Page 29 of The Intimacy of Skin

Although time seemed to stop when Crew had dinner with me, life kept moving. I was stuck in a weird in-between state. I was excited and high on life at the idea I’d get to spend more time with him yet riddled with intense grief over the fact that it was purely physical.

I’d agreed to it knowing that. The only person I could blame was myself for saying yes when I knew I wanted more. It was horrifying to realize that I wanted something emotional between us. Romantic, even.

I didn’t want to meet up, have sex, and say our goodbyes. I wanted to know everything possible about Crew. His aspirations, likes, dislikes, and what he wanted to be growing up. I wanted deep talks, sweet cuddle sessions, and countless nights where we slept wrapped around each other.

Jesus, I didn’t want another Sam. I didn’t have feelings for Sam yet watching her walk away was excruciating. I could only imagine how it’d feel when Crew left my life five months from now.

My head was a mess. All my thoughts had been paralyzed, filled to the brim with all the ways this thing I’d started with him could go to shit.

Unfortunately, life hadn’t gotten the memo because, really, what’s a storm without lightning?

Brandt-The-Rant’s booming rampage filtered back into my conscious awareness just as he started to settle down. “—so whip him into shape or he’s out! And I seriously doubt another place will take him after I give him the boot.”

I watched on, expressionless and silent.

“Iverson, you better have been listening to me, you sack of good for nothing?—”

“I got it. Go on, I’ll take care of it. Get some rest and take something for your blood pressure before you die a premature death, Brandt.” I waved my hand towards the exit, urging his ugly mug out of my kitchen.

He seethed like a rabid dog. I could’ve sworn I saw some frothing spit hang from his deep jowls. When he didn’t move away, I arched an eyebrow, which urged him into action.

I heaved a sigh of relief the moment the door swung closed.

It was ass-crack o’clock, and my head was pounding.

Rubbing my temples did nothing to soothe the ache, but they always did it on TV, so I thought I’d try it.

Maybe if I rubbed hard enough, I’d pierce my brain and be excused from the shit show.

Nope. Still here. Brain fully intact.

A sniffle brought me back, pulling my attention to the lanky kid on the other side of the room. I often forgot how intimidating Brandt could seem to other people, having dealt with him for so long.

Tobias looked scared shitless. His glasses were crooked and wet with tears that pooled down his cheeks. Poor kid’s cheeks were splotchy, his eyes bloodshot as he made a valiant effort to hold the rest of his tears back.

I felt bad for him. Being on any end of Brandt’s rage was uncomfortable at best, but Tobias had proven to be… fragile. The dude stood to be at least six-foot-four, his body disproportionate to the rest of him.

We took care of our own around here—excluding The Rant—making sure everyone was fed, but it didn’t seem to stick to Tobias. He was skin and bones, his uniform barely hanging onto his frame.

None of the other cooks or servers knew him very well.

Hell, I bet I knew more than the rest of them simply by knowing his age as his hiring manager.

He was meek, skittish, and soft-spoken despite his looming silhouette.

I don’t think I’d seen him speak to anyone outside of necessity in all the time he’d been with us.

Tobias was terrific on the grill. What he lacked in communication, he made up for with spectacular talent.

He did great at his station. It was outside of that where he struggled. His prep was clumsy, and his surroundings were usually cluttered and disorganized. The lack of communication due to his crippling shyness often caused issues with plating food.

All these issues were well-known and manageable. Something had changed recently, though, and now he was on Brandt’s shit list .

Right around the time I introduced Crew, Tobias had started fucking up more. The meat he’d grill would come out undercooked or overcooked, with no in-between. There had been more mishaps with lack of time communication, causing parts of a meal to turn cold during the wait.

The last night he worked with us, his station had gotten so disorganized that another cook slipped on some discarded ingredients and took a fall.

She ended up being okay, aside from a few bruises.

It was the principle of it, though. Not only did I need to put more time into Tobias’s training, but I also needed to figure out why he was suddenly falling into such bad habits.

Especially seeing the correlation between this and when Crew showed up, along with how he’d looked at Crew like he’d seen a ghost.

“All right,” I started, “wipe your tears. Take a minute to compose yourself. Brandt is an asshole, but he’s all bark and no bite. Well, he could technically fire you. His little outbursts are all an intimidation tactic.”

Tobias took in a deep breath, straightening to his full height. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Iverson. I?—”

I raised a hand, silencing him. “Let’s assume nothing has happened. All is forgiven. Clean slate and all that. Wash up and grab some veggies to prep.”

His eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

“Don’t ask questions, just do it. I’m not gonna yell at you like Rant did, but I’m also not going to repeat myself. It’s too damn early in the morning to hear myself talk this much, nonetheless hearing the same shit out my mouth a million times over.”

He nodded, doing as I said. Once he was at the sink, washing his hands, I followed alongside him. When he pulled the vegetables out of the cooler, I grabbed a handful of celery after him. Our knives hit the table in tandem, my first chop sounding the same as his.

We were not boss and employee. We were not expert and novice. I was doing the grunt work right along with Tobias, unafraid and secure in my position.

“Right now, we are the same. I am a coworker, not your manager,” I spoke as I sliced, mine much more uniform and quick than Tobias’s.

“ I’ve been cooking a lot longer than you.

That is a fact, not a way to demean you.

I have more practice and more techniques under my belt.

I am a coworker who is willing to do the work with you and show you better, more efficient ways to do things.

I will not do it for you. This is no excuse to disrespect me.

It is also not an excuse to ignore me, so you will have to speak to me during this. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Chef.”

My hands stilled. I blinked a few times, wondering if something had gotten in my eyes or if I’d had too much caffeine, and that was why my heart was pounding at that simple term of respect.

I should have brushed him off. Told the kid we didn’t call each other Chef—we were just a small restaurant that thrived on chaos rather than the peaceful ebb and flow something classier would have.

I didn’t. I allowed myself to be respected in the way I’d always dreamed of.

The dream was smoke and mirrors, but I still had it.

During the hours I’d pour myself into the fine, exquisite dishes I prepared at home, I would pretend to hear people behind me.

They’d call out to me, my name never leaving their lips.

“Yes, Chef.”

“Hands, Chef.”

“Heard, Chef.”

The reality was colder. Harsher. This was why I didn’t think of the future. It only made me feel panicked, or disappointed, in where I stood.

Shaking my head, I focused on the way Tobias sliced and chopped, noting the shaking of his hands. His form was horrendous. It genuinely made me nervous to watch.

Sighing, I showed him the best way to cut for what we used the ingredients for. He seemed to pick it up quickly, neither of us speaking the entire time.

Watching how quickly Tobias picked up on it when shown, I decided to try something else. “Do you know how to julienne?”

He shook his head wordlessly.

I nodded and grabbed a carrot, showing him rather than telling him how to do it. When I asked him to recreate it, he did so perfectly.

“From there, we can do brunoise.” I took the carrot pieces and shifted them a quarter, dicing them until perfect. “Your turn. ”

Again, he produced flawless results. I was stunned at how effortlessly he could follow.

I upped the ante, showing him different ways to prepare vegetables. When he followed along easily, I took a moment to think.

The kid could follow directions, but I wondered if he was actually learning or if he was simply doing whatever I did.

Stepping away, I nodded toward the unchopped veggies we had. “Chiffonade.”

Tobias grabbed some spinach and did exactly as I asked.

“Batonnet.”

Perfect.

“Rondelle.”

Exact.

“Tourné.”

He grabbed a potato, taking his time to create a perfect, oblong shape with all seven sides.

I was fucking stunned. Tobias was taking in everything I showed him and could replicate it with precision, something I didn’t have when I first learned to cook.

Looking over the piles we’d made, I found the celery he’d mangled and compared it to the gorgeous array of precision he’d just shown me.

I shook my head, staring in awe. “Tobias, you just did something your fellow cooks took months to do.”

“I learn fast.” He shrugged.

“I’ll fucking say.” I huffed in amusement. “I’m trying to wrap my head around this, kid. Shoot me straight for a minute, will you?”

He nodded warily.

“I had no idea that all this time, all I had to do was show you what to do, and you’d be able to do it. First of all, that alone baffles me. Second of all, why didn’t you tell me? Or anyone, for that matter.”

Tobias shrugged again, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t know how to ask. I’m real good if you just show me. I ain’t stupid. Just don’t get stuff when it’s just words.”

That accent.