I was content for a while, but Simon kept talking to me at Matilde’s, the restaurant we work at, and I second-guessed. It’s Margot and Blaise, for crying out loud, not Margot and Simon, I chide myself on the daily. I cut potatoes last night and was immediately reminded of Simon animatedly describing his favorite potato casseroles. Two months ago, he promised to make me potato dauphinoise because I don’t like the one at our work. I’ve yet to receive it.
When I sit down at the old computer in the tiny office in the back of Matilde’s, a new hire pops up in the scheduling system. Hazel Birmingham. A girl, based on the pixelated photo of long coiled hair and black-rimmed eyes. I make a note to watch how she treats Simon. If she’s a little too nice, gets a little too close, she just may have to go. I’ll tell her to do her job, in the best of worlds she won’t do it, and I’ll have to report her to HR (“I truly have tried to communicate my expectations, but Hazel doesn’t seem to think teamwork is important”). Then, poof. Gone.
Since my position as manager is new, Simon, as the more experienced manager of the restaurant, will help me train the new hires. I pull up the schedule for the week, my lips curling into a smile at the thought of an entire week of working with Simon.
Hazel’s assigned many of the same shifts as him, which I suppose makes sense as she’ll need training. But the only day Simon and I train Hazel together is…today. Not a problem. I am a manager now, so I double tap on the edit button—
I double tap—
What?
An error materializes in the top right corner of the screen in bright, attention-begging red. UNABLE TO ALTER SCHEDULE. My hand twitches on the mouse next to the keyboard. Hazel’s yellow boxes glow alongside Simon’s green boxes, happily proclaiming “trainee” and “trainer.” I look away, but her yellow rectangle has burned into my retinas. I slouch into the office chair. Simon, Simon. I trace a green box. Why do you have to be exactly who I need?
After opening the restaurant, I glance at the clock for the fifth time that hour as I’m wiping one of the tables near the kitchen. 12:29. He should be in soon….
The door to the back of the restaurant opens on the far end of the kitchen and invites in a gust of crisp autumn air. I discreetly wander into the kitchen, dirty rag in hand, as Simon strides in. His pressed button-down hugs his shoulders and ends neatly tucked into slacks belted around a narrow waist. A memory from yesterday returns to me: Blaise, sinking into the couch in our apartment, soft and pouchy and scrolling on Tiktok while I cut potatoes and carrots for beef stew. A rancid pit opens in my gut.
Simon pauses to hold the door for someone—a girl slightly shorter than him in ironed pants and the red polo that none of the servers can pull off. Somehow, it works with her black braids and warm skin. She looks up at him to say a thank-you, and his eyes light up in response. The pit inside me widens.
“Everyone, this is Hazel. She’ll be mostly training for now, and maybe handing out some take-out orders.” Simon’s authoritative voice brings life to the small stainless-steel kitchen. “And Hazel, this is our other manager, Margot. You can ask her any questions you have.”
Hazel’s eyes flick around the kitchen and finally settle on me. I give her my practiced, cordial smile. I practically feel the layers of my skin peeling away as she analyzes my ill-fitting pants, spindly frame, and lack of makeup. She emits a noncommittal hum.
My smile freezes on my face.
The door swings open again. Vanessa appears from around the corner, her windblown hair fluttering about her cheeks. She rips her jacket off and reveals a matching red polo. “Is that the new girl? Is she back-of-house?”
“Front,” Hazel says. Her melodic voice grates on my nerves. “Just not today.”
Vanessa grins like a wolf. “If you’re front, let me tell you about all of our snarky customers while I unload.” With that, she leads Hazel into dry storage.
Simon approaches me as I swap my dirty rag for a fresh one. “Hey, since you just got promoted to manager, I was thinking of training Hazel myself so that you can focus on taking inventory. If that’s alright.”
I look into his soft eyes and immediately feel connected to him. Gosh, he’s so—wait. “Train her?” I clench the clean rag, and the smell from the sanitizer stings my nose.
Those chocolate eyes widen. “Or is that too much? I can do both—?”
I forget to breathe. “But we’re supposed to work together.”
“Sure, next time. But I think you’ll appreciate one less thing to do right now.” He smiles. It just makes me fume.
***
After rushing through how to do inventory with me, Simon spends the next hour by Hazel’s side. Her features really are striking, bold eyebrows and an angular nose between two dark pools, darker than even Simon’s rich brown eyes. She blinks these same two eyes at Simon as he shows her the menu. It’s all I can do not to rip them out of her bright, smiley face.
I jot down numbers on my clipboard in dry storage. Inventory turns out to be incredibly boring. It only gives me time to come up with ideas of how to trip Hazel.
“What’s your favorite menu item?” I hear Simon ask her.
“The potato dauphinoise always smells really good.”
A beat of silence. I scribble down how many boxes of napkins we have on my clipboard.
“Wait,” he says, “you’ve never had it?”
“No.”
“I’m going to make it for you. But,” his voice rises over her objection and my sharp inhale, “I’m going to make it my way, and I’ll bring it next week.”
I snap the tip of my pencil writing down the number of candles.
Simon turns his head, joy sitting plainly in the soft crow’s feet by his eyes, and waves at me. “Oh, Margot, can you hand me a bag of potatoes?”
***
The next week, I’m stuck. I watch Simon direct his attention towards Hazel as she learns how to take orders and spar against the cooks’ teasing. Already my coworkers like Hazel more than they’ve ever liked me. I scowl and wrap my arms around myself as I lean against the doorframe of the tiny office and watch them all interact energetically in the kitchen. Don’t get too attached to her. She won’t be here for long.
Hazel takes a bite off a paper plate of potatoes. She excuses herself from her conversation with Vanessa, who holds a paper plate as well. From my vantage point, I see her walk around the corner into dry storage and drop the plate into the trash. A muffled thunk resounds as the potatoes—quite a hunk of them, layered with a sort of sauce—hit the bottom of the trash bin. Wait, were those Simon’s—?
“Hey!” Simon nudges me as he walks into the kitchen from the dining room, dirty plates stacked on one arm. “You good?”
I uncross my arms and school my expression into one of boredom. “Yeah. Just cold.”
He adjusts a plate balancing on his forearm. “How’s Blaise?”
My body catapults my racing heart across the room at the mention of my boyfriend. “He’s… fine,” I manage. Just last night, Blaise accused me of being distant and hard-to-reach. I didn’t have a response for him that wouldn’t send him into one of his fits.
“You sure nothing’s wrong?” Simon peers at me, chocolate eyes concerned.
I’m captivated by this small kindness, unable to look away. Only if it’s wrong that I wish I were with you instead of Blaise, that I could have what Hazel has.
“Your eyes are so pretty,” I whisper.
He smiles, and I smile back, all warm and fuzzy.
“Thanks. Oh, Hazel said the potato dauphinoise I made is better than the one they make here—do you want me to get you some?”
My smile slips off my face.
***
The following night, I’m closing with him and two of the cooks. Soft jazz plays overhead and the singular couple in the dining room whisper together. It’s nearly nine pm, ten minutes before we start to close up, and I’m about to take out the crème brûlée for what will probably be the last order of the day. At least Hazel doesn’t work tonight. At least it’s just us. Right now I don’t have to feel like I’m the one losing something when I see him talk to her, all excited golden retriever energy and spontaneous grinning. No one has ever been as excited to see me as Simon is to see Hazel. He likes her. He likes her. I mean, he made the potato dauphinoise for her, not me. She hated it so much that she threw it away, and then lied about it! But she’s an hourly employee and he’s a salaried manager. No matter how much we pretend there isn’t a difference between managers and their employees, there is. Now. How do I exploit it?
Simon slips his phone off the wireless charger in the office. The glow from the screen is weak, but his expression is radiant. I freeze, crème brûlée in hand. I’m the only other person still in the room; the cooks went to run the dishwasher. I shuffle forwards on uneasy feet, trying to read the contact at the top of his phone screen, but he’s shaking with silent laughter and his phone wiggles in his hands. He finally stops to take a breath.
No profile picture, but the name… Hazel.
I inhale sharply, the air mold-like and warm in my lungs, sweeter than the crème brûlée I hold. Simon whips around. His mouth, turned upwards in a playful smile, quickly flattens out.
He blinks. “Margot,” he says. “Is that needing to go out?”
A trash compactor crushes the air out of my lungs. I stare at him.
He shoves his phone in his pocket. “Here,” he says, and gently slides the warm ceramic plate out of my grip. I don’t notice telling my hand to let go. “I’ll take it.” He slips past, taking care not to brush me.
“Oh.” He spins around just before entering the dining room. “I’m going to be leaving a little early tomorrow. Hazel’s bus route doesn’t run on Sundays and she needs a ride home from work. Can you and the cooks close by yourselves?”
What? I open my mouth, but I don’t have words to speak. He nods at me hopefully and disappears into the dining room. I stand there like a fool, heart thumping under my ribs, hands shaking, the quiet jazz from the speakers suddenly too loud.
“…need to wash anything?”
“I just put some stuff back there, yeah.”
“…those? …Got it.”
The click of a door shutting. A shuffle and a squeak of shoes. The computer inside the office reflects my empty face, thin hair pinned back and deep black studs in my ears. An outcast always pushed aside in favor of someone else.
I slam my hand onto the mouse for the computer and pull open Outlook.
New message. To: HR. Subject: Manager and Team Member Relationship. Message:
It has recently come to my attention that manager Simon Coral has been giving special treatment to team member Hazel Birmingham including but not limited to giving her rides from work and making her food using company products, and as a consequence, he has not kept up with his managerial duties. As we know, manager-employee relationships are against policy. I was hoping this would not become an issue, but an issue it has become.
Regards, Margot Fisher.
Kaelyn Aispuro is majoring in Kinesiology and minoring in Creative Writing at Pacific University, where she is also a writing peer tutor. She holds a special place in her heart for fiction writing and has studied fiction and literature for four years. She is from Oregon, and enjoys running in nature and cooking new things alongside her passion for sharing her love of writing.
