Authors note: Masterlist is out!
P.S this chapter was inspired by Evergreen by Richy Mitch & The Coal Miners <3
WARNINGS ➺ 18+ minors dni, explicit language, mental health themes (bipolar disorder, breakdown mentioned), substance use (smoking, alcohol), toxic behavior, sleep deprivation, mutual antagonism, enemies to lovers, reader is intentionally unlikeable at first, service industry trauma, emotional dysregulation, description of mental health crisis (past), blacklisting/career trauma, Eventual smut.
DISCLAIMER ➺ This story is fiction, and it does not reflect real life in any way.
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The L rattled through the tunnel, each lurch making the stain on her dress release fresh waves of tannin smell. She sat in the corner of the car, arms crossed over the stain, watching Chicago blur past in the dark windows.
Tony: Don't bother coming back. Check will be mailed.
She stared at it until the screen went dark. Then lit it up and read it again.
That was it. Three years of closing shifts, dealing with handsy customers, pretending to laugh at Tony's racist jokes, ended in a text before she'd even made it home.
The couple across from her kept sneaking glances. She must look deranged, dress wet, hair sticking to her face, clutching her phone like a vice.
Very disappointed. Like she was a kid who broke curfew.
She typed out a response and deleted it. What was the point? Tony had already made up his mind the second Jake told him what happened. Probably called him before she'd even left The Bear.
The automated voice announced her stop. She stood, legs shaky, the dress peeling away from the plastic seat with a wet sound that made the couple look back at her again.
The hallway was empty. Thank fuck. She didn't have the energy to take the piss stairs.
Inside her apartment, she peeled off the dress, leaving it in a pile by the door. The shower was scalding, she sat under it with her knees drawn to her chest until her fingers pruned.
She'd been fired over text. While covered in wine. After being humiliated in front of an entire restaurant.
She pressed her forehead against the cool tile.
Tomorrow she'd have to look for a new job. Tonight she just needed to not think about Carmy telling her to get the fuck out.
She had finally landed an interview at Applebees.
She was desperate enough to feel elated when they called.
The manager's office smelled like Febreeze. She sat in a plastic chair that squeaked every time she shifted.
"So." He squinted at her resume. Cole. His name tag was flipped backward.
"Says here you were a... somm-el-yer?"
"Right. Like a wine waitress?"
"I managed a wine program worth 2.8 million dollars."
"Right." He leaned back, chair groaning in protest. "We mostly just do 2-for-1 happy hour wines here. Barefoot, Sutter Home. Nothing fancy."
"It's just that..." He set down her resume, fingers leaving wrinkles on the paper.
"You're kinda overqualified. These types usually don't last. You know, people who think they're above the work."
"I'm not above anything."
"See, but why? What's someone with all this—" he waved at her resume like it mystified him. "—doing applying at Applebee's?"
She kept her face neutral, the same expression she'd worn while Tony explained that wine was "gay".
"I'm... between positions."
"'Cause I called your last reference. Tony? Says you walked out mid-shift. That true?"
Her mouth went dry. Of course Tony would say that. Make it sound like she'd just abandoned ship instead of—
"There were circumstances."
"Fuck someone you weren't supposed to?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Screw the boss? Bang a regular's husband?"
The words hit like cold water. Her face must have shown something because he smirked like he caught her red-handed.
"Look," Cole said, tossing her resume in the trash while she watched. "I don't need the drama, and we're not hiring."
The manager at Olive Garden didn't even look at her resume, just looked her up and down and asked when she could start.
The training was held in a back room that smelled like breadsticks and paper.
The uniform was suffocating polyester that trapped heat against her skin.
Her manager—Pauly—made her spin around in it. Telling her she "filled it out nicely".
"Alright, so we have eight wines," Pauly said, holding the laminated list like it was sacred text. "The Sutter Home White Zin is our biggest seller. Super refreshing."
She'd once spent forty minutes explaining to a table why White Zinfandel wasn't a white wine.
"Now the Riunite Lambrusco - it's Italian, so it's fancier. Pairs with the Tour of Italy."
She'd sourced a '97 Lambrusco di Sorbara for Le Cinq once. The sommelier community had lost their minds when she'd gotten it stateside.
"And our house red is Barefoot Merlot. Good with anything red sauce."
Barefoot. The wine you could get in a box at CVS.
"Any questions?" Pauly asked, leaning in close enough that she could smell his Axe body spray mixing with the heat of his breath.
Yes. How many shifts would it take before she stopped being able to pair properly?
During the Sunday lunch shift, a woman in a bedazzled "It's Wine O'Clock Somewhere" T-shirt sent back her glass of Barefoot because it was "corked."
She stared at the screw top bottle. At Le Cinq, she'd have educated her. Explained TCA couldn’t come from screw tops. Explained reduction versus bottle shock. She would've made it a teaching moment.
"I'll get you a new glass," she said instead, pouring from the same bottle in the server station. Added an ice cube. The woman loved it.
This was who she was now. Someone who put ice cubes in wine.
The next shift, Pauly waved her over before she could clock in.
Two other servers were nearby, Ashley rolling silverware, the new guy whose name she'd already forgotten folding napkins.
He circled her slowly. She kept her eyes ahead.
She turned. He tugged at the hem of her shirt, fingers grazing her hip. "Supposed to hit right here." His hand lingered at her waistband. "And it needs to be tucked tighter."
The other servers kept working, but she could feel them watching as she turned.
She stepped back. "Got it."
"Here, let me—" He reached for her shirt.
"I got it." She tucked it herself, heart racing slightly.
He watched her do it. "Better. Can't have you looking sloppy out there."
That night, she googled "wine director positions in Chicago." Then closed the laptop knowing everyone in the industry would know exactly why she wasn't at Le Cinq anymore. Mania wasn't exactly a secret in their incestuous world.
Pauly slid up to her during the next shift. "You never smile."
"That's not a smile, that's like… angry."
He wasn't wrong. Everything about her felt angry. Angry at the guests ordering Barefoot. Angry at Pauly who kept calling her "babe." Angry at herself for destroying her dream job.
"Maybe you just need someone to make you smile. How about dinner?"
She immediately thought about that dinner with Jake that had cost her her job.
His eyes flicked down to her hand. "No ring though."
Three weeks in, she was dead on her feet after working a double, her uniform stuck to her skin making her feel suffocated. The piss stairs felt insurmountable right now. She was risking the main entrance.
She turned the corner and—fuck. Of course.
His chef's coat hung open, the undershirt beneath stained and coated in sweat. His knuckle was split. Dried blood between the cracks. He kept rotating his shoulder like something was out of place.
They reached the stairs at the same time. Both standing there, both too exhausted for whatever this was.
"Go ahead," he said, stepping back.
"Long night?" she asked, not even sure why.
"It’s— yeah, fuck— It's fine."
She should just go. Walk past him. But something made her stay.
His laugh was all air. "Yeah, no, it was—it was good. Great actually." He ran a hand through his hair. "No one walked out on their check, so."
She felt something hot behind her eyes.
She took the stairs, counting each step methodically. The polyester uniform making a swishing sound as she walked.
She got to the fifth step before anger won out.
She came back down, yanking her wallet out of her purse, counted out three twenties. Her grocery money, but whatever. She'd figure it out.
Carmen looked at the bills in her extended hand.
"The money.” She grabs his hand placing the crumpled bills in his fist. "Since it's such a big fucking deal."
He laughed in disbelief, breath fogging the air. "You— you're fucking serious right now?"
"Don't want you to think I'm the kind of person who walks out on a check."
"The check was three hundred."
"You'll get the rest when I have it."
The silence stretches. His eyes roaming over her uniform, trying to place it.
Something shifted in his expression—pity?
Fuck him if that was pity.
"Unless you need it all tonight? Rent due?"
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Fuck you." He closes his fist around the bills. "Yeah. Pay off your debt."
"Every fucking penny, chef," she said, jabbing his fist for emphasis. “Count on it."
First paycheck barely covered groceries and her lamictal. Second paycheck, rent was still short. She was calculating if she could make it to the third when she heard it.
That laugh she instantly recognized. Bright and cutting, like nails on chalkboard. Her stomach dropped.
They'd once torn apart a new somm at Spiaggia together. What was his name? Daniel? David? He quit the next day.
She was sitting with two others. She recognizes Elias, tje somm from Alinea. The other she doesn't know but he has that look—industry, successful, probably runs somewhere important.
They're clearly here ironically, probably already tipsy from somewhere better.
She considers running. But Pauly's watching her, and she needs this job.
She approaches the table. Margot's eyes go wide, then narrow with obvious delight.
"Oh my god. Y/N?" That voice, pitched to carry.
"What are you... you work here?" Like it's impossible. Her eyes tracking over her like it's a costume party.
"Can I start you with something to drink?"
"Holy shit, you do." Margot covers her mouth with her hand.
Elias is looking at her uniform like it physically hurts him.
He's cataloging every thread of the polyester. He was going to tell someone about it later. ‘Did you hear about Y/N? Yeah, she's at Olive Garden now. No, I'm serious.’
"Eight!" Margot laughs, turning to the third guy. "She's a real somm— no joke! She used to manage Le Cinq's wine."
The third guy pipes up. "Wait, the one who destroyed the walk-in?"
"During service," Margot confirms, "Cost them forty grand in product. Plus the repair."
Her shoulders curled inward.
"Would you like to hear about our wine selection?"
"Please!” Margot leans forward eagerly, chin on her fist, eyebrows raised. "Tell us about your wine.”
She recites the eight wines like she's reading a hostage statement. Barefoot. Sutter Home. Riunite Lambrusco—"it's Italian, so it's fancier."
Elias winces, Margot's recording on her phone.
Don't look at it. If you look at it, you'll grab it. If you grab it, you'll lose this job too.
"A Spumante?" The third guy asks.
"It's actually a frizzante, not a spumante, so the bubbles are—" She catches herself. Margot's smirk is spreading, phone still recording. "It pairs well with the Tour of Italy."
Margot orders the Barefoot Moscato, tells the others they have to get it for the full experience.
"This is incredible. You're so humble now."
She takes their order. Brings the wines. Margot makes her explain the difference between the marinara and the meat sauce.
When she brings the check, Margot leaves a $100 dollar tip on their eighty dollar bill. Writes "for the excellent service!!” with a smiley face on the receipt.
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Her legs shake as she pushes through the back door. There's a milk crate from someone's smoke breaks.
Thank god, because her knees buckle as soon as she reaches it.
Her pants immediately absorb the water from the earlier rain still on it, cold spreading across her thighs.
She tries to breathe but it comes out wrong—a sob, ugly and raw. Her hands shake as she presses them hard against her eyes, the sobs keep coming, each one ripping through her chest.
The door bangs open behind her.
Pauly. Of course. She can hear his Nikes splashing through the puddles on the pavement, getting closer.
He crouches in front of her.
"Those customers give you shit?"
She tries to answer but another sob breaks through.
"Aw, come on. Some customers are dicks. You can't take it personal." His hand lands on her shoulder, squeezing.
"You're too pretty to cry over this shit."
"I'm fine," she manages, trying to shift away, but she's trapped between him and the brick wall, the dumpster boxing her in on the left.
He shifts closer, she can smell the garlic on his uniform, the Axe underneath.
"You're not fine." His voice drops, growing softer. His other hand lands on her knee. "You're shaking."
She didn't even realize it.
"Got some weed in my car. We could go somewhere, blow some steam off." His thumb strokes her leg. “Come on, I'll take care of you tonight."
The kitchen door is closed. She can't hear the dishwashers anymore— they must've finished. The parking lot is empty except for his Honda with mismatched doors and a van that's been there since yesterday.
His hand slides up from her knee, fingers spreading wide across her thigh. The polyester is so thin she can feel his pinky nail scratching against the fabric. His thumb finds the inner seam of her pants, pressing along it, forcing her legs to open slightly. She can see the kitchen timer tattoo on his wrist, the one he got in culinary school—he'd told that story during training, proud of lasting two semesters before dropping out.
His thumb is still moving. The same thumb that counts the bills from the register, that high-fives the bussers, that jabs at her when he wants her to take tables. She feels sick.
"I've seen girls like you before. Comin’ in all motivated, thinking they're gonna move up fast."
He shifts his weight, blocking more of her view of the door.
"But you know who actually moves up fast? Gets the good sections?" His hand squeezes her thigh.
"My boyfriend's coming to pick me up," she blurts out.
His hand stills. "From The Bear?"
She nods. "He's already close."
She crosses her legs, forcing his hand to move.
He stands, knees cracking. "Must really love you to be picking you up at midnight."
He stands there for a moment, staring down at her. She holds her breath.
She watches him disappear inside, counting to 10 before her body unlocks. Her hands shake as she fumbles for her phone then drops it, the screen cracking against the pavement.
She calls an Uber, not caring how she couldn't afford it, she just wanted to get home.
She keeps glancing over her shoulder while waiting for it.
How the fuck long was three minutes?