Chapter 5 Five

Rachel

Droplets of tears streamed down from my eyes, sliding down my cheeks, with my eyes burning.

If there is anything I hate in this life and my work, it is these onions. This one thing makes everything I love about cooking hateful. But my relationship with onions is very complicated. I hate and love them. I love eating and adding them to the food I make, but I hate cutting and copping them.

But it is what it is. I have loved cooking for as long as I can remember. The first time I cooked something edible was when I was a child, and that was a boiled egg. And after that, I never stopped. I started reading cookbooks, watching cooking shows, and even watching my mom cook, and I tried everything to learn this skill.

I don't know why, but as a child, whenever I was sad or the kids in my school used to bully me because I didn't have a dad, I used to come home and cook, even as a child, all alone in my home with my mom working for two to three jobs. Cooking brings me peace, and it still does. Maybe that was one of the reasons I decided to make my passion a profession and came to meet Jayce.

He was the first person to teach me many things that I couldn't even learn by myself. And I used to love the image of us spent together in the kitchen, where he might be the boss or a teacher in some ways. But his company is something that I used to enjoy, and I was always eager for our next lesson together. Until one day, everything changed.

I signed, and with the onions making me cry, my mind reminded me of the first time I came face-to-face with Jayce, the day when everything started. The very beginning of our story

*****

Today is no more than any other day, just one, the same day of me waiting at the table like usual.

But this is not something I ever wanted to do; I want to be in the kitchen with a chef playing with ingredients and creating something, and everyone here can devour each bite, forgetting about anything about the food they taste.

But look, what am I doing? I'm here waiting tables, wearing this ridiculous outfit. I mean, look at me, standing here with a shirt that seems so tight that at any moment I walk, the button will go to pop out, ripping the shirt off my chest, and the skirt is so short that I don't think I can bend down even if wanted without showing my ass. God, I sighed, with my leg throbbing. If I was complaining before about the clothes, which are not even that bad as the heels, for god sake, we are waiters, not strippers, weaning something like this and displaying ourselves. But I can't do anything about it. You know the phrase that beggars can't be choosers? That's me. I need money and more so the experience, even if it's coming from a waiting table. I want to open a hotel of my own, and my first rule will be no heels or short skirts, which are my number one priority.

"Rachel food for table six," I nodded, loading my hands with plates and walking my way to deliver the food.

As I was walking, my legs twisted in the worst possible timing and way I could have imagined, making the plates of food fly in the air, dropping on the floor and me, with my body landing on something stiff yet soft.

My eyes are closed, as I'm hoping that this is all a stupid dream, and I want to wake up at any moment now. But my heart knows this is all reality, and it's my job that I only started working a few weeks ago, and I also got paid for the expensive crockery that I broke.

"You okay?" I heard a soft mumbling voice in my heart as I felt an arm wrap around my waist.

I quickly opened my eyes, startled by the sudden closeness. And notice that the stiff, soft thing I landed on is nothing but the lap of one of the customers. Shit, Rachel, now I'm going to lose my job.

Startled by the closeness between us and the people in the restaurant, they eyed me suspiciously. I stood quickly, wanting to separate myself from the stranger. Only to groan loudly and lose my balance again; don't tell me I sprained my ankle.

"Hold on." I heard the voice of a stranger again as he wrapped his hand around my waist, preventing my fall, staying deep in my face with a smile.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. I feel so helpless now, with all eyes staring at us.

"Rachel, what do you think you're doing?" A voice shouted and made me stand still, even with my leg hurting badly.

"I'm sorry, it's just heels." I tried to speak with my voice shaking, both from pain and fear of losing my job.

"Oh, don't give me these silly excuses; pack your stuff and leave; you're no longer needed here."

"But..." I tried to explain.

"And who do you think you're to fire her?" All the eyes turned to a voice that was coming from a stranger supporting me. "What do you think about the ridiculous uniform of the waitress here? Do you think this place is a family high-end restaurant or strip club?"

"It is what it is," said the manager, staring and glaring at the stranger beside me. "And as a guest, don't you have the right to interfere in the matter related to an employee here?"

"Rachel, clean up this mess and leave."

"But..." I tried to say yet again but was ignored by turning his back on me, leaving the room as if nothing happened.

I turned my head to the stranger who was still holding me. "I'm sorry for ruining your meal; please let me take you to another table as I clean up the mess I made."

I separated myself from trying to walk, only to stop and whimper in pain. I took a deep breath, trying to take a step, only to be stopped by a hand on my shoulder, turning me and making me sit on one of the chairs.

"Sit," the stranger that helped me before said as he kneeled, putting my feet on his lap and checking my sprain. "It's all red; you need to see a doctor before it gets any worse." He seems worried, but why?

"Rachel, we're still here," the manager's voice shouted again.

"That guy..." he mumbled, standing on his feet and giving a deadly stare to the manager. "You what? I had enough of you treating your juniors like slaves."

"What can you do about it?" the manager challenged.

"Try me," he said, picking up the phone.

Damn, this stranger is fighting for me. I don't think I've ever seen a guy, not even my father, ever take a stand for me like this.

The call ended, and the stranger turned his attention to me. "Let's go," he said, holding me tight and putting all my weight in his arms.

"But..." I said, but he only smiled, turning his head to the manager. "Pack your thing, or you might not have the time to do it on time."

"What?" he questioned.

But without caring about him, we walked slowly towards his car. And drive to the nearest hospital.

The memory of that day is still clearly vivid in my mind. That was the first day that someone took a stand for me. Even as a stranger, Jayce supported me, but, sadly, none of us wanted anything serious with our relationship. I sighed, shaking the memories of the past from my mind and continuing my work.