Whatever respect I had tried to earn at Piccolo was gone in an instant. All those years of service, of starting from a line cook and making my way up to chef di partie was gone. I was the laughing stock. Everyone pitied me. I was the fool who’d been screwed over by Erik, I was the one who thought she could sleep to the top. That wasn’t true, but that didn’t stop people from twisting things around.
So I did whatever anyone else would do in my position.
I printed out a not so flattering picture of his dick and slipped it into everyone’s menu with the headline “The Chef’s Special—perfect if you lack self-respect. Order now and get a free side of garlic bread.”
I thought it was hilarious—mainly because I’d absolutely lost my mind at that moment. And most of the staff had to agree.
But Erik was the boss. Obviously I was fired on the spot. Later that night he burned every one of those pics on the stove, causing a small fire in the kitchen, which he would later blame on me. I never lit shit on fire. The minute I handed out those dick pics, I was done. But he has to say he fired me for something, so that’s what it is. He’d never admit that pictures of his flaccid penis were handed out along with the night’s dishes.
So that’s what happened. That’s why even though I spent most of my career at Piccolo, I can never use them on my resume. That’s why working for Logan and Moonwater Inn is my chance to rebuild myself again.
“You know what?” I say to Logan. “I don’t regret a fucking thing. If you fuck me over, I will fuck you over in return.”
He watches me for a moment, the smile on his lips faltering. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”
I grow quiet for a moment, working up the nerve, working to open myself. The sounds of the jungle grow louder, the darkness seems thicker. “Thank you, by the way,” I say, my voice low, as if I’m aware the jungle is listening.
“For what?”
“For saving my life. Earlier today.”
He gives me a quick smile and shrugs. “You would have done the same for me.” He pauses. “No wait, you wouldn’t have. You would have watched me go downstream and waved goodbye.”
Even though his tone is light, I can tell he’s actually serious.
“I wouldn’t have,” I tell him.
“Oh, come on Veronica,” he says with a dry laugh. “We both know I’m not your favorite person.”
“That’s not true,” I say and I mean it. Because he’s right but he’s also so wrong. In some ways he is my favorite person, even though I still hate him.
I do still hate him, right?
“It’s okay,” he says. “I get it.”
“Do you really?” I retort and I realize this is the closest that either of us have gotten to talking about the elephant in the room.
He shoots me a sharp look, his brows furrowed. “Yeah, I think I do.”
“And that’s all you have to say about it?”
He looks away, swallows thickly. A faint tic appears on his firmly-set jaw.
“You can’t blame me,” I go on. “How I feel about you. What you did.”
“No, I can’t,” he says.
I growl in frustration, wanting to just address the damn thing and have it over with, be done with it. “Why did you do it?”
Silence. Eventually he says, “Do what?” His voice is hollow.
“Why did you do to my sister what Erik did to me?”
“It’s hardly the same,” he says.
“It hurt Juliet didn’t it? Then it’s the same.”
More silence. He breathes in, breathes out. My nerves are prickling, head to toe, waiting, wanting, dying for a reason not to hate him anymore.
“The truth hurts, Freckles,” he says with some finality.
“That’s all you’ve got?”
He glances at me, his eyes shining in the dark. “You do know I loved your sister.”
“How could I ever believe that?” I ask incredulously, feeling the need to get up and walk away.
“Because I’m telling you I did,” he says.
“Actions speak louder than words!”
“I know,” his tone is getting harder, an edge that could part hair. “And short of you being witness to our marriage, you’re not going to understand. You won’t allow yourself.”
I shake my head, my cheeks turning hot. “You cheated on her. You had an affair. She told me this. She told everyone this. This is why everyone hates you.”
“And why you hate me,” he says simply. In the light of the moon, his eyes look dull.
“You want me to hate you!” I cry out, now getting to my feet.
“Maybe I do,” he says, staring up at me with venom. “Would it make you feel better to know why?”
“Because you have a guilty fucking conscious!” I yell, throwing my arms out. One hits the tarp, spilling water onto the path. I don’t know why I’m so angry, and I know this is the last place we should be having it out, but everything I’ve kept buried is boiling to the top and spilling out of my mouth.
“I do have a guilty conscious,” he fires back. “But not for the reason you think.”
We stare at each other for a few beats. The world is reduced to a dark, bittersweet syrup. It’s him and me. Whatever desolation I felt moments before has been replaced with the acute feeling that there’s nothing beyond this, beyond us. Like the world has moved chess pieces to get us to this moment. My blood hums.