Page 43 of Holding Out for a Gyro
I pulled away. “I need to get moving. Time to earn the money to pay the rent. What are you doing the rest of the day?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. I might take my roommate’s dog Pepper out for a run. She needs some exercise. I might see if Evan is up for kicking around a soccer ball with some guys I know.”
The unstated question hung in the air:When will I see youagain?
Bas stood, found his shoes, then dropped back on the sofa to put them on, saying, “Evan’s first TV appearance is tomorrow.”
I leaped at the opening. “You want to stop by and watch together?”
“Definitely.”
“Come over after work. I’ll make dinner.” What was I doing? “Be forewarned. It won’t be anything to write home about, but I owe you a meal.”
“I look forward to it.”
As soon as he left, I fell into a funk. It was like, as long as he was here, I was in a spell, but when I started to clean up the kitchen, I cursed my weakness. I tried to distract myself from the confusion I was feeling by throwing myself into some design work, completely aware of the irony of needing a distraction from my distraction.
When I finally got dressed and started walking into work, I pulled up the list to check for something I might do later to blow off some steam and couldn’t help smile with fondness when I saw how many checkmarks were thanks to Bas.
My eyes fell onStart a new language.The library had free access to Rosetta Stone, so I shoved my headphones in and loaded up the course for Greek on lesson one. This would more likely compound my problem, but I couldn’t help myself. I legitimately loved learning new languages. It was the next best thing to travel.
“Γει? σας!” I repeated after the speaker, assuming it meant hello. It sounded likeyes, ass—a vivid mnemonic. Yes, Bas had a very, very fine ass.
Elizabeth was totally going to say,I told you so.
Chapter Ten
Basil
Challenge: Invite a neighbor over
Monday, I dragged myself in to my dead-end job.
As I was changing into my chef coat, Ryan, my twenty-five-year-old manager, sidled up behind me. “Hi, Bas. I’m gonna need you to come in early tomorrow. Michael’s got a court date.”
“Okay.” I finished buttoning up.
“And can you stay late on Friday to help get our Thanksgiving inventory orders ready to go out first thing Monday morning?”
I spun around. “Friday night?”
“I’m not asking you to stay here all night. You could come in over the weekend if you prefer.”
I couldn’t protest. It wasn’t like he was asking me to work for free. “Sure. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Michael says we’re low on pasta, but he’s busy grating butternut squash for the soup.” He had to be fresh out of college. He’d probably majored in management. Maybe he’d dropped out of law school to become the manager of a yuppie grocery store. “Can you press some linguine?” He looked at a clipboard. “And tortellini.”
Rolling pasta was among my least favorite chores, but I’d punched the clock. I was here to serve at Ryan’s pleasure for the next eight hours. “Cheese or sausage?”
“Both.” He hung the clipboard on a nail on the wall. “The rest of the orders are on here. We’re already behind, so can you go ahead and get the pasta started?”
The implication was that I’d arrived late, when I’d come in right on time. I bit back my response and nodded. I cleaned up and started the monotonous routine of pressing pasta dough. This mindless activity gave me the time to dwell on how little joy I got from cooking for the sake of it.
I waited for it to hurt, but the ache was so familiar, I’d grown numb to it. It was just another Monday of making food other people would take home and try to pass off as their own. I wished it no longer bothered me.
Cut off from the results of my labor, my soul had died by accepting this as a necessity.
When I’d initially offered to cook for Chelsea, it wasn’t 100 percent altruistic. I missed watching the pleasure on people’s faces when they enjoyed what I fed them. Having her tell me how much she loved my cooking boosted my pride, and I could pretend I was making that food for her to buy whenever she came into the market, but it wasn’t the same.
