Cutting boards are apparently very important to salads

September 2014

      “Can you handle the salad?”

An awkward pause with expectant eyes.

“Um.” I say.

“Great.” The mountainous head chef rumbles away.

I sigh. Charity gives me a look. “The lettuce is in—”

“Nobody help her!” He thunders from across the kitchen. “She has to figure this out on her own.”

I swallow hard and turn on my heel to retrieve the lettuce. I heave a box of it—romaine hearts it looks like—onto the counter and select a knife. I pause only for a second to remember how Jake did this, just yesterday. Fill up the sink and grab the monstrous salad spinner. Maybe I can actually do this.

My knife has just torn through the second head of lettuce when suddenly, as if his “huge angry chef” senses were tingling, my boss whips his head around and stomps over to me.

“WHERE IS YOUR CUTTING BOARD?”

I blink, set my knife down with shaking hands, and push my lips together but before I can say anything, he waves Jake over.

“Jake, can you help her? I just, I can’t—” He throws his hands up and I flinch, but thankfully he’s already turned away and doesn’t notice.

If Jake is annoyed, I can’t tell by the blurry edges of his converse. I open my eyes wide to keep the tears from spilling over. There’s no time for that. One deep breath and then I force my gaze up, to the task at hand.

It’s six and a half hours later that I stumble into my room, too exhausted to do anything but kick off my shoes. I manage a brief glance through my new texts. Grace just wants me to know that she’s at her sister’s house for dinner, so she won’t be home until late. Mom is reminding me to text her my new address. And… Daniel. Oh Daniel. It’s scary how well he knows me from three states away. I reread his message.

“Hey. I hope your boss wasn’t an ass again today. You’re tough, you’ll get this.”

It’s a message I could’ve mistaken for yours. Pushing away my scattered thoughts, I crawl into bed and close my eyes.