In Front Of My Salad Novels & Stories

"The cook made chicken salad and fresh bread, nothing heavy. You have to stay and eat with us." I followed them, handing my jacket to the maid who appeared quietly beside us. "That sounds good," I said. "I could eat something." The dining room was bright with the sunlight coming through the big windows overlooking the garden, the table already set with nice plates and silverware, a big bowl of green salad in the middle with tomatoes and cucumbers, and a basket of bread that smelled warm and fresh. There was a pitcher of iced tea with lemon slices floating in it, and glasses already filled with ice.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I pick at the salad in front of me. It’s some kind of mesclun green, dark purple and green. Frisee lettuce, baby spinach. Candied nuts. Blue cheese. Balsamic glaze. Fancy salad. The kind that I love but my appetite has taken a sudden hit by the foolishness of my own words. He’s going back and forth between eating his salad and studying me like I’m an animal in a zoo. Maybe he’s wondering what is going on through my head.

I followed his eyes. Okay. I made a quick vegetable salad. It includes lettuce and cucumbers with an orange-colored dressing. "A plate of grass and cucumber? That isn't a proper meal." He rolled his eyes and went towards the electric stove, pick the steel casserole, then places it in the middle of the wooden dining table.

I gulped and nodded with a small smile. With my bowl in my hand, I strode towards the dining area before placing my bowl of salad on the table. Harold and Dylan were sitting beside each other and I sat across them. They were two bowls infront of them, which was covered with the aluminum foil. They opened it, revealing a tomato spaghetti and a grilled chicken at the side. But I had no appetite due to the fear feeling overwhelming my each and every nerve. I was fiddling with my spoon, tossing the vegetables up and down inside my bowl.

I take a deep breath like I’m about to jump off a cliff and finally, I eat. The flavors burst on my tongue—a surprising mix of sweet and tangy, fresh and earthy. I pause mid-chew, humming softly as my tastebuds process the unexpected delight. Flashing my eyes up at him, I ask, "Did you add honey to this? It's weird but... it's actually so good!" He doesn't reply immediately. Instead, he leans back, smirking at the sight of me already going for a second forkful. His soft laughter reaches my ears as I begin demolishing the salad, barely giving myself time to breathe between bites.

It's a test. She continues to smile. "Not quite." The strangers who just entered the room place a plate each in front of us, along will the glass. I stare at both of them, oddly hungry, but not willing to tempt my fate. Shanae only seems amused by his. "The salad is caesar and the drink is orange juice. Harmless," he stresses, using her fork to point to my plate. I swallow uneasily. Again, a choice of mine that's on a leash.

Everything looks too perfect and festive. "Thank you. I like my meals to be colorful and vibrant. It makes me enjoy the meal just that much more." She returned and prepared a salad with romaine lettuce and thinly sliced turkey, served with an Italian dressing. Hailey came to the table first with the salad, and Jake reached for the bowl, removing it from her hands and setting it in the center of the table.

He doesn’t seem to notice or he’s really good at ignoring people. I add some bell tomatoes, feta cheese and red onion to the salad and sprinkle it with basil before drizzling olive oil over it. The chicken I was grilling is finished, I slice it in thick chunks and lay it on his plate before drizzling some Teriyaki sauce over it. There, it looks good. Although why I’m bothering to make his lunch look appetizing is beyond me. Still, he is paying me a ton of money so it’s the least I can do, I suppose.

It's only after I've mechanically placed a forkful of crisp, dressing-drenched salad in my mouth that my brain seems to come back online. What just happened?!

At least, I hope I can say no. I grab Miss Justine’s order and notice they forgot the dressing. Rather than make the cook get it, I rummage through the prep area and find chilled sauce packets and extra croutons. I dress up the salad as my own by crushing the croutons over the Caesar dressing. That way, it’s not just a vast dry crunchy bite. With pride in my creation, I walk over. “Here’s your lunch, and of course, I’ll be back,” I say, flustered hearing my name called.