Page 17 of The Crowned Garza

He powers on the stereo and ups the volume.

I lean forward and turn it off.

He sighs audibly, long-suffering.

“But then I paid attention to the charms,” I continue. “A crown, a scepter and orb, a chariot, a ball gown, a Victorian mirror, a throne, a ring, and a coin. All things befitting a ‘regalità.’”I roll up the sleeve of my food-splattered work jacket and hold out my wrist to show off the bracelet. It glints under the passing streetlights. “If you didn’t miss me, why’d you send me this?”

“It’s good you’re a cook and not a detective,” he returns. “When was your birthday again?”

He’s a lying liar. If he knows me down to the preferences of my tastebuds, then he damn well knows my date of birth.Hesent me this bracelet.

“You’re a fragile ballsac,” I taunt with a little laugh. “A real man would’ve owned up.”

“Good thing I’m just a wooden boy, then.”

Ugh.He’s incorrigible. “You’re annoying.”

“Ditto. And get your feet off my dash.”

“Make me.”

A short, humorless laugh. “Trust me, you wouldn’t want that.”

And that’s a fact. Considering how my body acted a fool from a simple, innocent brush of his arm, imagine what an intentional touch from him would do. Nothing short of chaos, that’s for sure.

Playing with the charms on the bracelethesent me, I clear my throat. “You said your mom’s a chef and restaurateur, right?”

He doesn’t answer.

“May I ask what she’s like as a boss?”

“You may not.”

I continue anyway. “Throughout high school, I spent all my summers and holidays working in small restaurants run by women, and the experience of being mentored by women had always been positive and amazing. As a result, my dream has always been to work in fine dining under the command of remarkable female chefs. After graduating from culinary school, I applied for positions only where women were the head chefs because I love the strength and beauty of women in leadership positions. But so far, my experience working under women has been dishearteningly horrid. One was blatantly racist, and the other was an internal misogynist. Both fired me because I called them out on their behaviors. It’s left me feeling…disillusioned and deeply disappointed. So I’m just wondering, you know, with your mom being Michelin-starred and all, what’s she like as a leader?”

An entire minute passes, and I resign to him ignoring me the entire drive. But then he makes a strained grunt in his throat, as if annoyed with himself for deciding to engage with me, and says, “Sorry you’ve been having a hard time. How is it at the new job?”

“Well, this one’s a man, unfortunately,” I reply. “He’s on a perpetual power trip, and I’m not certain, but I think he’s ‘rookie hazing’ me? Other than that, I’m learning a lot from him. He’s top tier and watching him cook is an experience in itself. That’s all I really wanted when I started this journey, to learn from the best and witness greatness.”

“You’re an adult in the real world now, Tillie,” he says gruffly. “In the real world, things almost never go the way you want and you just have to learn to pivot and gear up, prepare to tackle. In the real world, and in this industry, women are forced to work twice as hard to prove themselves, and—from what I’ve witnessed—that generally makes it harder for them to work well with other women because the slots for women are limited. It shouldn’t be that way, but it is.” He throws a brief glance my way. “You wanted to work with women. It didn’t work out. Well, work with men. Learn. Hone your skills. Get to the top and become what you wished those two women had been for you.”

That’s some bitter-coated advice. Talk about tough love.“You couldn’t have sprinkled a little bit of sugar in there for me?” I mumble sulkily. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Iamspoiled. “Based on that alone, I’m guessing that even if your mom isn’t a mean boss, she’s a stern one, and an even sterner mother. You were never coddled, were you? That’s why you dislike me so much. Sheer jealousy.”

“Oh gee, she figured me out,” he deadpans.

“Hey, no hard feelings. Green looks good on you.”

In the cup-holder, his phone lights up with an incoming call. I’m quick to reach down and pluck it up, but he’s fast to rip it from my grasp.

Seems he’s had an earpiece in on the other side all this time because he drops the phone between his thighs and answers, “Cosa.”

Whatever it is that’s being said on the other end, he doesnotlike it. His jaw is clenched so hard it looks painful, his responses tight and clipped.

When he hangs up and white-knuckles the steering wheel, I wait a bit before asking tentatively, “Everything okay?”

He cricks his neck from side to side, like he’s gearing up for something.

Taking the hint, I back off. That call was clearlynotgood, so my antics might only exacerbate things.