Author's Note: Writers can post two chapters in one week, as a treat.

Heads up, there's a short substance use mention in this chapter.

- nine: shift drinks -
edward

Picking up one last shift at Canard to say goodbye to everyone seemed like a good idea when I got the call this morning.

But from my current perspective, deep in the weeds of an unexpected Sunday night rush, I'm not so sure. I'd love to be cursing up a storm over the line of tickets on the rail in front of me, but that's a no-go here; not only is Canard an open kitchen, but my station is right in front of the coveted counter seats, where four slightly sloshed ladies slurping oysters peer over my shoulder as they wait for their steam burgers and duck frites.

"Cygnet's got a proper kitchen," I mutter to Garrett, who's just as buried as I am. "With a door, like civilized people."

"Focus on the sear, brother," he replies in his slow, smooth country accent. Cool as a cucumber. Nothing ever ruffles Garrett's feathers—that's why I'm gunning for him as saucier.

"I need that trout for table 12 in five, chef." Paul, the guy running the pass for the evening, is a little less sanguine than Garrett; while he'd never raise his voice, the tension is unmistakable.

"Heard, chef," I say automatically. "Pickup on 12 in five." That might be pushing it, but I flip the trout anyway, giving it an extra fifteen seconds before I baste. I smile a little to myself, remembering what it felt like to be cooking my own trout recipe at Carlisle's house just a few nights ago. But I force myself to focus—can't afford to let my mind drift. Not tonight, when we're all feeling the pressure of a packed house none of us saw coming.

I put my head down and lean into the adrenaline. After all, it's my last night on the line for the foreseeable future—until we can get Cygnet open, at least. And even then, I'll be head chef, not a foot soldier. In all likelihood, I'll be at the pass myself most nights, focusing on plating and final tasting and directing the team.

So I do my best to enjoy it when I hit that fugue state. I crack jokes and make a couple more comments to Garrett about Cygnet—just to get the idea in his head. I sear fish, dumplings, pounds and pounds of foie for Canard's signature dishes. I step forward and aside and spin seamlessly around the narrow space in that timeless dance of a chef in the zone. Garrett pivots past me with a pan, and I barely sidestep in time.

The whole kitchen moves like this—near misses and perfect timing, a barely controlled chaos that somehow works.

Sooner or later, the tickets start to slow down. The rail gets cleared. Everyone takes a breath, laughs at the frantic energy we all had when we were sure we were moments from disaster.

All in all, it's a good last service.

By 10:30, the final few stragglers are leaving and the cleanup routine begins. I drag my towel across my face, wiping the sweat before slinging it over my shoulder. The high's still buzzing in my veins, but the fatigue is creeping in too.

That's when the razzing really starts.

"Eddie boy, what are we gonna do next time Reina calls in hungover?" whines Jose, the grill man, as he scrubs down the grates with remarkable energy.

I snort and shoot him a wide grin. "She has the flu, dickhead."

"Yeah, yeah." He waves a hand. "Likely story."

"It's Chef Edward now, douche!" the dishie, an impressively large Samoan guy named Jared, calls from the back room. "He's too fancy for us anymore."

That makes me laugh. Canard might have a casual atmosphere, but it's still one of the top restaurants in town. "Cygnet has a ways to go before it can outrank this place," I say. But even as the words leave my mouth, I just know it won't be long before we're getting mentioned in the same breath as the likes of Canard.

Paul claps me on the shoulder "You better invite us to the soft opening," he warns.

"No chance." I shove his hand off jokingly. "You're all 86'd, day one. I'm putting a sign on the door."

"That won't stop him," Jose says. "Mans can't read."

Someone up front puts some screamo band on the sound system and turns it up loud. And then we're all powering through our closing duties, intent on getting the fuck outta Dodge for the evening.

I'm just stowing my now-clean knives back in my leather knife roll when I hear the call.

It's the dumbest tradition of all time—but when someone on the Canard crew decides after-work drinks are necessary, they whip out a little wooden duck call (tucked up above the ticket rail specifically for this purpose) and start softly blowing it. The sound's just barely audible above the crashing, thrashing music, but others quickly take up the call with their own imitations. It spreads from one would-be bar hopper to another, until the whole place is awash with quacking.

And I'm the only one not joining in.

"No fucking WAY are you bailing tonight!" Heidi, one of the servers, cries when she sees I'm not quacking. "It's your last night, you have to come out at least once!"

She grabs my arm playfully as she says it, and I suddenly get the vibe she's got designs on tonight. I wonder if she's the one who started the call.

"Can't, I've got shit to do early tomorrow," I say, feigning disappointment. I'm trying to let her down gently, but when I shrug her off she gets a bit pouty.

"Aw, come have a damn drink, chef," Garrett drawls. He's nursing a second beer, I notice; I always give away my shift drink, so I'm guessing Sam at the bar just gave him mine automatically. "You already told me you don't go in til 10, so don't give me that bullshit about early."

I laugh. "I know you degenerates—you'll be closing down whatever bar serves til 2:30 on a Sunday."

"Mary's!" Jose crows, naming one of Portland's most famous strip clubs.

"Absolutely not," Heidi snaps.

"Diablo's?"

"We're not going to a strip club!" Heidi's voice is rising in pitch and fury.

"I'd go to Rontoms with you," I interrupt in an attempt to stop this fight before it gets out of hand—and to gain back a bit of control over the situation. "My cousin's working there tonight."

Suddenly Heidi is all smiles again. "Ooh, I love Alice!" she coos. "I'm in."

"Man, none of those girls will give me the time of day," Jose whines. "And they close at one."

"So we'll go to the Sandy Hut afterwards." Heidi is not giving up her one shot at getting me to join the party—and Jose can see it.

"Fine," he says finally, but we can all see he's got a stink face about it.

"Don't pout, Jose." Taryn, a true Viking giant of a woman who runs the sauce station like a Navy destroyer, throws her arm around the much smaller man. "I'll take you to Diablo's for your birthday. Give you a front row seat while all the dancers try to climb me like a tree."

This makes everyone laugh, including Jose. And for better or worse, the plan for the night is set.

Lucky me.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Rontoms is relatively quiet, and our ragtag party hits the sleek space like a rogue wave. Alice spots me right away.

"Edward!" she calls, grinning. "You're out!"

I flip her the bird, but I'm smiling. "Only under extreme duress."

Paul, who's right behind me, laughs and slaps a hand on my shoulder. "Put his drink on my tab, gorgeous. Whatever the shitheel deserter wants."

Alice catches my eye, raising a perfectly arched brow in question. I give her half a shrug.

"Vodka soda lime?" she asks, and I nod.

"Watching your figure?" Jared teases, but he doesn't wait for an answer, just steps his great bulk up to the bar to order from one of Alice's coworkers.

There's a general kerfuffle as everyone puts in their orders, fighting about tabs and who owes what to whom. But when the dust settles, there's a glass of soda water with a neat slice of lime on the rim sitting on the bar in front of me.

I take a cautious sip—no alcohol, of course.

I shoot Alice a grateful look, and she raises a shot glass of clear liquid at me in a salute before shooting it down. The missing vodka from my vodka soda, which I'm sure she's charging Paul for.

"So Edward. Tell me more about the new gig." Heidi's voice is a little more sultry than normal as she slides onto the stool next to mine, angling her long legs toward me. "What's so great that it stole you away from us?"

Oh, great. You take your eye off the ball for one second…

"Don't be dumb, Heidi," Paul chimes in from over her shoulder. "He's gonna be head chef. Full time, bennies, the works. He was only filling in for us til he could land this kinda gig. Right, Eddie?"

I nod, suddenly feeling way more friendly toward Paul than I had been all night. I don't really dislike the guy, but there's a natural animosity between anybody working expo and those of us just trying to get through a tough shift on the line.

"Still," Heidi insists, refusing to turn her body away from mine. Her foot is dangerously close to my ankle; I adjust my stool as casually as I can to give myself more room. She's nice to look at, if you're into the Italian supermodel thing, but every conversation with her leaves me wishing I'd spent the time slamming my head against a brick wall instead. "A spot would have opened up with us or at Le Pigeon sooner or later. Why take the risk with some upstart?"

I feel the faint fizz of anger somewhere at the base of my skull. "Why spend my life cooking someone else's food when I could create my own?" I counter.

"I'm just saying, Becca Swan isn't exactly a fine dining authority, is she? The Swan Dive was cute, but growing up in a dive hardly makes you a restaurateur."

The gentle simmer of anger is instantly at full boil. "She's a Certified Somm with nine years in the industry, including a Michelin-star restaurant in Paris," I snap, with far more heat than is appropriate for the conversation. "She knows her shit. And her name is Bella."

"Oooh," Jose chimes in from down the bar. "Heidi, you made Chef Eddie mad!"

Heidi's blush is visible even in the bar's dim, moody lighting. "Well excuse me for breathing," she mutters.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Alice watching me, her little dark head cocked to the side.

"She comes by it honest." Garrett, who's been quietly nursing his Old Fashioned on my other side, speaks without looking at any of us. "I got the chance to go to one of her daddy's little tasting circles once. Now there was a guy who knew a thing or two about wine." He takes another slow sip of his drink, letting out a satisfied "ahh" as he swallows. "He had some crazy aged Riesling that was just…" Garrett's eyes go unfocused, his face blissful as he disappears into his memory, and he sighs.

"Charlie Swan was a good dude," Sam says firmly. He's a long-time Portland food scene guy; at fifty-something, he's one of the older members of the Canard team, and the whole crew respects him. "I'm glad his kid's doing something with his place. He told me once he'd always dreamed of turning the Dive into a wine bar, but it seemed dumb to fuck with a business that actually made money."

This pulls up a memory of one of those first conversations with Bella, the day I came for my interview. She'd been talking about her decision to overhaul the Swan Dive after Charlie's death—had started to say that her dad had always wanted…something. But then she'd trailed off.

Well. I guess now I know what she'd been about to say. I file that little tidbit away.

Sam's still talking, his rye-and-soda making him chatty. "His wife took off, you know," he adds casually. "Kid couldn'ta even been two."

I'm really paying attention now, fascinated with this glimpse into Bella's past. It feels a little like a violation of her privacy, but I'm too intrigued by this decades-old scandal to care.

"What happened?" Garrett asks.

Thank God—I didn't want to be the one.

"Well." Sam stretches out the word, happy to have a captive audience. "Let's see if I remember all the details. It was a good quarter-century ago, y'know."

"We get it, you're old," Heidi snaps peevishly. I imagine she's annoyed that her ploy for a cozy little chat with me has been so thoroughly foiled. But she likes a bit of gossip as much as anyone.

"You know, Charlie was in wine back in the day," Sam continues, not willing to be rushed.

"He was at Forgery for the '83 harvest," I say automatically.

Sam nods at me, like a teacher praising a pupil for remembering a salient fact. "That's right," he says. "But his wife, Renee, hated it. Living out in the country, Charlie working hundred-hour weeks during the harvest, no money. You know."

He holds up his now-empty glass, shaking the ice, to indicate he'd like another round before he continues. "Charlie kept telling her it'd be different once he moved up the ranks. But when Renee got pregnant, Charlie gave in. He managed to scrape together enough money to buy the Dive—didn't have the education to do much else—but a neighborhood-type bar seemed like a decent enough bet."

One of the bartenders drops off Sam's new glass, and he takes another long drink. I'm on the edge of my seat, but something stops me from rushing him. I'm reluctant to seem too interested, for some reason.

Sam swallows, smacks his lips. "Dive made decent money, but not enough for Renee, I guess," he says. "She up and left him for a guy who played for the Beavers—you know, the old minor league team. Went with him when he got traded. Never came back to see her kid, far as I heard."

This hits me like a punch to the gut. Poor Charlie—and poor Bella. No wonder she was so close with her dad. He was all she had.

"Wow. Crazy," Heidi says flatly, laying on her boredom thick. She motions at the bartender who brought Sam's drink. "Hey, can I get another rum and coke?" Suddenly, she brightens, swivels her head around to look at everyone. "Wait, we should do shots!"

There's a cacophony of mixed reactions—cheers, groans, demands. I use the moment to slip away with a mumbled excuse of going for a piss. I need a minute to myself, and I really don't want to have to deal with the argument that's sure to come if I refuse a shot in front of everyone.

Instead of going to the restroom, I head out to the back patio. There are a couple smokers huddled together at a picnic table under a heat lamp, but otherwise it's empty. Even in the middle of May, the nights have a bite to them, but I don't mind. I consider asking to bum a smoke, but decide it's a bad idea. One cigarette always leads to two, and next thing I know I'm buying a pack at the 7-11 on the way home.

"Hey, you ok?"

I recognize Alice's voice with some relief.

"Yeah." I turn to her, give her a genuine smile. I have to look way down—the top of her head just comes to the middle of my chest. "I just knew it was gonna be a whole thing if I said no to the shots."

She snorts. "That Heidi chick is annoying."

"A very astute observation, shortstack," I say dryly.

Alice wrinkles her nose at the old nickname, but lets it slide. "Well, I'm on break," she says. "Come sit with me for a bit."

We pick a table on the other side from the smokers, and Alice ignites the heater.

"Ok, I know this is gonna tick you off," she says as she sits down beside me. "But I'm gonna say it anyway."

"What?" I ask warily.

She stares straight into my eyes, intent and serious. "I'm really proud of you."

I scoff automatically. "For what?"

"All this," she replies, motioning back to the bar. "Coming out, not drinking. The recovery shit." She puts her teeny hand on top of mine, squeezes lightly. "I know how hard it was for you in the beginning, to be around it. And obviously it was good that you just avoided it all. But it's nice to see that you're in a good enough place with it to socialize a bit now."

A flash of those days—finally off the pills, shaky and completely overwhelmed by the rush of emotions with no way to numb myself—hits me. I took to popping in headphones and deep cleaning something at the end of every shift at the hotel, just to avoid seeing my coworkers downing their after-work drinks. Things are better now—otherwise I'd never have made it through all the wine tasting I did with Bella—but I still avoid alcohol as a rule, those few sips during our interview notwithstanding. It was never my primary vice, but in the early days of my recovery, I didn't understand how people could have a drink without immediately wanting something else.

Humiliatingly, I feel my eyes start to prickle. I look down at our hands on the table. "Ah, Alice, don't do this to me," I say with a rough chuckle.

"I'm serious. It's just…" She pulls her hand away from mine to wrap her arms around her knees, setting her feet on the wood bench. "You were so isolated in Chicago. It was work and then straight home to your mom's."

I shrug. "It's what I needed." I'm trying to come off casual. Instead, I just sound defensive.

"Totally," she agrees firmly. "I'm just saying. It seems like it worked."

I take a deep breath, pushing down the automatic irritation that bubbles up whenever someone starts poking at those squishy places. I know she's being kind. I just hate talking about it. It's not a secret, per se, but people can be weird about chefs who don't drink. So I tend to keep it to myself.

I wonder what Bella would say, if she knew. Would she still have hired me?

I push the thought away and remember what my therapist said back in Chicago, that I can choose to let some people in a little, if I want. The ones I think are safe. And it doesn't get any safer than Alice.

"Thanks, Alice," I say softly. "I really do appreciate it."

Her answering smile is warmer than the heat lamp. "You worked hard. And now things are really starting to click for you."

That feels like it's about my limit for vulnerable talk. "Stop being so sincere," I complain, giving her shoulder a little shove. "You'll make me cry and then I'll never be able to face those idiots inside."

She laughs and bumps her arm against my side in retaliation. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"Good comeback."

"Shut up."

We're quiet for a moment, just enjoying each other's company. We haven't hung out as much as I might have expected before I moved out here—our schedules just never seem to align. I guess that's normal for two people in the industry. But I like being around Alice, and I think I should make more of an effort to get together. She's got a light spirit, I guess, and it's catching.

"Don't you start your new gig tomorrow?" she asks suddenly.

I sit up a bit, leaning my elbows on the rough cedar tabletop. "Yeah," I say. "We're gonna finalize the kitchen layout so Bella can get the construction going."

She nods, looking thoughtful.

"What?"

Her lips twist as her dark eyes flick over to me, away, and back.

"Just…do me a favor, ok? Watch yourself," she says. "You don't want this blowing up."

My eyebrows snap together and I turn to face her. "What does that mean?" I demand.

Alice gives me a stern look, turning her elfin face into a dead-ringer for my aunt's—and, to a lesser extent, my mom's. "Bella Swan," she says bluntly. "I'm not stupid. I heard the way you were talking about her in there."

"Heidi insulted her!" I protest hotly, and it's all too clear that it's not the right thing to say. "And the restaurant," I add lamely.

It's a piss-poor attempt at correction, an afterthought, and Alice lets it lie for a second, letting me stew in the tacit admission. I feel heat rise on my cheekbones.

"Edward, she's your boss now," Alice finally says in a gentle tone.

There's a pit in my stomach, and the embarrassment settles around me like an itchy, too-tight second skin. "I'm aware," I reply stiffly.

"I'm just saying. Be careful." Her eyes are wide and sincere, brows tilted pleadingly. "This is a big opportunity. It's not worth fucking up for some crush."

I breathe out harshly through my nose in frustration. "It's not like that. We just have like…a creative partnership, that's all."

She doesn't dignify that with an answer beyond a skeptical look.

"Ok, yeah, she's good looking," I admit, thinking of how she looked in those cutoffs the day she came over to my house. "But I'm not stupid. And I'm not 15. I can control myself."

Alice rolls her eyes briefly heavenward, as though asking for strength. But she puts her hands up in a surrender gesture. "Ok, ok, I believe you," she says, slightly exasperated even as she's trying to placate me. "It just had to be said once."

"Did it?" I grumble, but without heat. I know she's just looking out for me. And if I'm honest with myself—as I try to be—there is something there with Bella. The only way to keep it from getting out of control is to nip it in the bud. Smother it out. Don't let my brain even go there.

Alice gives me a lopsided smile, and it feels like she can read my thoughts. But she doesn't push. Instead, she drops her legs to the ground and slaps her hands on her thighs, a sharp punctuation mark on the whole conversation. "Welp, I'm way over my break time," she says cheerfully, standing up. "And the clown convention has to be done with the shots by now. C'mon, I'll make you a 20-dollar mocktail and we'll charge it to someone else's tab."

I laugh and let her pull me up. The conversation might be over, but I know she's not satisfied with my answers. Still, there's nothing I can do but show her that she's wrong.

Resolved, I follow Alice back into the bar.

Footnotes:

Some restaurants/bars give employees a free shift drink, usually alcoholic, after the work is done.

In the weeds means you're swamped.

The rail (or the board) is where the tickets detailing each order are displayed, so everyone on the line can see them.

The pass is where the plates ready to go out to diners sit. The person running the pass is in charge of keeping everything straight, making sure the cooks know when to start a dish, the servers are ready to pick up as soon as possible after the plate is ready, and that everything comes out at the same time to the table. (Also called expediting, or expo.)

Pickup [X] in [Y] means the dish for table X will be ready to go in Y minutes.

86'd means out of stock, unavailable, or eliminated—but it can also mean banning a customer.

The duck call thing is in no way a real Canard tradition. I made it up. And side note, I'm sure the Canard crew is a good deal more professional than this group of jabronies. But I wanted to have some fun :) SORRY GUYS

Mary's and Casa Diablo are indeed both real strip clubs, the latter famously a vegan strip club. Portland has the highest number of strip clubs per capita in the world…or at least, that's what everyone says. Can't say I've ever checked for a source on that.

The Sandy Hut is a fun old-school dive bar. The food is actually pretty good, but I'm a Reel M Inn or Kay's girly myself.