insufferable know-it-all who doesn’t know when to f*cking quit, but that’s got nothing to do with me.”

“No,” Toni says, rolling a four way stop without even touching the brake. Fatin may have found the one person in the world who’s even worse at driving than she is. “I’m talking about the thing where you guys act like you hate each other but you totally want to rip each other’s clothes off. Seriously, dude, that’s too much sexual tension for anyone to have. It’s not healthy.”

“Absolutely not,” Fatin says, “I wouldn’t f*ck her if my life depended on it,” and then she takes a moment to think about it, pictures Leah under her, on top of her, wet and desperate, hand between her legs - slip two fingers into Leah’s mouth, make her suck them, maybe that’d keep her quiet for once. Reconsiders, now; she’s never been one to lie to herself or anyone else, not when it comes to sex. “Okay, fine. I might hate f*ck her like, once, just to get it out of my system. That’s it, though.”

Toni smirks over at her, takes her eyes completely off the road to do it. Fatin makes a mental note to never let her behind the wheel again. “Knew it. You can pretend all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you want to f*ck Leah so bad it makes you look stupid.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Fatin says, a play at nonchalance. She feels suddenly warm, restless in her seat; she shifts once, twice, tries to put away any thoughts of Leah’s mouth or hands or the way her shoulder blades move strong beneath the fabric of her t-shirt. “You wanna talk about repressed gay sh*t between coworkers? How about whatever’s going on with you and Shelby?”

Toni’s expression shuts down so fast it’s almost impressive, stone-faced in the blink of half an eye. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Fatin says, teasing now, already lighter. She’s got the upper hand again, and all is well with the world. “No, yeah, nothing there, you’re just good friends. I completely, totally buy that. I’m sure Shelby will say the same thing when I ask her.”

“I f*cking hate you,” Toni mutters, and floors it through a red light. Somewhere in a police station in the greater Bay Area, half a dozen traffic citations start writing themselves. “Like I really, really hate you.”

Fatin grins, reaches across to punch lightly at Toni’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, cousin. The feeling’s mutual.”

+

The weird little small-time restaurant traditions at Jadmani’s start coming back the following week, once they’ve been open long enough to have at least some sense of self-sufficiency. Biggest one is family meal, which Fatin didn’t even know was a thing until she walks into the kitchen one day and finds Martha at the stove, flipping pancakes in the giant iron skillet. Tray of bacon and sausage next to her, nicely browned.

“Hey, Martha Stewart,” Fatin says, by way of greeting. She inhales the sweet smell of syrup and brown butter, raises her eyebrows appreciatively. Casts a glance at the counter; it’s a mess of flour and eggshells, streaks of batter surrounding a giant blue bowl, which makes her twitch a little, but whatever. Prep was mostly done last night, and opening’s not for an hour - there’s time to clean. “Pancakes, huh? To what do we owe the occasion?”

“I’m on family today,” Martha answers, like that’s a sentence that means anything. She flips another pancake halfway to the ceiling, catches it deftly in the pan. “Toni made fun of me for making waffles last time it was my turn, so I’m doing pancakes instead.”

Fatin pulls a spoon from the drawer, sticks it into the mixture, tries a taste. It’s better than she expected: there’s sweet spice, a hint of something earthy. “f*ck me, that’s good. Nutmeg?”

“And a bit of cinnamon,” Martha confirms. She turns a stack of golden-brown circles onto the tray at her side. “Pass the bowl?”

Fatin hands it over and stays to watch as Martha ladles several spoons of batter into the pan; does it carefully, her hand perfectly steady, and Fatin starts to think that maybe she was a bit too quick in mentally slapping Martha with a ‘sweet but useless’ label. It’s just pancakes, but it’s more than that - there’s the precision around the stove, the intention behind a dish. There’s something in Martha that Fatin recognizes, and she wants to let it grow.

“Hey, Marth,” Fatin finds herself saying. “You’re pretty good at this pastry stuff, you know.”

Martha smiles shyly, but there’s a hint of pride tucked away in the corner of her mouth. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Fatin says, mirroring her smile. “You’re good, girl.”

“Oh,” Martha says happily, and flips the second set of pancakes. “Thanks, Fatin.”

“There’s some stuff you could work on, though,” Fatin says. “Don’t take that the wrong way, I’m not out to bust your tit*. This is more…cosmetic stuff, alright? Easy fix. Like, for example - the other day, when I called for hands on the falafel for ten, you just held yours up.”

“Right,” Martha frowns, confused, “because I have hands.” She holds hers up now just the same way, stainless steel spatula held in her right, as if to illustrate her point.

“That’s not,” Fatin sighs, and then cuts herself off. “Never mind. Point is, would you wanna maybe do some extra work together when we’ve got a spare hour, hammer out some new stuff for the dessert menu? And maybe while we’re doing that, I could give you a rundown on a couple things.”

Martha lights up at the suggestion, all smiles, and Fatin feels a rush of fondness towards her. “I’d love that.”

“Sold,” Fatin says. “Now, are you gonna explain what family is and why it’s your job today?”

Martha hands her the bacon tray. “Carry this for me and you’ll find out,” she says. Fatin does, mildly amused - a few words of affirmation, and all of a sudden Martha’s confident enough to start giving orders.

Out in the dining area, Leah and Rachel are pushing two tables together. Shelby’s setting places while she supervises Toni’s selection of chairs, and yeah - Toni’s getting an earful from Fatin later about how eagerly she’s following Shelby’s directions, because that’s the kind of whipped that requires a medical diagnosis.

“Oh my god,” Toni says once they’re all seated and Martha’s started passing out plates. “Did you seriously make pancakes? Marty, this is the same thing you made last time, just in a different shape.”

Rachel pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Hold up. Are you implying that pancakes and waffles are the same?”

“I’m not implying anything, I’m saying they’re the same. They’re literally made of the same f*cking ingredients.”

Fatin tunes out of the conversation to preserve her brain cells, takes a look around the table instead. Toni and Rachel are arguing now, gesturing forcefully as they talk around mouths full of pancake; Shelby’s listening with a resigned expression, but her gaze is soft where it falls on Toni. Hopeless, the pair of them.

On the other side of the table, Leah’s saying something to a beaming Martha, complimentary by the looks of it, and Fatin’s never seen her expression so gentle. It’s something else entirely, an easy smile at the corner of her mouth that Fatin’s never stood on the receiving end of, and the image knocks the breath right out of her for a minute: the strands of hair falling loose from Leah’s slapdash bun, constellations of her freckles easily connected in the morning light, how she tips her head back laughing when Martha reaches out to smear whipped cream against her cheek.

Fatin sees all of this and thinks: Leah’s really pretty. It’s not the first time she’s thought this, but it’s the first time the thought hasn’t been laced with an overtone of resentment.

“Family,” Martha says to her now, nodding at the crowded table. “Shared meal of the day, see?”

“Yeah,” Fatin says, slightly hoarse. Strange knot of emotion caught high in her throat. “I get it.”

And she does. She sees it here, all the places they fit, woven together by something more faithful than blood. She’s not really part of it, and she knows that - but as Martha slides another pancake onto her plate, as she catches the edge of Leah’s smile even though it’s not meant for her, Fatin thinks she might just let herself pretend anyway.

+

Health inspection is scheduled for the day before spring officially begins; Fatin clocks in three hours early that morning out of sheer f*cking stress, armed with a quad shot espresso and an itemized list of problems with the restaurant that range from minor to catastrophic and are ranked accordingly.

There’s really nothing she can do, is the problem. Can’t quick-fix the grout erosion in the tiled floor, or the seams of rust at the hinges of the walk-in. Repairs like that cost hundreds, even thousands that they just don’t have. The only weapons she’s got are a bleach bottle and a crate of rags, which is pretty pathetic as far as weaponry goes.

Better than nothing, though, so she rolls up her sleeves and gets to work.

She’s elbow-deep in focus and grime when she hears the turn of a key, the creak of worn-out screws that means the back door’s frame is sh*tting the bed again, and Leah walks in with a cranberry Red Bull in hand. Paper bag tucked under one arm, looks like takeaway from the corner bagel joint on the corner, and the smell of bacon fills Fatin’s senses on her next inhale; good aroma, but it makes her stomach turn in a way that she doesn’t want to deal with. She didn’t eat anything for breakfast this morning. Didn’t have time.

“How f*cked are we, like, on a scale of one to ten,” Leah says, instead of hey or good morning or anything that a normal person would say, but Fatin can’t fault her too much. Who the f*ck is normal in this business, really.

“Six?” Fatin guesses, scrubbing at another black spot on the tile. “Seven, maybe. Hard six, soft seven.”

Leah takes that in stride, cracks open her can of Red Bull with a loud metallic snap. False-cranberry tear gas fumes immediately fill the room. “Okay, then - what’s the game plan?”

The rag hits a rise in the floor, and Fatin’s fingers drive straight into the unyielding slate. She hisses in pain, shaking her hand out, and looks up at Leah with sudden annoyance.

She’s just…there, so much taller than Fatin from this angle. There, looking better than anyone should in a slate blue work-branded t-shirt at nine in the god damn morning. Catching the light streaming through the kitchen’s casem*nt windows: bathed in sun from the chest up, flyaways colored almost gold in the glow.

“Why don’t you tell me,” Fatin says, irritable, and wrenches her eyes away from Leah before she physically implodes. “You should have a plan, right? You’ve been in charge here a hell of a lot longer than me, you should know what you’re doing.”

“I do know what I’m doing,” Leah says. She leans back against the counter, pulls a foil-wrapped package out of her breakfast bag. Fatin was right, it’s a stupid f*cking BEC on a bagel - probably greasier than the bottom of the fryer. “You should’ve seen this place when I first got here. If you think it’s bad now, you have no idea.”

“Right, yeah, congratulations. In that case, let me send you a f*cking fruit basket as a little thank you gift.” The spot of grime finally disappears, and Fatin blows out a breath; only a hundred more to go, give or take.

“Can I ask you something,” Leah says, not bothering to raise the end of the sentence into the pitch of a question. “Are you this much of a bitch to every person whose existence threatens you, or is it just me?”

Fatin’s hand flexes, involuntary, wanting to curl into a fist. “I’m not threatened by you.”

“Well, you sure are something,” Leah says. “And you should probably figure it out before it f*cks us over even more than we already are.”

She’s making sense, really, but Fatin doesn’t want to hear it. All she can see is Leah, here in a kitchen that never should have been hers; Leah, blocking out the light, taking up every corner of space. Fatin can’t see past her.

“If you want to run a restaurant,” Fatin says slowly, ice and venom in her tone, “you should go find your own instead of putting your hands all over mine.”

The words are steeped in anger, but there’s a hint of suggestion there, too; Fatin realizes belatedly, watches Leah’s gaze move languidly from her own hands to Fatin’s body below, and feels her blood run hot. She swears she hears something between them - the drop of a hairpin, a catch in Leah’s breath - but then it’s gone.

“Not all of us have the same ambitions as you,” Leah says, and f*cking - what does that even mean, Fatin would love to know, but Leah’s still talking. Saying now: “I’m sorry your dad’s dead, Fatin. I really am. But that doesn’t mean you get to be a bitch to me when I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

She takes her breakfast and walks out of the kitchen, towards the dining area. Fatin sits back on her heels and watches as she leaves: stomach tense, aching. Heavy with a nameless pain.

+

Because she’s a well adjusted individual, Fatin spends the remaining time before inspection praying to a non-existent god that the health inspector will fall sick, or break an ankle, or suffer some other minor crisis that’ll delay their arrival. Smokes two cigs, too, just to cover her bases.

“I think wishin’ ill on others only serves to bring misfortune on yourself,” Shelby remarks when she clocks in.

“f*ck that golden rule bullsh*t,” Toni scoffs. “A little hating never hurt anyone.” She gently nudges Shelby out of the way to punch her own number into the computer, her hand light against Shelby’s waist. From where she’s standing, Fatin has a wonderful view of the rose-pink flush spreading dark along Shelby’s cheekbones.

Martha comes hurrying into the kitchen, looking worried. “Inspector’s here,” she says. Then, in a whisper: “He looks mean.”

“f*ck my entire life,” Fatin says, and goes out to front of house to confront the devil.

Said devil is waiting by the service counter, wearing a cheap-looking suit and holding a clipboard. He’s a middle-aged white guy, got the face of a corn fed Midwestern cuck who pours his life savings into sports betting and loses every time. Fatin despises him on sight.

“Ah, hello,” the inspector says. “You must be the new owner here.” He holds out a hand to her. “Dan Faber, health inspector.”

“Sup,” Fatin says, and eyes him coldly until he drops his hand. Behind her, she hears Toni choking on a laugh. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Um, okay,” Faber says, shrinking back a little and then looking mad about it. He straightens his tie, stands up a bit straighter. “I’d like to start in the kitchen.”

“Fantastic,” Fatin mutters. “It’s this way.”

She moves through the kitchen, then the storeroom, then the walk-in; Faber follows behind her, scribbling notes on his clipboard and occasionally making concerned little noises to himself. Fatin debates the pros and cons of locking him in the walk-in and leaving him there to freeze. By the time they circle back to the dining area, she’s fantasizing about tying him to a rock and letting an eagle eat away his asshole, or whatever that one Greek myth was.

“Well, sir?” Shelby asks, her accent far thicker than usual. “What’d you think of the place? It’s a bit of a fixer upper in places, but we do our best.”

Faber flicks through his notes, doesn’t answer right away. From the corner of her eye Fatin sees Rachel standing against the wall, stretched in an unnatural position to hide a hole in the drywall.

“Alright,” Faber says a minute later. “So, uh…there’s some problems here.”

Toni and Rachel immediately burst out in protest, their words tied together in a string of anger. Fatin feels a migraine growing deep within her head, stretching temple to temple.

“Guys,” she says, low, and holds up a hand. “Wait.”

“Rusted bolts in the walk-in, unsafe storage in the prep fridges, potential for contaminants,” Faber lists off, checking uptight boxes on his uptight little clipboard. “Expired barrel of olive oil on the premises, which has potential to cause health concerns if used in food preparation; five-second delay on hot water in the handwashing station, which is a violation of health code; and that hole in the drywall” - he points the tip of his pen at the wall, where Rachel’s still standing with her arm nearly hyperextended to cover the damage - “will need to be caulked properly.”

“f*ck,” Rachel mutters. “How’d he even see that? He’s an inbred-looking white man, he should be going blind by the age of forty.”

“For these reasons,” Faber continues, whipping a sheet of paper from the clipboard, “I officially award the restaurant known as Jadmani’s a B- for health and safety.”

There’s an explosion of noise, the loudest of it coming from Toni and Rachel. Fatin’s migraine is colonizing her entire body by this point, whole new territories of pain and existential dread. She sneaks a glance at Leah, who’s motionless in space with that faraway look about her again.

“Whoa, whoa,” Toni’s shouting, “slow your roll, asshat,” at the same time as Rachel yells, “That’s not fair, the hole’s not even that bad, I can fix it right now.” Shelby’s trying to get past them, arguing but in politer fashion, southern drawl so dense it may as well be simple syrup.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Faber says, not sounding sorry at all. He pushes the sheet into Fatin’s hands, B- staring her down in 120 point font, and hurries for the exit without another word. When the door slams behind him, the noise breaks into straight-up chaos. Voices, voices, voices.

Toni: f*ck him, I’m literally going to track him down and kill him, I don’t care.

Shelby: Toni, hold on, maybe we can fix this.

Rachel: Nah, I’m with Toni, I’d gut this f*cker in a heartbeat.

Martha: Maybe we can get him to change it somehow?

They keep going, but Fatin doesn’t hear them anymore; doesn’t hear anything except the absence of one particular voice. The room is swaying around her, hazy in the edges of her vision: walls bending inwards, closing around her. She digs her nails into her palm until everything clears, looks up to find Leah right there, silent at the end of her tunnel vision, and there. There. The focus comes clawing back, and so does the anger.

“Everybody shut the f*ck up,” Fatin yells, and silence falls like a curtain over the room. Toni’s actually caught mid-shout, mouth open like a fish, which Fatin would laugh at if she wasn’t so god damn pissed right now.

“See this?” she says, shaking the grade sheet at them. “This is what happens when we don’t run things like a real f*cking kitchen. This is what happens when we don’t have an efficient f*cking system. This is what happens when people leave their f*cking half-eaten lunch in the prep fridge!”

“Sorry,” Toni mumbles. Surprisingly, it sounds halfway sincere. Fatin’s too far gone to care.

“We’re gonna make some changes,” she announces, “and if you think I give even half an ounce of f*ck about your opinions, you’re sadly mistaken. We’re creating a real f*cking brigade, and we’re assigning stations. We’re getting it f*cking right this time.”

Still silence. Fatin’s eyes travel down the line of faces until she reaches Leah; finds her slightly more grounded, which unravels a small strand of the tension in Fatin’s chest. Remembers their earlier conversation, though, and a new strand of anger laces itself right back into the braid.

“You,” Fatin says, looking directly at her. Only at her. “You f*cked us on this one. You. This is your B minus.” She holds the paper out like it’s a hot knife. In her head, she’s already nailing Leah to the cross. “Put it in the f*cking window.”

Leah stares at her, mutinous, hurricanes gathering in the depths of her gaze - there’s Fatin’s own anger held up to a flawless mirror, and Fatin reaches for breath, imagines storm chasing towards the horizon. Emotion sparks hot between them, a flame, a lightning strike - and then Leah breaks the moment, snatches the paper from Fatin’s hand, stalks off towards the front window. Fatin watches her go, filled with a savage kind of satisfaction and something else, something burning. Blaze of heat in her body, almost too big for her bones.

“Everyone else, into the kitchen,” she says, voice far more even than the beat of her heart. “And if walkthrough today is anything less than perfect, you better say your f*cking prayers.”

The other girls go, gratifyingly quiet for once. Fatin stands out front for just a minute longer, waiting. Backlit against the window, rising up to reach the top corner of the glass, Leah’s silhouette appears almost haunting.

+

Brigade system starts the next day - new rules, new roles, and a new headache for Fatin all in the space of an hour. She lines them up in back of house, gives them the speech, from now on we’re running things like an actual French kitchen, that’s the way to do it. Then she unfolds the list she’d written last night in a fog of insomnia, the one where she’d purposefully pushed Leah all the way down to the bottom just because she could, like it mattered at all. Like it would do anything to get Leah out of all the places she’s stuck fast in Fatin’s mind.

“Listen up,” Fatin starts. “Positions. Official positions now, no more of that revolving door sh*t. Once you’ve got yours, that’s where you stay.”

“But,” Toni starts to say, and then goes stunningly, blushingly silent as Shelby places a gentle but firm hand over her mouth.

“Thank you,” Fatin says to Shelby. “Okay. So. I’m the CDC, chef de cuisine, also known as the head chef. All orders, all exec decisions, they come from me.” She looks directly at Leah, daring her to speak. “Anyone got a problem with that?”

No reply. Toni still looks confrontational, and Rachel is slipping Fatin a wicked side-eye, but neither of them speak.

“Shelby,” Fatin says, and from the edge of her peripheral she can see the line of Leah’s body go tense, poised for a blow; she’s on the ropes for once, nearly unbalanced, and the sight spins vindictive pleasure right through Fatin’s chest. “You’re going to be the saucier. That means sauces, stocks, jus. Meat dishes too, since we’re short-staffed, and all the traditional sandwiches. Decent amount of responsibility, but I think you can handle it.”

Shelby nods, serious. Fatin exhales a quiet breath of relief.

“Rachel,” she continues. “You’ve got chef de partie. You’re station manager for special dish prep, which for us is gonna be the döner stuff and the falafel. Shawarma, durum, all that.”

“Tight,” Rachel says, and relaxes her side-eye until she’s facing forward again. “Guess I can get behind that.”

“Toni,” Fatin says. “You’re the garde manger. You’ll handle soups and salads and fries, take charge of stock, manage delivery if I’m not around to do it. If you leave your lunch in the prep fridge again, hand to f*cking God I’ll end your life.”

“f*ck you,” Toni replies, but she seems satisfied enough with her new title. Good, too, because Fatin was ready to throw down the rubber kitchen gloves if she’d started sh*t.

“Martha,” Fatin says, managing to crack a tiny smile. “You’re our patissier. Cakes, pastries, that’s all you. Might have to do bread too, if we stop sourcing it someday.”

Martha just grins like a kid on Christmas morning. “You got it.”

“And Leah,” Fatin says finally, a parting shot, Last frame of the film reel. “Leah’s our sous chef.” The possessive slips out, unintentional; she ignores it, does her best to course correct. “All of you will answer to her.”

Leah’s surprised at this, Fatin can tell - eyes wide, the color of a lake on a day that can’t fully decide whether it wants sun or clouds. Both, or maybe neither. Her arms are crossed, defiant, like she was waiting for Fatin to come out swinging. Like she still is.

“What the f*ck,” Toni bitches. “We’ve all been here longer than her, why is she getting the fancy job.”

“You all answer to Leah, chefs,” Fatin repeats, steel in her voice. “And Leah?” She’s talking in general terms, but there’s only one real target at the end of her words. “She answers to me and to me only.”

There’s the lock of stares, blue against brown. The set of Leah’s jaw, the defiant tilt of her head. Fatin waits, switches she for you in her mind. Holds her breath, the motion imperceptible.

“Yes, chef,” Leah says, tone controlled but dipping to a lower register. Fatin nods, takes this as the victory it is, and oh - there’s that surge, that flash-fire feeling. There’s that high, better than any drug she’s ever known.

+

It’s not that easy, because it’s never that f*cking easy. There’s explanations to be made, arguments to be settled, Wikipedia articles on French cuisine to pull up and shove in Rachel’s face when she’s being particularly stubborn. Fatin orders aprons for all of them, the industrial kind; eats a hole in their budget, takes money they shouldn’t be spending, only for Shelby to take one look at them and declare them “charming, but not really the most flatterin’ color on me.” Fatin’s going to earn herself a homicide charge any day now, and she’ll only slightly regret it.

The first day they try brigade, they get killed during the dinner rush - eaten alive, really, f*cking devoured, like every person in town heard that Jadmani’s was stalled at a weak point and decided to get their teeth in while they could.

There’s so many f*cking orders. Nora, who stopped by to drop off some tax files and ended up getting thrown on front of house register, is probably drowning out there. Fatin can’t even spare a minute to worry about that, though, because the kitchen is such a f*cking nightmare.

“System,” she shouts, stirring two pots of rice while she starts a new lemon sauce to replace the one that Shelby let break. “f*cking - brigade! Stay at your f*cking stations!”

“Did you take my f*cking tomatoes?” Toni yells back at her.

“No, I didn’t - why the f*ck would I want your tomatoes?” The sauce begins to deglaze; Fatin steps back from the stove. Motions to Leah, who’s already moving forward. “Chef, can you - yeah, thanks.”

“Malt,” Leah answers, and Fatin goes to find a bottle in the storeroom, because for some reason, despite the mutual can’t-f*cking-stand-you thing they have going, she and Leah have established a healthy strain of quick-draw language. Half-formed words, understood implicitly. Right now it’s malt vinegar for the next sauce, because Shelby’s fallen behind on dishes and Leah’s backtracking for her but doesn’t have the hands for storeroom right now. Fatin understands this perfectly from just a handful of words, the tip of Leah’s head, and hates herself a little because of it.

“Rachel!” Toni shouts now. “Where the f*ck are my tomatoes?”

“f*ck if I know,” Rachel snaps. Doesn’t even look up from cutting strips of döner; Fatin would give her a raise just for that, if she could afford it. “You’re the one who’s garde manger or whatever the f*ck, why don’t you garde your manger a little f*cking better?”

“I need ten chicken,” Leah calls out, seemingly unaware of the rage surrounding her; “seven reg, three spicy, two black beans, five fries, all day,” at the same time that Toni lets out a long string of curses. Rachel apparently catches the insults all the way from her station, because she flips Toni off for a solid five seconds that she could’ve used to keep working. Waste of f*cking time, just like everything else in this restaurant.

Fatin gets there and breaks the dispute, slams another container of tomatoes down at Toni’s side, f*cking take these and shut the f*ck up please and thank you - moves back across the kitchen, behind, behind, drops the malt vinegar at Leah’s elbow. Glances down at the pockets of Leah’s apron as she does, and has this weird, idiotic wish to just fit herself in there somehow and fall asleep for a good long while.

“Rachel,” Shelby calls out, “hey, these couscous sides are lookin’ a little sloppy, let’s do better, please,” and Fatin thinks her head might actually explode. It’s always bad when Shelby starts getting pushy: she calls it delegation, but it’s more like a dictatorship. Toni’ll put up with it because she’s a useless f*cking lesbian, but Fatin’s not nearly that easy, and neither is anyone else in back of house.

“f*ck you, Texas,” Rachel yells back, neatly proving Fatin’s point, and then yelps as Toni flings a slice of tomato at her head. “Hey! Oh bitch, you better check yourself.”

Fatin sees all this as if standing at a distance, the picture fading in and out. Hears herself yell, “Reid, Shalifoe, f*cking pull it together,” and doesn’t know if the sound reaches; witnesses Toni stepping furiously up to Rachel, a David and Goliath showdown on bootleg DVD in a thrift store bargain bin, and doesn’t even feel it in her to stop them.

And then Leah’s there, pushing them apart, voice raised, get back to your stations, right now, I f*cking mean it, and Toni and Rachel miraculously obey. Leah splits the conflict easily, parts it like the Red Sea - and they’re further inland here, the ocean hidden from sight, but Fatin smells the salt spray even so. It’s Leah, and she’s a force of f*cking nature. Fatin’s never met anyone who could touch that.

“Chef,” Leah says, talking to her now, voice of cool indifference, “is there a problem,” and Fatin realizes she’s standing still: spoon in hand, halfway through plating a two-piece lemon roast chicken.

“No,” she says, “chef, thank you,” and gets back to work. Leah plants herself back at expo to call out orders, steady, unmoving; Fatin looks to her again and again as she works, resenting the touch of relief that it brings her every time.

+

Fatin’s not really sure when the dinner rush ends, but one minute there’s a mountain of tickets to be filled and the next it’s gone. Suddenly there’s nothing on the cutting board, only empty space below her knife blade. She’d been dicing…carrots. Peppers. Something.

“Closing kitchen,” Leah says, loud and carrying, the conductor bringing the orchestra’s last movement to a halt, and Fatin pushes off the counter, goes slowly through the motions of cleaning her station. There’s a rag in her hand, and then there isn’t; there’s water running in the sink, and then her skin is burning raw beneath the stream.

“f*ck,” she says, mostly observational, as she pulls her hand back and examines it: dark red, flushed skin. She’s looking, but she’s not really seeing it. “Awesome. Okay.”

A presence at her side, instantly recognizable, and Leah’s there - posted up in her space, almost too far forward, but Fatin’s past the point of caring.

“Hey,” Leah says, and the word sounds like it’s coming from underwater.

“Chef,” Fatin answers, sighing. Her stomach hurts again, or maybe still; she can’t remember the last time it didn’t. “Can you put the, uh - the chicken stock. In the walk-in. And then the falafel for tomorrow, can you—”

“No,” Leah says. “I mean, yes, but - I have to do something else first.”

“What the f*ck else do you have to be doing,” Fatin says, too tired to put real anger behind the question. It’s a Friday night at the world’s worst halal sandwich shop, and she’s getting absolutely killed by it. She needs a cig, or a drink, or a good night’s sleep. She needs a reason to keep on f*cking living.

Leah just considers her for a moment, then reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder. It’s the first time they’ve ever touched on purpose, no accompanying directions; no behind, no corner, no get out of the f*cking way. Fatin, punch-drunk and no longer fully conscious of reality, is almost undone by the gesture: the thought, the intention. The gentle press of Leah’s palm, warmth of her skin seeping right through the cloth of Fatin’s shirt.

“You need to sit down,” Leah says. “Like, go sit in your office, take five. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Fatin tries to raise an eyebrow suggestively, just to get a rise out of her, but even that’s a struggle right now. “My office, huh? Just you and me? sh*t, Rilke, I didn’t know it was like that between us.”

“If you say one more word to me right now, I’m walking with no two weeks given,” Leah warns, and takes her hand away. Fatin misses her touch instantly - deeply pathetic and yet another indicator of how badly she needs to get laid. “Go. Sit.”

And it’s closing and Leah’s bossy voice is kind of hot and Fatin’s too tired to argue anyway, so she doesn’t; she just listens, goes to her office, collapses into a chair. She’s still sitting there, half-asleep, when Leah comes in after god knows how many minutes have passed.

“About damn time,” Fatin says. “You get locked in the walk-in or something?”

“Here,” Leah says, ignoring the bait, and sets a plate on her desk. Fatin looks down: it’s an omelette francese, perfectly browned. Cheese melting over the edges, boursin by the smell; some veg too, peppers by the looks of it, and something else - pesto, for christ’s sake. Top garnished with micro basil leaves, a side of Texas toast there on the plate too, extra butter even, and it’s—

It’s beautiful, is what it is, and Fatin has no idea what it’s doing in front of her.

“Trying new things, chef?” she asks. Makes sure not to inhale too deeply, because the room smells so good it’s making her lightheaded. She’ll take the test bite that Leah probably wants from her, but she doesn’t fully trust herself to stop after that.

“No,” Leah says, and pulls a fork from her apron pocket. “It’s for you.”

She drops the fork into Fatin’s hand, where it weighs uncomfortably. Fatin frowns, asks: “What do you mean?”

Leah takes a seat in the other chair, the uncomfortable plastic one, and leans forward across the desk. “I mean, you need to eat right now. You need to eat, period.”

Fatin tightens her grip around the fork handle, cold metal stinging her fingers. “Yeah, uh, I don’t know if you noticed, but we work in a f*cking kitchen. I eat all the f*cking time.”

“You didn’t have anything at family today,” Leah says, which - f*ck, how does she even remember that, and Fatin curses herself for passing on Shelby’s sweetcorn chili. She hadn’t wanted any, still doesn’t, but she would’ve just taken it if she’d known Leah was going to f*cking court-martial her over this. “And - I don’t know, you sometimes just seem, like. Tired, but the hungry kind.”

“So what’s it to you,” Fatin mutters. She feels exposed right now, pinned down and brought to light beneath the knowing blue of Leah’s stare. No one’s seen through her like this in a while, or ever; it’s something new, unmooring. Double-edged sword, ready to wound or defend at any given moment. “Didn’t realize you were keeping a detailed, stalker-y list of my eating schedule.”

“Yeah, well,” Leah says dryly, ignoring the back half of that sentence. “Believe it or not, I actually don’t want you to suffer. Not like this, anyway. I want my CDC healthy, capable, not about to pass out on the kitchen floor due to malnutrition.” She taps her fingers against the desk, restless. “Hurry up and eat before it gets cold.”

Fatin does, if only to save herself from finding a reply. She digs her fork into the omelette, lifts a bite to her mouth; the taste hits her tongue, and she feels her eyes close involuntarily as the world around her is made anew.

It’s good, that’s her first thought, and it’s such an understatement that it’s f*cking laughable. It’s good, and it’s so much better than that. It’s everything at once, the egg and the cheese and the way the pesto melts late-spring fresh in her mouth, f*cking revelationary, a vision from the dawn of humanity; flash of scenery now, a fresh pail of milk, a garden full of herbs. Rolling fields of green beneath a hearth-warm sun, and Fatin swears she can see every part of this dish, time moving backwards to origins: a straw nest in a hen house, a smooth-grained wooden butter churn, every drop of rain that watered the vegetables. She feels like a kid again, nine years old and caramelizing a pan of onions for the first time. She feels like she’s in love.

She opens her eyes again and sees Leah there, centered in her vision as usual. The more this becomes a habit, the less Fatin minds. That right there is a problem for later.

“Alright?” Leah asks. Her index finger’s resting against her lip, teeth worrying at the edge of her nail. Nervous habit, Fatin guesses, and wonders what she’s got to be nervous about right now.

“Alright,” Fatin confirms. “I mean, yeah, this is straight up heat.” She takes another bite, swallows. Reminds herself to breathe. “Thanks, chef.”

“Yeah,” Leah says, “yeah, no problem.”

A beat, and the seconds hang dense between them. Leah drops her hand away from her face, places it in her lap, but Fatin’s still looking at her mouth. Looking, and wondering what it’s like to casually rearrange the universe like she just did.

“Thanks,” Fatin repeats, at a loss for anything better to say. “Like - really. Thank you.” She clears her throat. “You can clock out for tonight, alright? Go home, let the rest of us finish up closing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Maybe you will, maybe you won’t,” Leah answers. “No two weeks given, remember?” She smiles; it’s tired but genuine, bright hint of amusem*nt curling at the corner of her mouth, and Fatin thinks: oh. Thinks: god. Thinks: Now that’s a sight worth dealing with a thousand dinner rushes.

+

Fatin gets to work early the next morning, driven by a strange sense of sleepless motivation. She stops for coffee on the way, quick swing by the local independent place, and buys a second latte on a whim - it probably won’t be necessary, probably’ll go cold before anyone else shows up, but she does it anyway. Buys a bagel too, for the first breakfast she’s had in over a week.

The restaurant’s still dark from last night’s close, and Fatin finds her way down the hall with only a minimum of stumbling. There’s the kitchen, there’s the switch for half-lighting, stoves and counter only; she flicks it on, blinking away the spots that cloud her vision. Sets the coffees down, then heads for the walk-in.

There’s a good amount of stock, full shelves, and Fatin nods in approval; Toni’s been doing her job half decently, actually. She takes out a few handfuls of things - onions and garlic, tomatoes, mushrooms, one of the bone broth spares, a couple chicken breasts - and lays it all out on the counter, then pauses to think for a moment.

She used to do this with her father, back before he turned into a piece of sh*t - or no, Fatin guesses, he’d always been a piece of sh*t. Back before she knew about it, then. They’d do this: spread out a bunch of ingredients, whatever they’d had in the fridge or pantry, and see what they could make from it. Fatin still remembers the way her father would wait patiently, would look at her, would say: “What do you think, beti?”

And Fatin would come up with something, wide-eyed and excited at five, seven, nine years old, a dish she’d heard of or a dish she knew from the restaurant or a dish she completely made up in that moment, and they’d make it together, because that was before everything happened.

Before he banned her from working in the restaurant, before they started fighting, before she grew up and discovered boys and girls and parties with alcohol that loosened her up, made her fun. Before the affair, and before she found out about the affair. Before she left. Before, before, before.

Years later, and she hasn’t done this in a long time; doesn’t cook for herself really, tends to order her meals in when she eats them at all. There’s never space to make things off the clock, and she hasn’t felt that spark for a long time now. But her father is dead now, and yesterday she tasted a dish that made her remember why she fell in love with cooking in the first place, and here she is: standing in the kitchen of her family’s old restaurant, alone in the half-dark. Ready to begin again.

She starts slow, reliable, oil on low heat and a slow sautée on the onions. Add salt, pepper, a little baharat just because. Chicken seared in the pan, herbs and spices, a bone broth jus - cumin in there, cardamom, hint of garlic. Mushrooms and tomatoes in a second pan, spiced and diced and left to cook in chicken fat; not sure exactly where she’s going with this, but she likes the direction.

The back door slams, and Fatin’s startled back to her surroundings. She sets her spoon down, adjusts the heat on her burners. Calls out: “If it’s delivery, you’re early.”

“Not delivery,” Leah says, emerging from the hall. “Sorry to disappoint.” She raises her head, takes a curious sniff of the air. “What’re you making?”

Fatin doesn’t answer right away- just stays where she is, train of thought stalled at the station. Leah’s wearing a faded blue shirt today, the color nearly matching her eyes; worn jeans, black Converse. Her hair is down around her shoulders, not yet tied up for her shift. She looks relaxed, a little softer around the edges than usual, like she slept eight hours for once and still hasn’t fully woken up.

She looks entirely casual, in other words, and there’s no reason why Fatin’s heartbeat should be doubling all throughout her body, but it is. Oh, but it is.

“Not sure, really,” Fatin says, and reminds herself to try being f*cking normal. “Just throwing some stuff together.”

Leah comes closer, leans over Fatin’s shoulder to get a glimpse of the stove. Their bodies collide gently, chest to back, and Fatin’s overwhelmed by the realization of whatLeah smells like: clean laundry, and a hint of vanilla soap.

“Looks good,” Leah says. “There’s - what, cumin? Clove? Cardamom, maybe, and something else I don’t recognize.”

“Baharat,” Fatin replies. “Levantine spice.” Leah’s still there in her space, and Fatin doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to resist doing something stupid if they stay like this, so she inches away and jerks her head towards the counter. “Coffee’s over there, if you want. Yours is on the left.”

“Oh, I want,” Leah says, and steps back from the stove. “Wait. Mine?”

Fatin blushes, caught; thank god for her skin tone. Blush cover 101. “It’s just a plain latte with oat milk. Not that deep. Don’t make it a big thing.”

Leah doesn’t say anything to that, but she’s got a sh*t-eating little smile on her face as she picks up her cup and takes a sip. “Why oat milk?”

“English majors, right,” Fatin mutters. “You all drink f*cking dairy alts. I made an educated guess.”

“I drink dairy milk, actually,” Leah says, “but I like oat too.” She takes a sip, still with that irritating smile. “You remembered I was an English major?”

“Whatever, it’s not like it’s hard.” The oil in the mushroom pan starts bubbling, and Fatin reaches for a slotted spoon. “You’ve got that vibe, you know. Pretentious art nerd who doesn’t play about Virginia Woolf. Or like, Audre Lorde.”

Leah rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t really look offended - just drinks her latte and watches as Fatin starts plating. The dish comes together in layers, garnished chicken over bed of garlic mushrooms and tomatoes over jus base.

“It’s like a play on chicken cassoulet, almost,” Fatin says. “I don’t really know, I was just f*cking around.”

Leah drains her coffee cup, crumples it in her hands. “Bone broth?”

“Old stock,” Fatin confirms. She’s restless for some reason, amped. Dialed in a way that bleeds caffeine and uppers from its back teeth. She slides the dish over to Leah, now complete, and adds a fork. “Wanna try?”

Leah does, takes a bite and rolls it slowly around her mouth as her eyes flutter shut. Fatin’s pulse leaps upwards, beating in her throat; she’s faced a hundred critics, a hundred higher-ups, but suddenly nothing matters but this one opinion.

“That’s incredible,” Leah says. She sounds genuine: impressed, awed even, and it’s a dopamine hit direct to Fatin’s heart. “I - yeah. Wow.”

“Thanks,” Fatin answers. “Yeah, like, not to flex or anything, but.” She winks, a blatant affectation. “I’m kind of good at my job.”

Leah nods, sets down the fork. She looks at Fatin curiously now, that crystal blue interrogation again. Breaking her down to basic ingredients.

“Why are you here?” Leah asks. Then, seeing Fatin’s expression turn reactive: “Not like, why the f*ck are you here. I’m more wondering like, why you’re working at Jadmani’s. Why you chose to come back and run things, instead of selling and going right back to LA.” She taps a finger against the edge of the plate. “I mean, look at this. Look at you. You’re top-tier, Michelin star material. You hate the menu here, hate the building, pretty much wanted to kill all of us for the first three weeks, but you’re still here. So my question is, why?”

It’s the kind of question Fatin would usually deflect or defuse, weather with a bomb shelter built as a joke - but Leah’s waiting for an answer, and for whatever reason, Fatin wants to give it to her.

“I don’t know,” Fatin says slowly. “I want to prove something, I guess.”

“To yourself?” Leah asks. “Or to someone else?” Rhetorical question, must be, because she doesn’t wait for an answer before sliding the plate back to Fatin. Says: “Here, you try, it’s f*cking amazing.”

Fatin takes a bite and doesn’t smell it, doesn’t taste it. Doesn’t sense anything at all except Leah, filling her vision, surrounding her on every side like water. Ocean she can’t yet navigate, colored in the same light as Leah’s eyes.

+

So alright, there’s that now: the shift in perspective, the opening lines, the space where boundaries get blurred. The kick of fire in Fatin’s chest whenever she looks at Leah, older flames on high new heat.

There’s that, but it’s not going to be a problem. It can’t. There’s a hundred reasons why CDC on sous chef action is a terrible idea, and even without the optics of that, it’s a generally terrible idea to f*ck your coworker. Usually sets you on a collision course with disaster, and Fatin doesn’t need any more of that in her life right now.

And it’s not that she hasn’t f*cked a coworker before - although never for a promotion, like some people thought - but this isn’t the same. It’s different here. With Leah, everything is different.

But Fatin’s human just like everyone, and there’s only so many times you can give your sous chef pining glances from across the kitchen until it starts getting pathetic, so she falls back on easier distractions: heads to the bar, finds some guy, goes home with him.

It’s a Thursday night and she’s fresh off the closing shift, tired as sh*t and still smelling vaguely of spices, but she manages to drag herself out instead of home. The bar’s a small one on the west side of town, pretty much a dive, and she posts up near the window after ordering a blackberry mojito. Has a feeling this won’t take long.

Sure enough, it’s only a few minutes before a tall guy in a flannel comes up to her, asks what she’s drinking. Fatin gives him a wink, tosses a few lines back and forth, and it’s all so easy. It’s simple, surface-level, nothing like the way she stands in front of Leah’s gaze and feels instantly split open down to the marrow.

She lets the guy take her home, and he’s not bad-looking, really; decent face, half-decent jokes, a handsy to respectful ratio that’s better than most men have. There’s nothing glaringly wrong with him, and when they make it to his bed, she’s almost excited - if only because it means she’ll have some kind of distraction tonight.

The sex, though - well, it’s not bad exactly. It’s just nothing much of anything. Her body’s there in the room, but her mind is still in the kitchen. He touches her, and she’s thinking of Leah: blue eyes and her smile and the way she can put together a dish that ruins your entire life with one taste, and yeah, this whole distraction thing simply isn’t working.

“Hey,” Fatin says, and rolls away from the guy. “Hey, uh…” Belatedly realizes she doesn’t remember his name, even. “You. Do you know where I can get some drugs around here? Just like, some pills or something.”

The guy blinks up at her, bewildered. “Uh…yeah, Dot can probably fix you up. She’s my old plug, she works at The Anchor over on Bowery now.”

“Dot, The Anchor,” Fatin recites back, and slides off the bed, throws her clothes back on. “Got it.”

The guy’s frowning now, starting to get the picture. “Wait, are we like - not gonna finish this first?”

“Nope,” Fatin says. She’s at the door now, already gone; she’s feeling charitable enough to throw him a wink as she leaves. “Thanks, though. It’s been real.”

+

The Anchor is a little bar down by the harbor, the kind of place tourists go when they want to feel like they’re hitting local spots. It’s crowded when Fatin walks in, tables crammed with old-salt fisherman types plus one soccer-team looking group of girls in the corner booth. There’s dim lighting and an eclectic mix of shabby decor: vintage posters, beach parking signs, an oddly out of place stack of romance novels piled on top of an old record turntable.

Fatin slips into a seat at the counter, looking around for someone who could be named Dot. Figures it’s not the two-hundred pound guy with full sleeve tats who’s collecting dirty glasses, so the tough-looking girl in a Black Sabbath t-shirt and cargo pants is her best bet.

“Hey,” Fatin says, and leans across the bar. Her elbow sticks to the surface - gross, but she’ll live. “Are you Dot?”

The girl eyes her skeptically, arms crossed. “Depends who’s asking.”

Fatin pulls a card from her pocket: cream stationary, embossed ink with her name and contact info. She’d stopped carrying these when she left LA, but there’s usually one kicking around somewhere in her bag. “Here.”

“Fatin Jadmani,” Dot reads out, and Fatin hears a drawl now, a little Texas tucked away in her voice. “Chef de cuisine. Fancy, huh.” She tucks the card away in her cargos, then flips a bar towel over her shoulder. “Alright then, what can I get you?”

“Old-fashioned,” Fatin says. Then, lower: “This guy said you might be able to get me some stuff. No co*ke, I’m not backsliding on that. Just a fun little high, you get me?”

“Hm,” Dot says, turning to grab a whiskey bottle and a glass. She makes Fatin’s old-fashioned, movements smooth and practiced; Fatin watches approvingly. She’ll never not appreciate someone who knows their way around food and drink.

“If you want drugs, you’re out of luck,” Dot says, once she’s handed Fatin the highball. “I don’t sell anymore.”

The first sip goes down smooth, perfect citrus-bitter balance, and Fatin sighs happily. At least someone in this town can make a decent co*cktail. “Gave up the side hustle, huh? Why?”

“Well,” Dot shrugs. “I sold sh*t to cover my dad’s medical bills, but then he died, so. Figured I may as well turn back to the straight and narrow.”

“sh*t, man,” Fatin says. “That sucks. I’m sorry.” She kills her old-fashioned, sets the glass down. “My dad’s dead too. Just died recently, actually, so I kinda get it. I mean, not the selling drugs part, but you know.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dot says, amused. “You want another?”

“What the hell, sure,” Fatin says. “I need some way to drown my sorrows, and if I can’t have drugs I may as well go to booze.”

“Amen,” Dot laughs, pouring Fatin a second drink. There’s a cluster of men at the far end of the bar trying to wave her down and getting absolutely stonewalled, which Fatin finds deeply beautiful.

“It’s just such bullsh*t, you know,” Fatin sighs. She downs half the glass in one long swallow, feeling the sudden, tipsy urge to spill her issues everywhere. Maybe quitting therapy after two sessions wasn’t such a great idea, but she won’t admit to that. “Like, there’s always f*cking something. Today it was Martha dropping three cakes fresh out the oven, almost gave herself third degree f*cking burns, plus I think the walk-in’s one bad day away from kicking the bucket cause the light’s flickering like all the time now, plus I’m kind of down bad over my annoyingly sexy coworker. Sorry, you like - probably didn’t need to hear all that, let me just get another drink instead.”

“Restaurant industry’ll nail ya like that,” Dot agrees, matter of fact, tone of somebody who knows. “Probably shouldn’t f*ck your coworker, though. Wait, can you describe the walk-in issue more?”

“The light’s just like, on and off all day? And the temperature’s always a few degrees out of whack? I don’t know, I’m not a f*cking electrician.”

“Clearly,” Dot says. “I am, though. I could come check it out if you want.”

It’s said blandly, just another turn of the conversation, so it takes Fatin a moment to realize what’s being offered. “You’ll fix our electrical?”

“I’ll look at your electrical,” Dot corrects, taking Fatin’s empty glass away. “Not too big on promising things I might not be able to make good on.”

“Dorothy,” Fatin says, dramatic but also meaning it with her entire heart. “I could kill a man for you right now. I could kiss you right now.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Dot replies, “but despite the cargo pants, I’m just not into women like that. I’ll take a rain check on the murder offer, though.”

“Awesome,” Fatin says, nodding. “Add it to my tab.” She holds eye contact on Dot a moment longer, fondly taking in the details: blunt haircut, scattered freckles, stubborn mouth. An air about her, something that tells Fatin they’re about to be fast friends. She’s always had a low tolerance for bullsh*t, and Dot’s seems even lower; yeah, they’ll get along like a house on fire. “You’ve got my digits, call whenever. Restaurant is Jadmani’s, up by Sycamore.”

“Hold up,” Dot says. “Still gotta pay for your drinks, dude. I’m a bartender, not a charity worker.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fatin says, and drops a twenty on the bar top. “Keep the change, babe. Come by any time, sh*t, I’ll make you a sandwich even. On the house, of course.”

Dot perks right up at that, smile pulling at the edge of her mouth. “Yeah? You got pickles?”

“Dorothy,” Fatin says, spreading her arms wide as she hops off the bar stool. Her desire for a high is completely gone now, cured by alcohol and the unlikely miracle of female friendship. “If you can fix our walk-in, I’ll pickle an entire field of cucumbers for you myself.”

+

Fatin’s waist-deep in prep the next day - prep and successful avoidance of Leah, because she’s not sure she can face her right now after fantasizing about her while literally f*cking someone else last night - when Toni comes up to her and says, “sh*t, man, where’s the vampire?”

“Vampire?” Fatin answers, distracted. She’s only got two of the four batches of mash she needs, and she’s also on pita bread since Martha still hasn’t totally nailed that one down. She doesn’t have time for whatever this is, but Toni’s here all the same: pointing at Fatin’s neck, letting out a long whistle.

“Whoever gave you that,” Toni says, “has got to be a god damn vamp.”

Fatin slaps a hand to her neck, cursing. She’d been too tired to look in the mirror when she took off her makeup last night, and this morning hadn’t been any different. “Don’t tell me I’ve got a f*cking hickey. Those usually don’t even show up on me.”

“Yeah, well, this one did,” Toni says, because she’s the worst. “Just wait till the others see this sh*t.”

“Go f*cking prep your station,” Fatin says, ignoring the slow rolling drop of her stomach at the thought of Leah’s reaction. Could be anything or nothing at all; now there’s a rock and a hard place, and Fatin trapped right in between. She doesn’t know which would be worse, even. Whether it would hurt more for Leah to congratulate her, or to not care at all.

“Leah’s gonna go batsh*t,” Toni tells her, like she’s read Fatin’s mind somehow in a horrible display of hom*osexual telepathy. Finally slouches off to prep lettuce and carrots, right before Fatin can tell her to stick it up her ass.

“Ten minutes to open, chefs,” Fatin calls out, pointedly ignoring Toni’s comment. “Can I get pars, please!”

The replies come rolling in: soups, twenty-five, all day; falafel fifty, all day; chicken a hundred, all day. Nora, who’s been absorbed into the staff ecosystem and now permanently works front of house, sticks her head around the kitchen door. Says, in her too-quiet-for-food-service voice: “There’s already a line outside.”

“f*cking lit,” Fatin says grimly. “Let’s rock, chefs.”

Prep finishes, doors open, and tickets start rolling. Fatin’s put herself on hummus today, making batches on a need-to-use basis, and she puts herself squarely in the center of focus. Crush sesame seeds, mince garlic, juice lemons, process chickpeas. A little ice in the mix, make it smoother, repeat.

“Hey,” Shelby yells. “Hey, can I get some help over here please, I’m kind of drowning.”

Fatin takes a look at Shelby’s station; sure enough, her line of tickets is double-stacked. They’d been running smooth until now, but of course that wasn’t going to last.

“Two ten-tops, one six in dining,” Nora announces, bursting into the kitchen, then abruptly turns and runs back out front. Fatin grins, because this is just awesome, and nods tightly.

“Shelby, I’m gonna help cover your station,” she says. “Toni, get some more falafel base going - and pull more chicken, alright, there’s batches in walk-in. First in first out, don’t forget.”

“Gotcha,” Toni answers, suspiciously helpful for once. “I’m on it.”

“Can I get some boxes,” Fatin continues. “We got one chicken, four shawarma, two black bean to go.”

“Got them,” Leah responds, dropping off expo long enough to grab a stack of boxes. She comes up next to Fatin, sets them on the counter. “Here, there’s about—”

Fatin frowns, confused at the way Leah’s sentence stops like it ran into a brick wall. “Chef?”

She turns her head to see Leah staring at her neck, eyes narrowed, mouth a thin flat line. She’s colder than Fatin’s ever seen before, open waters turning icy. Something fierce about her too: razor’s edge of anger, the way it carries a tidal wave barely contained. Fatin’s not sure whether to be scared or turned on. Her body settles for a combination of both.

“Nothing,” Leah says flatly. “There’s your boxes.” She stalks back over to expo; Fatin, watching her walk away for what feels like the tenth time since they met, feels a sudden anger building up inside her.

“No,” Fatin says, and strides after Leah. She’s abandoning station, but whatever - Shelby’s there, and Fatin pays her for a reason. “No, you get back here and tell me exactly what your problem is right now.”

“No problem,” Leah shoots back, pulling a new ticket, not even bothering to look at Fatin now. “I mean, I wouldn’t come in to work looking like that, but it’s your choice.”

“Okay,” Fatin snaps, stung by the comment - not by its implications, but by its source. “First off, it’s none of your business what I look like. So I went home with a guy, big f*cking deal. Second, I didn’t even know about it until Toni—”

“Oh, you didn’t know it was there? What - you can’t even, like, keep track of your conquests?”

“Damn,” Rachel mutters from her station, but wisely stays out of it. Leah shoots her a death glare anyway; Rachel glares right back.

“Yo, Rach, drop it,” Toni says. “Let them hate-f*ck this out on their own.”

Leah whirls around. “What did you just say?”

“We’re out of cakes,” Martha calls helpfully from the dessert station. Inpeccable timing, couldn’t be any f*cking better, and Fatin’s about to go deal with that but Leah beats her to the punch.

“I got you, Martha,” she answers. “Our CDC is a little busy flaunting the aftermath of her fun night out to the entire world.”

“Okay, what is your f*cking problem,” Fatin says, almost shouting now. “We’re in the middle of f*cking lunch rush and you choose now to start sh*t with me over something completely irrelevant?”

“You’re the one starting sh*t,” Leah counters, words coming back like a whip. “I tried to walk away.” She pulls a new set of tickets from the printer, lining them up along the shelf, and that’s it. Fatin’s f*cking had it.

“Step off expo,” she says, furiously. Her fingers curl at her side, itching to wrap around Leah’s throat - get her on her knees, make her f*cking behave. “Go clear your head, come back when you’re ready to f*cking work.”

“I don’t like, need your pity five,” Leah scoffs, “but thanks, I guess.”

“That wasn’t a request,” Fatin yells. Anger breaking through her voice now, turning up the volume. “Get the f*ck off my expo, chef! f*cking now!”

The kitchen falls quiet in the aftermath, ringing with echoes; Leah’s head snaps up, eyes wide and shocked. Disarmed for once, and Fatin feels an odd tinge of regret threaded into the anger, but there’s no backing down now.

“Yo,” someone says, sun-baked sound of Texas drawl, and Dot appears at the kitchen door. “Is now like, a bad time, or…”

“No,” Fatin says quickly. “Great time. Come with me. Chefs, while I’m gone - hold f*cking line.”

She heads for the walk-in without a backwards glance, leaves Leah standing speechless behind her for once. Hears Dot mumble, “Oh boy,” but her footsteps are following, so Fatin keeps going.

+

Eight grueling hours later, and the back of house vibe is still dead in the water. Fatin hasn’t spoken a word to Leah since the blow-out, hasn’t even looked at her. She’s pretty sure that if they make eye contact she’s either going to kiss Leah or kill her, and neither of those are great options if Fatin wants to keep what’s left of her sanity.

Closing’s brutally efficient; everyone’s working quickly, heads down, wanting to get the f*ck out of here. It’s quiet, not even music playing, until suddenly Shelby breaks the ice.

“Alright y’all, listen up,” she says, summer camp counselor cheerful - and for whatever reason, everyone obeys. It’s a strange little thing about Shelby, this effortless sunshine charm she has sometimes. For all her skepticism, Fatin’s still not quite immune to it.

“We’ve had a rough day here,” Shelby continues. “We could all use a break, yeah? But we could also use some bonding.”

Groans around the kitchen. Even Toni looks unenthusiastic about this one. Fatin surveys the room, quickly looks away when her gaze brushes the side of Leah’s face.

“Come on,” Shelby insists, undeterred. Never let it be said that the girl’s a quitter. “We need to regain our cohesion as a group! I’m thinkin’ a little beach gathering, just us staff. A bonfire, some marshmallows…”

“Booze,” Nora says, poorly hidden behind a cough, but Shelby nods. Says: “Sure, bring some drinks along as well. Drinkers aren’t drivers, though, so y’all remember that when you’re figuring out a way home.”

“f*ck it,” Rachel says. “I’m in. I need to be f*cking hammered after today.”

“I’d like a drink as well,” Nora adds. “While I’m aware that working in the restaurant industry statistically leads to a higher probability of substance abuse problems, I still have an odd craving for a vodka cranberry right now.”

“There we go, then,” Shelby says, looking pleased. “That’s three of us. Who else?”

Toni raises a hand douchebag style, three fingers up like a frat boy in class. “Fine, Marty and I’ll come, and we’ll smoke you motherf*ckers at beer pong.”

Rachel scoffs. “Pong? With what table, stupid?”

“We can put cups in the f*cking sand,” Toni scowls. “And you just threw the gloves down, Reid. Me, you, Marty, Nora - sisters on sisters match, as soon as we hit the sand.”

“Deal,” Rachel answers, slapping Toni five. Fatin’s not sure she’ll ever understand their weird antagonistic relationship, and at this point, she’s given up on trying.

“Dottie, you’re invited too,” Shelby offers. She waves over to Dot, who’s spent the day tinkering with the walk-in plus another half-dozen health and fire code violations around the restaurant. “The more the merrier, and Lord knows I’d love to have a fellow Texan around.”

“Sure, may as well,” Dot says affably. “Beats my usual Friday night plans.”

“That leaves you,” Shelby says, pointing to Leah, “and you.” She pivots to face Fatin. “You’re both gonna come, no arguing.”

“f*cking obviously I’m coming,” Fatin responds, burying emotion beneath a cool tone of voice. “Someone’s got to babysit your asses. I’m not pushing back open tomorrow because half my chefs are too hungover to make it to prep.”

Shelby nods. “There y’are, then. Leah?”

“Fine,” Leah says, giving the answer like it’s being dragged out of her on the torture rack. She keeps her eyes fixed firmly to a spot somewhere left of Fatin. “Whatever. Yeah. I’ll go.”

“Well, then,” Shelby remarks, clapping her hands together. “As my mama used to say, this ought to be an occasion.”

Yeah, Fatin thinks as she steals a glance at the closed-door misery of Leah’s face. An occasion. That’s one way to put it.

+

The beach is dark and empty when the eight of them pull up, music pouring from car stereos, sliding down the dunes with six-packs and liquor bottles in hand. There’s a half moon shining out over the water, ripples of light across endless black.

Dot takes over fire duty, makes a pit of rocks, produces kindling and wood from the back of her beat-up Subaru, a lighter from her back pocket. Nora hovers at the edge of the stone circle with her, murmuring scientific fire-starting advice until the first flame catches and spreads. Same-instant burst into bonfire.

“Hell yeah, party people!” Rachel whoops. “Now we can get this bitch started.”

“You gotta retire that phrase,” Fatin says, wincing, missing the elevated status of LA like a stab wound in this particular moment. “No one’s said party people since like, 2015, and even then it was tragic.”

“f*ck you,” Rachel says, and cracks open a bottle of vodka. “Toni, Nora, Martha! Let’s go.”

Beer pong starts up, along with a loud argument over the setup. Fatin uncaps a bottle of tequila from the liquor stash near the fire and takes a long pull, which doesn’t help as much as it should. There’s a dozen things she should be doing right now; none of them involve sitting on a beach at midnight with a group of coworkers who are ready to kill each other every other day of the week.

“Yo.” Dot, to her right. “Let me get in on that.”

Fatin passes her the bottle, stares absently into the middle distance. The bonfire’s higher now, taller, and she can see through the rising heat across to the other side of the circle. There’s Leah, open beer on the sand next to her, head resting in Shelby’s lap. A kind gesture, a platonic one, but still a vicious knife of a twist in Fatin’s stomach. Longing woven with jealousy woven with residual anger.

“Thanks for today,” Fatin says to Dot, and wrenches her gaze away from Leah. “You didn’t have to stay that long. God knows I would’ve made a run for it the first chance I got.”

“Nah,” Dot replies. She tilts her head back, half-smile fixed to her face. “I liked it. You got a good group.”

Fatin laughs, disbelieving. Points to the game of beer pong, which has somehow devolved into Rachel putting Toni in a headlock while Martha and Nora pass a plastic cup back and forth, watching and cheering them on. “Check your vision, Dorothy. I’ve got a f*cking disaster, is what I’ve got.”

“Sure,” Dot shrugs. “But I dunno - maybe it’s the lonely childhood talking, but there’s something nice about this, you know? You guys care, even if you show it through like, physical violence. I wish I had something like that.”

Fatin considers this, watching the pong players collapse into a laughing heap of limbs - anger forgotten, alcohol preferred. Then back to Leah, the long line of her body sprawled across the sand. Her eyes are closed, face turned upwards to the moon. Beautiful, but you didn’t hear it from Fatin.

Yeah, she thinks. Somehow there’s still something to be said for this mess, these girls, all the places they tie and bind. She’s never been much for friendships, let alone female ones, but this time is different. She’s seen it before at that first family meal, taste of pancakes and a through-the-window glimpse of something real; she knows Dot’s seeing it now.

“You could,” Fatin says, poking Dot’s leg. “Have that, I mean. Ditch The Anchor, work with us. We need a fix-it girl anyway, those dickbags from Baywire always scam us.”

Dot frowns, lines of disbelief spreading. “You actually want me?”

“Uh, yeah,” Fatin says. There’s this edge to Dot’s voice, one that carries echoes of loss. Few friends and lonely nights, and Fatin knows all about that kind of life. “I want you forever, Dorothy. Sorry, I left the ring at home.”

“It’d be a no anyway,” Dot snarks, with a quick elbow to Fatin’s ribs. “But sh*t, alright then. Better turn in my two weeks at The Anchor. I’m not passing up free shawarma for the rest of my working days.”

“Y’all, come over here,” Shelby says, beckoning, making room by the fire. “Enough horsin’ around, let’s get a circle going.”

“No icebreakers,” Toni warns, flopping down on Shelby’s other side. There’s a quick-dart glance towards Leah, pale shade of green that matches Fatin’s own, but it’s gone just as soon. “Just cause you were a counselor at Jesus camp for however many years doesn’t mean you can make us play your twisted games.”

“Never Have I Ever is a valid group bonding exercise,” Shelby defends herself, but the softness in her eyes when she looks at Toni sells her out. “Fine, fine, no games, but someone start passin’ more drinks around before I fall asleep and roll right into the fire.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Toni says, almost inaudible. Blush showing right through the dark, so sweet that Fatin almost doesn’t feel the urge to make fun of her. Almost.

A fifth of Jack Daniels and a handle of Absolut get opened and make their way around the circle. The eight of them lean on each other, fall back on their elbows, talk in slow and lazy loops beneath the moonlight. It’s unhurried, unwound, a thousand miles from the back of house powder keg. Here there’s fire, no explosion - only Nora dropping fun facts, and Dot making dad jokes, and Toni telling them all how she once pissed in her hand and threw it at a girl. f*cking psychotic, that last one, but Fatin respects the game.

“Guys,” Martha says at one point, voice full and liquor-smooth. She’s lying back against Fatin, who’s drunk enough to let it slide, happy with the warmth. “Imagine if we were like, stranded on a desert island right now. How would we even survive?”

“Find water,” Dot answers immediately. “That’s always the first step.”

“Food and shelter should follow,” Nora adds. “Fulfillment of basic needs is the key to survival.”

“Uh, no thanks,” Fatin scoffs. “If I ever got stuck in the middle of f*cking nowhere, I’d probably just off myself. I was not made to sh*t outdoors.”

“Yeah,” Rachel says thoughtfully, “but if we were on an island we could swim like, all the time.”

Toni waves a hand at their surroundings. “What, the normal beach isn’t good enough for you?”

“Swimming,” Martha says, and sits bolt upright. “That’s a great idea!” She scrambles to her feet and sets off for the water, leaving Fatin’s left side suddenly cold in her absence.

“Marty, no,” Toni calls after her. “You’re hammered, plus it’s probably f*cking freezing.”

“Nah, it’ll be fine,” Rachel says. Springs up lightly, grace of a former athlete. “Get up bitches, let’s go. I got you.”

They file down to the water: Martha and Rachel and Nora in a row, Toni and Shelby following slowly behind. Fatin stays right where she is, parked by the fire. Like f*ck she’s going anywhere near the ocean at night.

“I’ll go make sure no one drowns,” Dot says. “I’ve watched enough Survivor to be an expert on avoiding disasters.”

Leah’s up too, Fatin can’t help but notice. Looks to be going along with Dot but then changes course, crosses the sand until she’s standing over Fatin. It’s just the two of them now, them and the fire shooting sparks into the sky.

“Hey,” Leah says. “Can we talk?”

Fatin waits her out a beat, two, pride and desire putting up a four-hand street fight within her. And then she looks up at Leah, corners of her mouth turned down and the tired haunting in the set of her shoulders, and nods.

+

“I’m sorry,” Leah says later. They’re sitting on top of the dunes now, set a little back from the fire. “I was such a c*nt to you earlier.”

“You really were,” Fatin replies, not meanly. She’s impressed, almost, at the way Leah had cut her open with a couple sentences; thrown gasoline on her anger, made it all erupt, pain to Pompeii in point two seconds. No one’s had that handle on her in a long, long time. She gets mad, sure, but she doesn’t keep the hurt around. She doesn’t care like that.

“Like, I was a bitch,” Leah says. “And I’m so, so sorry.”

But then there’s this: Leah, curled in on herself, knees hugged to her chest. Eyes almost silver here beneath the half moon, outshining every star in the sky. Her lips are pressed together, jawline shadowed and perfect in this light; Fatin sees her, admiration verging on reverence, and thinks there’s no forgiveness in this world she wouldn’t give her.

“Yeah, I know,” Fatin says, knocking their shoulders together. Leah’s warm despite the chill of a late-spring night on the water, and Fatin can’t help but lean into her. “It’s okay.”

Leah bites at her bottom lip; it’s self-flagellation, not seduction, but Fatin still feels a little heat between her legs. “I don’t want you to think that I like, give a sh*t what you do or who you go home with.”

Disappointment: that’s the first thing Fatin feels, and it’s so stupid she could be sick right now. She folds it up and puts it away, saves it for another night, because not like she wanted Leah to give a sh*t exactly. It’s more that she wanted Leah to feel - something. Something.

“It wasn’t about you,” Leah continues. “Not really. I was having a bad day, and I kind of - redirected it.”

“I get it,” Fatin assures her. “Seriously, I’m over it already. You bitched me out a little, and I was a bitch right back. It’s not like you stabbed me.”

Leah nods, gives her a spent smile. “Don’t get too comfortable. I haven’t ruled that out yet.”

Fatin returns the smile, just as tired but there for the long haul. Says: “I might be the least qualified person in the world to unpack emotional sh*t with, but if you ever wanna talk about anything…”

She leaves the sentence hanging, unsure of how far to push - she’s never been good at this, the balancing act of it, knowing when to step around or back - but Leah reaches out, catches the trailing end of the words.

“My ex texted me this morning,” she says. Murmurs, more like. “It was, uh - a really bad relationship. Haven’t heard from him in years, I don’t know why he’s trying to talk to me suddenly, but it just. f*cked with me, I guess.”

There’s a swell of static in Fatin’s ears, waves crashing louder; her skin suddenly feels tight around her bones. Leah’s painting this history in barely-there strokes, but Fatin sees the shape of the picture. Whatever Leah’s gone through, she didn’t deserve it. Not at all.

“Did you answer him?” Fatin asks, in a tone that hopefully conveys more concern, less preparation to hunt this asshole down and fillet him with a dull knife.

Leah shakes her head. She looks exhausted, dark thumbprints of shadow beneath her eyes. Fatin wants to take her home, make her tea, drive her windows-down along the PCH until the sun comes up and her smile comes back. All entirely normal thoughts to have about your coworker crush who slu*t-shamed you less than twelve hours ago.

“I’m not going to,” Leah says. “I don’t want anything to do with him. It’s just - exhausting, you know? To leave something so far behind you and have it still catch up eventually.”

“Yeah,” Fatin says heavily. That resonates, bitterness in flashes; an empty kitchen, the doors of the house she grew up in. She takes a breath, lets it out slow until it’s just Leah and the moonlight again. “I’m gonna try something, okay? Can’t promise it’ll go well, but.”

She wraps her arms around Leah slowly, carefully. Leah falls into it, softening, and there: an interlude of peace, white flags waving over weary arms. Their friends run laughing down the darkened beach below, voices carrying higher to the dunes.

“Thank you,” Leah says after a while. Voice low, so quiet it could almost be lost beneath the sound of waves against the shore.

“Any time,” Fatin answers, and doesn’t let go. Holds Leah for a moment longer, just because she can.