Dear Life(22)

“You’re doing that on your own. I’m just taking what I deserve.”

“What you deserve?” A sardonic laugh escapes me. “What exactly do you deserve?”

The weight of his body causes his chair to squeak as he leans back, testing the hinges stability. “More than what you can offer. I took you in, I sheltered you, fed you, and helped put you through school. I’m just cashing in on all the IOUs you tossed in my direction.”

Fucking prick.

“Funny, I never remember setting up any IOUs. When my parents died, you became my legal guardian. If I had any say in it, I would have gone into foster care. At least I’d be free now instead of paying back some old debt you insist upon me owing you.”

Anger beseeches him. “If you went to foster care, you would never be the man you are today.”

“You’re right,” I shoot back. “I would be a better man because I would have made a life for myself instead of living the life you want me to. You want me here in the restaurant, cooking your tasteless, generic food because you’re too lazy to get behind the grill anymore. You need me and you’re holding my future, corked up in a fucking bottle because you’re too much of a selfish asshole to let me go on my own.”

“You ungrateful little shit. I’ve given you everything—”

“You’ve given me nothing!” I shout, startling Hollyn next to me. I speak through a curtain of anger and pain. “If you were half the man you wished you were, I wouldn’t be living in a drafty converted warehouse, living on one, maybe two meals a day, saving every fucking penny of mine so I can finally repay you and leave this hellhole.”

“The man I wished I was? You have no idea the struggle and sacrifice I’ve made to get to where I am today: a proprietor, a man with a successful business.”

A dark laugh escapes me. “A proprietor? You’re delusional. You’re serving up tasteless recipes created by a mediocre, bitter man with no heart, no compassion for a boy who was scared from losing both his parents. You did nothing to make life better for me and you continue to do the same, repressing me because you’re too depressed about the turnout of your empty and lonely life.”

A slight gasp escapes Hollyn but I couldn’t care less. I want her to see the kind of man my uncle is. Everyone in the restaurant thinks he’s a cool guy who pals around with his employees, but really he’s a sadistic man with a vendetta against me because my father was his brother, the brother he despised, the brother who overdosed one fateful afternoon, leaving him with a nephew he never wanted.

Cheeks puffed in rage, mouth clamping together, his eyes blazing with disdain in my direction, he slowly says, “I suggest you get the fuck out of my sight before I double your debt. And if I hear you picking fights with anyone else in this restaurant, I will pull you from the program, make you pay the fine, and then triple the money you owe me. Don’t fuck with me, boy.”

Not even acknowledging his threat, I stand and storm out of his office, slamming the door shut, not caring if it flies into Hollyn. A good bitch slap from my uncle’s office door might do her some good. Hell, she’s the reason I lost it. She’s the reason I had my future threatened once again.

Every little nuisance, inconvenience, unwelcomed interaction piles onto the already billowing and bustling indignation building inside of me, and there is only so much I can take before I crumble, breaking in half. I’m fucking teetering on the edge, my sanity in the balance.

Blocking out the rest of the world, I get back to work, searing steak after steak on the grill, thinking back to my first class at Dear Life.

Grieve.

What exactly am I supposed to grieve here? The loss of my money, of my girlfriend, or the fact that every day, my lifelong goal seems farther and farther away?

I used to think one day, I would have my own place, my own kitchen with a sous-chef and a dining room filled to taste my concoctions, but now, all I can envision is a crummy life behind this grill, porking out like my uncle, and not caring an ounce about balding.

Apart from my tattoo-decorated arms, I’d be an exact replica of my uncle.

Fuck me.

Thanks, Life. You’re a real peach. Once again, note the sarcasm.





DAISY


“Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine, stop fussing and come sit down.”

Grams pats the seat next to her on the couch beneath the window in her room. The Colorado sun beams through the soft, gauzy drapes, bringing in warmth on the chilly, wintery day. Winter in Colorado is tolerable, beautiful actually. Snowcapped mountains, brisk air awakens your senses, and the sun lights up the bright blue sky, a complete contrast to the dreary winters you see in movies.

“Are you sure there is nothing I can get you?” I ask, taking a seat next to her.

“No, I’m fine, dearie. Now,” she crosses her hands on her lap and assesses me, “tell me about this marvelous vest you’re wearing.”

With pride, I smooth down the creation I just finished making before I came to visit Grams. “It’s an ode to your favorite quilt vest,” I say with pride. “I’ve always admired your blue, yellow, and white quilted vest with the flower fabric and decided to make myself one. It didn’t take me long. Did I do a good job?” Even though I’m considered an adult, I still look for my gram’s approval.