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My boss approaches my desk. Immediately, all the conversation flying back and forth from one cubicle to the next dies down.
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” my boss demands. “I’ve been trying to call you. Have you sent the Goldstein files to the legal team yet?”
“I sent them this morning as soon as I got in. And are you sure you’re calling the right number?” I lift my phone. “I didn’t get any…” It’s then that I realize I turned my phone off to avoid getting calls from mom. “I’m sorry. I had my phone turned off.”
He mumbles some unflattering remarks about me beneath his breath and stomps back to his office.
I grit my teeth. Being yelled at by my boss reminds me once again of my dream to leave this job behind and start cooking full-time.One day…
The co-worker in the cubicle next door gives me a pitying look. “You good?”
I nod and check my phone for missed calls. My manager isn’t the only one who was trying to reach me. There are three more missed calls from an unknown number and a text too.
Unknown: Hi, Nardi’s Belizean Meals On The Go. I’m Sunny Hastings. I’ve heard amazing things about your food and I would love if you’d cater for a small party of friends at the end of the month. Are you available?
My heart picks up speed and thuds against my ribs. Is this for real?
My first catering gig?
I chew on my fingernail, excitement and fear fighting for dominance. I’m aware this could be a prank or a waste of time, but the opportunity is just too good to deny.
I check over my shoulder to make sure my manager isn’t looking and text back.
Me: Hi, Sunny. I’d love to cater for your event. How many people would I be serving? Do you want it plated or buffet style?
Sunny Hastings doesn’t respond right away and I wait on pins and needles for my phone to ring. As I’m about to take my lunch break, it finally does.
“Good afternoon, is this Nardi’s?”
“Yes.” I grip the phone tight, my voice breathless and excited. “Sunny Hastings?”
She laughs and it’s a bright, melodic sound. “I’m glad I finally got in touch with you. I was worried that I had the wrong number.”
“I’m sorry. I was at work and I couldn’t answer the phone.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” Sunny chuckles. “I looked for your stall earlier this week, but I couldn’t find you. Cooking isn’t your main job then?”
“I only come out on Saturdays,” I inform her, playing with the strap of my lanyard. Someday though, when Josiah’s all grown up and my bills are paid, I’ll sell everyday.
“Well, I’m glad we could finally connect. My friend, Kenya, saw someone posting about your stall last week. They said your rice and beans were the best they’d ever had and I justhadto know for myself, but you weren’t anywhere to be found.”
“Thank you. I don’t know if my rice and beans are the best, but they’re definitely authentic.”
“No need to be humble. People are harsh when it comes to authentic Caribbean cooking, and you’ve built quite the reputation. You must have a Belizean parent or grandparents.”
“I’m actually Belizean myself. My mother’s still over there.”
Sunny gushes, “So am I! I was born there, but I moved to America when I was a kid.”
“I moved when I was eighteen,” I tell her. It’s strange, but I feel comfortable sharing information I normally wouldn’t with a total stranger.
There’s something charismatic and light about Sunny’s voice. Although I’ve never seen her, I know instinctually that she’s probably pretty and popular wherever she goes.
Sunny laughs again. “How do you not have an accent?”
“I worked to get rid of it. People seemed to respect me more when I sounded American, so I tried my best to speak perfect English.”
“I get that,” Sunny says in a commiserating fashion. “I did the same thing when I was a child.”