by KD Robichaux
Now that Curtis isn’t here, where he isn’t the only thing I see, breathe, feel, and taste, I can step back and assess how I’m truly feeling. If I were my patient, what would I say? What would I ask?
First, I would ask myself, “Self, what are you afraid of?”
That answer would be easy. I’m afraid of getting hurt again. I am afraid of what happened with my ex happening all over again.
And then I would ask myself, “What is it that I want to happen?”
I would reply, “To live happily ever after in a relationship with a man I know for a fact would never leave me for not being able to bear his children.”
I would then ask myself, “What could I do in order to obtain what I truly want?”
Learn to trust him. And the only logical way to gain trust is to get to know the person, not just physically—because God knows I know him physically—but emotionally and on a soul-deep level. And the only way to do that is to talk, to ask each other questions, to be open with our answers, and to be completely honest with each other.
With that thought in mind, I send a message to end the silence between us.
Me: I’m sorry I ran. That’s not who I want to be as a person. That’s not who I want you to think I am. I want to be stronger than that.
There’s another pause, and I hold my breath, having no idea how he might respond.
ChefCurtisRockwell: Sugar, we can take this as slow as you need to. I know that might sound silly after what we did before you fell asleep in my arms, but we can back up if you need to. We can go slow and build up that strength.
My eyes tear up at that, and then I laugh when he tries to lighten the mood.
ChefCurtisRockwell: You think I got this ripped overnight? Fuuuck no.
Me: LOL! *heart eyes emoji *flexing bicep emoji
ChefCurtisRockwell: And not only that, as much food as I eat—cuz you know a chef’s gotta sample everything to make sure it’s edible for his guests—you think I don’t have to continue working on myself every day?
Me: Hey, who’s the therapist here?
ChefCurtisRockwell: I may not be certified, but I’ve been to one enough that I’ve got all sorts of advice to give.
My head tilts… something niggling the back of my mind.
Yesterday, when we were filming the show.
And then I remember.
Me: Is that what you were referring to, when you asked your director to cut it out during edits? Something about cooking starting out as a form of therapy?
No hesitation.
ChefCurtisRockwell: It is. I’m the product of teenage experimentation. My grandma raised me after the experimentation escalated from sex to drugs and we lost my mom. Dad was never in the picture. Anyway, most of my childhood was spent sitting on her counter, watching her while she taught me how to bake. She worked in a small bakery where we’re from in North Carolina.
I eat up all the information about his past that he’s feeding me, letting it paint a picture of his youth in my mind and how it molded him into the man I met yesterday. I keep the conversation light though, so I respond…
Me: Wait. Hold up. You’re Southern?! My whole world is a lie!
ChefCurtisRockwell: LOL! We moved to California when I was a teenager, when my grandma remarried. You have to remember, Yaya was only 36 when I was born. She met this great guy who was in the Army, dated him for as long as I can remember. When it finally came time for him to retire, he wanted to move back to where he was from, and he asked her to marry him. Even asked my permission and what I thought about moving to California.
Me: Yaya didn’t have any other children besides your mother?
ChefCurtisRockwell: No, and it’s like… she blamed her parenting on how my mother’s life ended up, and so she did everything in her power to not let that happen to me.
Me: How so?
ChefCurtisRockwell: I was super fucking sheltered. Didn’t have many friends, because she didn’t want me to end up hanging with the wrong crowd like my mom did.
Me: Is that what you went to therapy for?
ChefCurtisRockwell: Partly. My grades started dropping the second I hit high school, about a year after we moved to California. I started acting out, rebelling, and it freaked Yaya out. She started thinking I inherited my mom’s addictions and stuff, and at the same time, she thought she might’ve accidentally driven me to start being “bad.” Also, she believed it was a big mistake moving us from NC to Cali, no longer in a quiet and small town but in a city with lots of colorful personalities. So she took me to a therapist.
Me: And what did the therapist say?
ChefCurtisRockwell: Pretty much I was just a normal hormonal teenager who happened to have ADD. I really liked my therapist, because she was on my side. She explained to Yaya that I needed to be given an outlet. Before, I was always awesome at school, because that’s the only place I was allowed to thrive. But when my ADD decided to show up and I could no longer concentrate at school, it was really fucking frustrating and it made me feel like a failure. Hence the acting out. Once I got on my meds and my grades started picking back up, I was allowed to try out for different sports at school, since you had to have at least a C+ average in all your other subjects.
Me: So how exactly did you get into cooking?
ChefCurtisRockwell: Well, none of the sports really stuck. You’d think I’d be great at basketball, since I’m so tall. Not so much. I was really skinny and lanky, not very fast, so football and soccer were out. And baseball was just boring as fuck. But I remembered one time having to spend detention in the home ec room, and I spent the two hours flipping through the cookbooks and imagining what the flavors would taste like blended together. After watching Yaya bake for years, it was easy for me to picture measuring out the ingredients, the preparation of the different items, using the stove and the oven and such. I felt at home in that room, and I recalled that detention seeming to go by way too fast.
My heart swells for the young man years ago discovering his calling. I picture the moment it clicked in his head that culinary arts was something he could love doing, what he would eventually spend his life cultivating and making a name for himself for.
Me: That’s awesome. So what happened next?
ChefCurtisRockwell: Well, Yaya switched me to home ec, and then when I maxed out my credits for high school, she was able to find a community college that allowed high school students to go ahead and start culinary training as an elective, which would also count toward a college degree.
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
Me: We had that too! I was able to take College Psychology when I was a junior in high school, and it was a dual credit that counted as my science in 11th grade but also toward my college degree. I had an amazing professor, and it was him who truly sparked my love of the subject. It was easy to choose what I wanted to focus on once I graduated high school.
ChefCurtisRockwell: Same! After getting on my meds and kicking ass in school, I won a scholarship to one of the top culinary schools in the country. Once I graduated, I worked under some pretty amazing chefs all over California, and then finally got hired as the head chef at a restaurant on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.
Me: Ah, is that where you were discovered to be the super-hot celebrity chef and got your own show?
ChefCurtisRockwell: Not quite. People who frequented the restaurant started hiring me to cater their events… weddings, Grammy parties, sweet 16s, as our friend pointed out last night. And I was discovered and asked to audition for this new show they wanted to pilot, Chef To Go, at Nate Berkus and Jeremiah Brent’s daughter’s first birthday party.
Me: OMGGGGGG! I freaking love their show!!!
ChefCurtisRockwell: Really? But their styles aren’t farmhouse-y.
Me: Yeah, but I love THEM. They’re so freaking adorable and funny. I love sassy Jeremiah, and Nate is so cute with his kids. *heart eyes emoji
Me: And that reminds me, you sure do seem to know a lot about design. You knew s
traight away what I meant when I said Joanna Gaines is my idol, and now you know Nate and Jeremiah aren’t “farmhouse-y”? What’s up with that?
ChefCurtisRockwell: LOL! I mean, I can be interested in more than just cooking, can’t I?
Me: Well, that’s true.
ChefCurtisRockwell: When I built my first home a couple years ago, the designer made me go through all sorts of books and magazines and articles, etc, to see what my tastes were. Just like the cookbooks in detention, it was super interesting to me. Not enough to make a career out of it or anything, but it was super-fun designing my entire house, and I’m told I have impeccable taste, so I’ve helped several of my friends decorate some of their rooms, and even Yaya let me design the bakery I bought her.
Me: You bought your grandma a bakery? *wide-eyed emoji
ChefCurtisRockwell: I mean… yeah. Why not? *laughing emoji
Me: Well, you did say you aren’t frivolous with your money. And buying the woman who raised you a bakery of her own is a pretty generous gift.
ChefCurtisRockwell: Ah, see? I don’t just blow my money on stupid shit. I don’t drive the most expensive and flashy car. I don’t buy sneakers that cost a hundred grand a pair. I don’t own gold-plaited toothbrushes and razors. I drive a nice truck that can haul a trailer carrying a barbeque pit. My favorite tennis shoes are Asics Noosas. I use a sonic toothbrush I got from my dentist after the network got my teeth whitened when I started the show, and I use a Mach 3 razor, which I still believe is astronomical for replacement blades.
Me: Ah-HA! I knew your teeth couldn’t naturally be that freaking perfect!
ChefCurtisRockwell: Sugar. It’s called Zoom and it’s available at like… any dentist office.
Me: Noted.
ChefCurtisRockwell: You don’t need it though. Your teeth are gorgeous.
I wrinkle my nose.
Me: I live on coffee, and I’ve toyed around with the idea of that Invisalign thing, but I don’t think I have the discipline for it.
ChefCurtisRockwell: Don’t you dare.
Me: What?
ChefCurtisRockwell: You’re not fucking getting Invisalign.
Me: Ummm… what?
My brow furrows.
ChefCurtisRockwell: If I ever find out you’re trying to close that sexy little gap in your two front teeth, I will personally fly out there, break down your door, find the fucking teeth tray things, and melt them in your new Instant Pot. *red angry face
I know I should feel insolence at his bossiness, but really, I’m turned the hell on at the idea of him being so passionate about my annoying little gap. I always hated it when I was younger, when all my friends went through their awkward braces phase and came out with perfect, straight teeth. But then I didn’t really think much about it as I got older, since no one ever seemed to notice it. I got made fun of for loving nerdy stuff more than I ever did for my gap, so I paid it no mind. That’s why it’s so strange to me for him to specifically point out that he wouldn’t want me to close it. He’d obviously noticed it. Even called it “sexy.” It makes me smirk and sit up a little.
I notice my water has grown cold, so I message him quickly.
Me: Gotta get out of the tub. I’m all pruny. BRB.
I set my phone on the floor outside the clawfoot tub then reach into the tepid water to pull the plug. I step out and wrap myself in a big-ass bath sheet, snatching my phone up off the floor right as it buzzes.
ChefCurtisRockwell: Ugggh… I had momentarily forgotten you were naked. I have a feeling being with you will be a lifetime of constant blue balls. *sobbing emoji
My heart stutters at this. He’s still talking like he had last night, like it’s a done deal, no doubt in his mind about me… about us. I wish I had even part of his confidence. In fact, a lot about him is inspiring. The way he’s been so open with me, answering any and every question I’ve asked him, and without any hesitation, so I believe everything he’s saying is the truth. He doesn’t pause to filter his answers, not since I apologized and told him I wanted to be stronger and not run again.
So I take a deep breath and throw it out there…
Me: Is… there anything you want to ask me?
This time, there is a pause. But when I receive his response, I can’t help but laugh.
ChefCurtisRockwell: Can I get them digits?
Me: LOL! Yes. As a matter of fact, you can.
I type out my number and send it through, and the next thing I receive isn’t a DM in my app, but an actual text message from a phone number not programed into my contacts.
213-555-3808: Sugar, sugar… *music note emoji
I grin stupidly and save his info, sending him a reply.
Me: Ah, honey, honey. *music note emoji
Curtis: That’s much better. *big smile emoji
Curtis: Now, can mine be a two-part question, or is it your turn again?
Me: I’ve asked several. You go ahead.
I dry off quickly, moving toward my dresser to grab a fresh pair of surgery panties and a nightgown, when my hand pauses above the drawer pull.
“They’re full of bad juju anyway. Get. Rid. Of. Them.” Emmy’s voice echoes in my mind, and I bite my lip, narrowing my eyes as I grip the handle and slide the drawer open. There they all are, neatly laid flat in a stack ten-deep. Well, nine, since the pair I wore yesterday is still on the floor somewhere, where Curtis had tossed them.
I blow out a breath through pursed lips, my cheeks billowing, and then I straighten my shoulders, scoop all the surgery panties up, grab my phone off my bed where I’d tossed it, and hurry downstairs. Curtis’s next text comes in, but I momentarily ignore it while I turn my video camera on.
“All right, Emmy girl. Here’s documented evidence.” I turn the camera around to make it forward facing, recording as I toss the hospital-grade undies into the kitchen’s trashcan. “And to prove I will not change my mind and rescue them from the garbage—” I hurry to my fridge and grab a bunch of condiments I never use. I won’t feel guilty for tossing them out before their expiration date, because it’s for a good cause. I set the phone down on the counter after making it front facing once more, propping it so I can see myself. “—first, we’ll add a jar full of… pickled green olives with pimentos in vinegar.” I unscrew the cap and take a whiff, grimacing then making a gagging noise before dumping it on top of the panties inside the trashcan. “Next, we’ll add some sweet and spicy barbeque sauce… and then the entire bottle of jalapeño mustard we bought because we thought it might taste like McDonald’s spicy mustard sauce, but alas, it did not.” I dump those in, shaking out the contents and doing a little dance for dramatic affect.
Forgetting I’m in nothing but a towel, it shimmies loose, and I catch it right before it hits the ground, wrapping it tightly back around me. “Hopefully you’re watching this alone and Dean’s not around.” I slap my forehead. “Duh, when I send this to you, I’ll just warn you not to let him see. Because I ain’t taking the time to rerecord this shit or figure out how to use an app to edit it out.”
I pick up my phone, pulling it up level with my face, and tell my best friend, “You were right. There’s bad juju all over them bitches. Yes, they were comfy as fuck, but they were also a constant reminder of bad things that happened in the past. And I’m finally ready to get over those things and look forward to the future. I miss you, Em. So much. See you soon.” And then I blow her a kiss, stopping the recording.
I immediately type out a text, INCOMING! Beware, my boobs make an appearance, so don’t watch around Dean! I send that first as a fair warning, and then send the video behind it.
Just as the blue line showing the sending progress makes it to the very end, I receive a reply.
Isn’t Dean in like… Delaware or something right now?
My head tilts to the side in confusion, my brow furrowing. Why would Emmy be asking me where her husband is?
And then I realize…
Me: Fuck. My. Life. That was meant for EMMY! Do NOT Watch!
>
Curtis: Too late.
Me: What do you mean “too late”?! You can’t watch a video and be responding to me at the same time!
Curtis: I can if I’m watching the video on my 15 inch laptop screen and talking to you on my phone, sugar.
Curtis: *saves to spank bank
I squeal out in both embarrassment and laughter.
Me: You did NOT just save that! Delete it right now!
I shake my head while I wait for his response and start the long ascent, climbing the stairs in my bare feet. He still hasn’t replied by the time I reach my bedroom, so I set my phone on my dresser while I grab a pair of much prettier bikini-cut royal blue undies out of the drawer. I slip them on, dropping my towel, and then pull my super-soft black sleep tee over my head. I pick up my towel off the floor and carry it to hang on the rack in the bathroom, and when I return to my room once again, I snatch my phone off my dresser then collapse on my bed.
Finally, after what seems like forever, I get a text from Curtis.
Curtis: First, did you remember to eventually send this to the person it was intended for? Just making sure, because I can’t even imagine how happy it’ll make her. If not, DO NOT FORGET TO SEND THE NUDITY WARNING TOO. *narrowed eyes emoji
I sniff out a laugh and grin. For being so easygoing while he was here, he sure is all caveman-esque when he’s not near me. I tell him so.
Me: You know, you weren’t all bossy while you were here. Is that a proximity thing?
Curtis: I don’t know. That’s new for me. Just go with it.
I send Emmy the video, with the same boob warning ahead of it, and then switch back to Curtis’s thread.
Curtis: I think it’s because I’m not there to take care of you now. I’m not there to make sure you’re safe, to make sure you’re going to remember to eat and not walk too close to the edge of the sidewalk.
Me: You know I’ve survived this long without you, right? Almost 32 whole years. I’ve got this, honey.
Curtis: That may be. But everything changed last night. I’m not adjusting well to being away from you, now that I’ve experienced being with you. It’s like… one hit and I’m already addicted.