Lisa
It feels like I've walked through hell the last two weeks to get to this exact moment-opening night of Butcher & Blackbird.
We've had the normal pre-launch growing pains. Issues with the POS system. Problems with suppliers. The usual things, but nothing major-just a lot of shit that adds up. But 3 In Coach has been another beast entirely. Equipment breakages. Electrical problems. Faulty appliances. It's like an endless pain in my ass, when it should be running smoothly. I've tried to brush many of the issues off to stay focused, but the stress is still there, and there's not even been time to let off any steam like the Butcher of Boston normally would. If I could just pick off an easy target like some shitbag drug dealer, I know I'd feel so much more at ease. There's just no time.
But thank fuck, the one bright light is Roseanne.
If she's bothered by my long hours or my exhaustion and stress, she doesn't let on. I know she's worried about me, but there's no irritation or demands for more attention and presence than I can give right now. In fact, she seems to be thriving, even though it's hard for me to believe.
"I feel terrible, you coming all this way, upending your life and I'm barely even here," I'd said as I stared through the dark toward the ceiling when we laid in bed two nights ago. But what I didn't say was how worried I constantly feel that this isn't going the way I envisioned at all. I've wanted Roseanne for years, and now that she's finally here, it gnaws at me that I might not be giving her what she needs. What if I'm just coming home every night to fuck enough stress out of my system that I can fall asleep but not providing anything tangible in return? Is that what I'm doing?
"I'm happy," she'd replied simply, as though it should be obvious. "I like solitude, Lisa. I feel safe when I'm alone. Maybe not always with that furbag over there looking like he wants to shred my face off," she'd said as she flailed a hand toward the bedroom door, "but Winston aside, this is good for me. I don't feel lonely. Actually, it's the first time in a long time that I don't."
She had pressed a kiss to my cheek as though punctuating her point and then she fell asleep where she always does, resting on my heart. But I stayed awake long after that, with a single question rolling through my mind:
What if she's lying?
I blow out a deep breath and refocus on the task at hand, namely not burning the pan-fried foie gras for the appetizers as Ryan, the maître d', enters the kitchen for a time check for the appetizers. Two minutes . Two minutes and the first guests will be eating at Butcher & Blackbird . Two minutes until the next step in my career becomes reality.
I place the foie gras on the toasted brioche prepped by the sous-chef, Mia. We dress every plate, five in total, and place them on the pass for the server who's already waiting, and we're immediately on to plating up the next orders that are already cooking.
Then we hit our stride.
Soups. Appetizers. Salads. Fast and nimble. Plate after plate. I keep watch on the table numbers but there's no seventeen, and that table is permanently reserved for Roseanne.
I glance at the clock mounted on the wall.
Seven forty-two.
A pang of worry hits my ribs and twists my guts. She's forty-two minutes late.
"Is Roseanne here?" I ask when Ryan enters the kitchen with one of the servers.
"Not yet, Chef."
