Skinny Bitch in Love (33 page)

It was Your World Day with my sister for our monthly lunch, which meant I was sitting in the small, beige cafeteria at her law firm on Tuesday afternoon, eating lukewarm grapes and bruised melon. She showed me the sworn statements from Eva’s husband, stating that Prime would not use or capitalize on the stolen recipes in any manner and that I was to be financially compensated for all orders of my dishes on the two nights my stuff had been on the menu. That was thanks to Eva’s help and documented proof—apparently she often recorded her phone conversations with her husband so she could throw his words back in his face any time she needed to.

“That woman cries a lot,” Elizabeth said, taking off her suit jacket, which was beige like the walls. “She had mascara streaks down her face every time she came here.”

“I don’t know if she feels guilty about stabbing me in the back or if she’s just upset about her marriage. I couldn’t really get a handle on her. I hate that.”

“I know. She reminds me of Carrie Winn from high school—remember her? Best friend one day, user the next. I had to completely cut her off. Some people are just toxic, even if a quarter of the time they mean well.”

“Who knows what freaks I’ll have in my next class. I’ve already gotten ten emails from people who want in if I run another class.” At first Sara told me there was no way she’d take the class again, even though she was continuing on with the Skinny Bitch diet. But then she said she might sign on as my assistant if there was a cute guy or two, even if the last cute guy she’d met in my cooking class turned out to be an ass.

Elizabeth grabbed one of my grapes. “I know you hate when I get all proud of you, but suck it up, Clem. I’m proud of you. You got fired and look what you did—started your own business. First as a personal chef, then adding cooking classes, then Skinny Bitch Bakes, then creating vegan menus for my favorite restaurants. You’re so in demand you’ve got top restaurants stealing from you. And you beat that creep Johannsen.”

Once again, I had to face facts that my uptight lawyer sister, in her beige suit and boring shoes, absolutely rocked. “And Friday I find out if I’m opening my restaurant on Montana.”

“I’ll be your first customer,” she said.

I was trying to remember not to let out any fucks or shits or even damns during my presentation at Taft Middle School on
Wednesday when I saw Alexander walk into the cafeteria and lean against the back wall.

Shit, yeah!

I almost said that aloud.

He nodded at me, then sat down. A good sign.

At first I thought I’d run out of stuff to say to the tough crowd of bored-looking tweens, but they were all staring at me as though they were actually interested, not shooting spitballs or pulling bra straps. I talked about growing up on a farm, how we made dinner with what we’d harvested, and how most of the foods kids loved to stuff their faces with came right out of the ground or off trees, how they were all about whole foods, and didn’t have to come from boxes or a freezer.

“Not pizza,” a boy called out.

“Actually, yes, pizza,” I said, explaining where wheat for the dough came from. Where tomatoes for the sauce came from. Where cheese—whether dairy or soy—came from. Where all the good toppings came from.

During the rest of the Q&A, the tweens stood up and asked lots of good questions, like whether it was true if you could drop dead if you didn’t wash an apple before eating it. I kept my rant on pesticides and other shitty chemicals to under thirty seconds. But I could have gone on forever.

Then it was time to make the huge vats of chili that would be served for lunch that day.

“I’m Chef Cooper’s assistant for the morning,” Alexander said, standing up and walking over to the table. He smiled at
me and put on an apron. “Jesse showed me the flyer that went home to parents about your presentation and special lunch,” he whispered. “Pretty cool, Clem. Even if it’s more for me than them,” he added, nodding at the crowd.

I shot him a smile.

“Who can tell me what this is?” he asked the audience, holding up a head of garlic.

The day got much better from there. Even more so when he told me that Rain was now dating the executive chef at White Blossom, where she’d managed to get hired as sous chef.

“Yeah, I wonder how she got that job,” I said. “She won’t last long.”

“No doubt. Why didn’t you tell me she was a lying bitch?” he asked, that dimple of his flashing at me. “She told me she did slip the butter in your ravioli the night O. Ellery Rice was there. I couldn’t believe that I was not only shagging a woman who’d actually do that to a fellow chef, but someone who was
bragging
to me about it. I told her it was over between us, and she threw a fit and announced she was going to dump me for her boss anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if I find chicken bones in the French onion soup I’m making for Paris bistro week.”

Awesome.

When I got home, all I wanted to do was take a long, hot shower and wash the smell of cafeteria off me, but Eva was
waiting for me in front of my building, sucking on the straw of her Starbucks iced coffee and holding a manila envelope. I almost didn’t recognize her because her hair was dark brown instead of the usual red.

“My natural color,” she said, playing with the pointy ends. “It was Derek who thought I should go red, but I never liked it.”

I didn’t care anymore about Eva’s hair or what her asshole husband liked or didn’t like. And if she said one more word about him, I was leaving. I’d give her two seconds to get on with it.

She eyed me and chewed her lip for a second, then thrust out the manila envelope. “I was going to leave this in your mailbox, but I decided to give it to you in person.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

I flipped open the little silver tab. Inside were two copies of my recipes and the original hand-scrawled set bound inside a black-and-white fabric book.

“I know there’s nothing I can say, Clementine. I know sorry won’t cut it. But I am sorry. I was desperate and acted like a king shit. I’m not even going to ask you to forgive me because I wouldn’t forgive someone who pulled something like that on me. I just want you to know that I really am sorry.”

“Well, at least you tried to make things right,” I said. “If it wasn’t for your proof, my sister probably wouldn’t have been able to force Prime’s hand.”

She gave me something of a smile. “Least I could do and all that jazz. So, um, I’m sure you probably don’t give a rat’s ass, but I wanted you to know I’m really done with him. Moving on for good.”

“Actually, I’m glad to hear it.”

She bit her lip again, told me she was sorry again, and then started to get teary and hurried away.

When I unlocked the door to the apartment, Sara jumped off the couch and said, “
Finally
.”

“Finally, what?”

She looked kind of nervous. “Finally, you’re home. I have interesting news. Very interesting news.” She gave me a quick glance, then went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of the iced tea I’d made this morning. She poured me a glass, too.

This didn’t sound good. “Are you gonna tell me or what?”

“Guess who got offered the permanent role of snarky assistant on a cooking show?” she asked, barely able to contain her huge grin.

“A cooking show? Like an assistant to the chef? That’s amazing. So they saw you on
Eat Me
and saw how great you are?”

“Yup. And the job is mine. No audition. No callback. Mine.”

I squeezed her into a hug. “What’s the show?”

She took a sip of her drink. “Um, this is the interesting part.
It’s as Joe Asshole Johanssen’s assistant on
Eat Me
’s weekly live cook-offs.”

I was so surprised I almost spit my mouthful of iced tea all over her. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little bit! Get this, Clem—I’m supposed to be snarky only to
him,
not the challengers—that’s his job. I’m supposed to tell him to suck it, shove it, whatever I want, and actually boost up the challengers when he tries to knock them down. In fact, the snarkier I am to him, the better.”

That was kind of hilarious, actually. “That’s awesome, Sara.”

“You don’t think I should tell him to shove it?” she asked. “As in, the job?”

“Do you want the job?”

The grin was back. “More than anything. Who knows what this will lead to! Does that make me a bigger asshole than he is?”

“Not in the slightest,” I assured her. “Just promise me you’ll give it to him good.”

“Oh, I will,” she said, clinking her glass of iced tea with mine. “So weird how life works. The craziest stuff can come from where you least expect it, you know?”

Oh, yeah, I knew.

I stood in front of the window in my bedroom, staring out at the space formerly known as The Silver Steer. Sara and I had
gone out to celebrate her new gig, and now it was after one in the morning, the moonlight and streetlamps lighting up the arched stone entryway and the red door as they always did, making it too easy to stand here and imagine the place as mine like I’d been doing all these years. But I couldn’t even envision my sign—Clementine’s No Crap Café etched into copper—on that space anymore.

Maybe you’re just scared to get what you want,
I heard Zach say.
In fact, I’d say that’s exactly what’s holding you back from a couple of things.

I’m not scared of anything
.

You’re scared shitless of me. And you’re scared shitless of your dream coming true. I know this because I’m handing you both and you’re saying no.

I remembered how something squeezed inside my chest when he said that.

Like the truth. Half of it, anyway.

I
was
scared of him. In the best way. But if he wanted me, he’d have to take me as I was.