by Mel Walker
She nods. “Yeah, I remember changing subjects on you, dropping spoons, tripping—I think I may have even faked choking one time to stop you from asking me out.” The giggles return. I recall each one of those early distraction moves. Weeks and months of avoidance.
“Yeah, I took the hint and backed off. And now here we are. And, Dana, to be totally honest, I’m still not sure where we are.”
She presses a piece of tape onto my bandage and hoists my hand up by the wrist. She presses her matching injured hand next to mine. “We are two peas in a pod.” She taps the back of her bandaged hand to mine.
As our matching hands lower, she continues. “Let me see if I can make it perfectly clear.” She leans forward, her movement quick as our lips crash.
The initial surprise on my part disappears as her lips soften and part. This kiss is different from any of our others. It is not quick; it is not done in the haste of an exit. But most of all, this one is very public.
Our tongues become acquainted as she tilts her head and leans forward. I feel the heat from her shortened breath as my one good hand wraps around the back of her neck. A soft sigh escapes her lips, urging me on.
Just because we no longer care about the rest of the world doesn’t mean it feels the same way. I’m not surprised when I hear the movement across the room. What does catch me by surprise is the voice of the person who catches us kissing.
“I can’t believe this shit.” Dana’s punch didn’t kill him, but our kiss may have. Tyrone is standing in the doorway with a look of a man who just died.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dana
Jackson’s body tenses up next me as I squeeze him tight and whisper in his ear, “I got this.”
His eyes shoot lasers in Tyrone’s direction as he growls in my ear. “Fine. But I’m not going anywhere.” He lifts my bandaged hand and places a soft kiss on it in full view of Tyrone, his message obvious, and I love the way that simple gesture makes me feel. I may have to face the demon from my past, but Jackson has my back. It’s a feeling I’ve never had before. Even my family is still mesmerized by Tyrone.
Tyrone’s spell on me, however, burned off long ago. I push up from the small couch and cross the room to a still-fuming Tyrone.
“Not exactly the reunion you pictured, huh?” I can’t resist but to twist the knife. “Why are you still here?”
He turns his back to Jackson, forcing me to walk around him. He runs his hands through his hair as his tongue taps his upper lip. It’s a nervous tell that he’s never gotten over. “Can we go out to the porch and chat?” His voice is low, and he glances over his shoulder quickly, his intention clear: he wants to get far away from Jackson.
I already know if we step out the door, Jackson will follow. “Whatever you have to say, you can say right here, Tyrone. Exactly how long does it take to say adios?”
“You just won’t cut a brother a break, will you?” It’s a rhetorical question, but it’s laced with history. “Fine.” He reaches into his pockets and he pulls his hands out dramatically. “I can’t locate my car keys.”
I cross my arms and tilt my head to the side. “Really, Ty? That’s how you’re going to play it?”
He takes a long sigh and pats his jacket pockets. “I’m serious, D. They must’ve fallen out…”
I hold up my hand. “Did you check back by the lake?” If I wasn’t so concerned with him being stuck here, I’d take a moment to take a bow for hitting him so hard that his keys disappeared. “Get back down there before the sun sets.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing since…” He doesn’t complete the sentence as the thought of what I did to him causes him to pause. “I checked the trail we followed as well.”
“I don’t believe this,” I say and throw up my hands. The movement causes Jackson to push up from the couch across the room. I raise a hand to stop my protector. “Well, I hate to be that person, but I think you’ve had a big part in doing it to me, and I don’t trust you. Care to empty your pockets? All of them.”
“Babe, don’t be like that.”
“Don’t you dare call me that. I’m not your babe.” I point to a small table.
“So, this is where we are now?” he argues and begins emptying his pockets. Wallet, change, a peppermint, and his phone. He twirls and lifts the back of his jacket to show me his back pockets are empty. When his spin stops in front of me, he reaches into his jacket pockets and pulls them inside out.
“Fine. You’ll need to call AAA or a locksmith or something. I don’t care. You can’t be here.”
“A BMW doesn’t work that way. It’s a special computer-encoded key. The only options are to get a replacement one from the dealer or have my backup key sent by FedEx.”
My pulse races as every second we stand around brings us closer to the end of Candice’s class. “Okay, call the dealer.”
He shakes his head as if he’s speaking to a five-year-old. “Well, for one we are in the middle of nowhere. I’m not sure this state even has a BMW dealer. Even if they do, they will need to have the key programmed, and then there is still the matter of getting it here. We are probably looking at two to three days.”
I bite my inner cheek as I think of managing two dozen students while keeping Jackson and Tyrone separated. “No way. Three days and what are you going to do, just stay here? I have students.”
“Calm down. That is worst-case scenario, babe.”
I shoot daggers at him.
“Sorry, habit.” He continues. “I’ll make a call and have someone FedEx the key. It’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Morning delivery,” I add, even if it costs extra. “And after you make that call, I want you to walk the property again. Keys don’t just disappear.”
He nods as he pulls out his phone. He lowers it to his side as he steals a glance over his shoulder to confirm that Jackson is still out of whisper distance. “Can you set me up in a room next to yours?”
I want to scream, I want to shout, I want to punch him with my other good hand. I want to do so many evil things, but all I can do is bite my lower lip. All the good spirits that I’ve experienced since moving to Destiny Falls appear lost. This evil man has returned and brought with him all the bad karma that sat on my chest for so long at the end of our relationship. It’s a feeling I had prayed I would never experience again. And now that it’s here, I pray that I can keep it from spreading throughout the lodge and toward Jackson.
As Tyrone heads out the door, I turn back to Jackson, who’s rising off the couch with a hopeful expression of relief on his face. I know my next four words will wipe away that look and place a cloud over our relationship, but I have no choice but to say it.
“We have to talk.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jackson
Twenty minutes later I stomp back to the kitchen with a pissed-off attitude and anxiety over leaving Aaron to fend for himself for much too long.
I can’t believe that Dana’s ex might be staying overnight here at the lodge. I still can’t believe his name is Tyrone. I can’t believe I woke this morning with Dana in my arms, a dream fulfilled, only to have it somehow morph into a living nightmare. One that doesn’t appear to be ending anytime soon.
Dana is a better person than I, damaged hand and all. I don’t believe Tyrone’s only means of leaving this lodge suddenly disappeared into thin air, any more than I believe he’s come back just to say hi. When I offered to help Tyrone locate his keys, Dana was rightfully suspicious of having me so close to Tyrone near a large body of water—not a good combination. Even though Dana is holding out hope that Tyrone locates his keys, I know he won’t. That’s not how my life works out.
I attempt to push him out of my head and deal with my other growing crisis. Dinner is in less than an hour. We are short on time and one good hand.
I enter the kitchen and am greeted by the sound of laughter. Ryan Parker is at the stove, his eyes flitting around a pot as if he’s searching for a video game controller to
tame it.
Ryan is Aaron’s younger brother, and what he lacks in domestic skills he provides in charm. Aaron points to the pot and hands a wooden spoon to Ryan, demonstrating how to gently stir the lightly bubbling sauce. Aaron watches over his brother’s shoulder as he reaches back to the prep table to grab a handful of chopped rosemary. “Slow, steady strokes,” Aaron says to his brother as I approach. Aaron is a natural. Not only a great sous chef and student, but apparently instructor as well.
“It didn’t take you long to replace me, I see,” I joke and let my presence known.
A smile grows on Aaron’s face. “I figured we could use a few extra hands.”
“Hey, Jackson,” Ryan says as he lifts a closed fist in greeting. I hold up my bandaged hand and offer up a weak pound with my left hand.
“Good seeing you, Ryan. Did Aaron call you?”
He plants a matching smile on his face, his green eyes sparkling. “Naw, I came over with Candice. I was out enjoying the lake while she teaches. She mentioned that you and Aaron were cooking, so I tagged along for a free meal.”
“Well,” I say as take a peek into the pot, “looks like you are earning that meal.”
“Okay, but be warned, I know next to nothing when it comes to the kitchen.”
“I got him, Chef. I’ll use him appropriately,” Aaron says as he slaps a palm on his brother’s shoulder. He points to the pot again, directing Ryan’s attention. Once satisfied, he follows me to the prep table where I’ve begun to season cubed squash. “How did things go? Looks like you found the first aid kit just fine.”
“Let’s just say Ryan and Candice may not be only additional guests we have for dinner tonight.” When he stares at me, waiting for clarification, I continue. “Dana’s ex is here.”
His eyes flash in confusion. “Tyrone? Here in Indiana? How did you know where she was?”
It’s not the confusion that has my anger boiling again, but the questions. “Wait, you know about Tyrone? I thought this was some state secret or something. I had no clue.”
Aaron steps back, concern on his face. I can sense he’s felt he’s overstepped. “Sorry, Jackson, as far as we all knew it was ancient history.”
“We?” I ask, curious to see how many people are aware of Dana’s history. How many other people withheld this information from me?
Aaron shakes his head. “Just the girls, you know. Her inner circle.” His tone softens as if he’s trying to soothe me. I don’t need soothing; I just want the truth.
“How exactly wide is this inner circle?” I want specifics.
“Well, Mia, obviously—that’s how I found out. Candice, of course.”
“I can assume Ryan knows as well.” I shoot a glance toward Ryan, who has his back to us.
“That would probably be a safe assumption. And lastly Catherine. That’s as far as I suspect it extends.”
I exhale a deep breath with the comfort that I at least am very familiar with every member of Dana’s inner circle. I also realize why she wouldn’t read me in as well. She truly believed it to be behind her.
“Well, dipwad showed up here out of the blue. Apparently, Dana’s mom outed her location.” I update Aaron with the limited information I have. “Dana’s asked him to leave, but he claims he lost his car keys. He’s looking for them now, but until he finds them, we are stuck with him, hence the extra dinner guest.”
Aaron nods and then bites his lower lip. There is something else he wants to say, the conflict sitting heavy on his shoulders.
“Out with it, Aaron. Just say it. This day can’t get any worse.”
His gaze falls from my face down to my chest. He’s avoiding looking at me. “Are you sure you want to be in the kitchen tonight?”
A chill races through my veins. Until he asked, I had failed to make the connection myself. Damn Aaron and his ability to find things. Has he uncovered the full extent of my dark past?
“You know, cooking for the ex of a woman you have feelings for?”
Shit.
I had forgotten who I was sharing a kitchen with. Aaron Parker isn’t just a natural in the kitchen; he’s great at everything he touches. Apparently between meal prep he’s been playing detective, and like everything else, he’s good at it.
My gaze lingers on his challenging face as I process his question. There is no further denying the fact that the past I thought I could bury has returned. Time to face the music.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jackson
One Year Ago - Seattle
I wipe the sweat from my brow as Metallica streams from the small speakers in the ceiling. All eight burners are fired, and the grill is packed with steaks and chicken, flames shooting three feet high in the air.
“Behind.” Yet another sous chef passes behind me as I lean forward slightly. The kitchen has never been this busy, this crazy, this stressed.
How did I get here? Head chef and owner at Seattle’s latest hot restaurant, All for Lola, an inspired name which came to me two years ago when I started this journey. A name I had screamed in ecstasy in the middle of the night, the early morning, and in the middle of the day.
Lola. My second passion in life after cooking. My agent tried to warn me not to name my signature restaurant after a girlfriend, but what did I know, I was in love. Every month I plunged deeper into building my dreams, my restaurant, and emptying my bank account at the same time. Thousands spent on branding, website, ads, tablecloths, china, licensing, registration—the list proved endless. What I didn’t spend on the restaurant I spent on Lola.
The bedroom wasn’t the only place she had an insatiable appetite: shopping sprees, beauty salon treatments, weekend getaways with her girlfriends. I didn’t care—my dreams were within reach, and I thought I was in love. It all seemed worth it when we launched. A week after being featured as one of Seattle’s best chefs under thirty, the timing was proof of the investment in an agent and PR firm worth their weight in gold.
I thought I was the luckiest man on the planet. That is, until I wasn’t.
The restaurant proved to be all consuming. Fourteen-hour days, six days a week. My OCD personality for perfection was not a great match for a business which turned nearly six hundred tables a day.
My lack of sleep showed up in irrational rants at my staff. My lack of energy at home showed up in indifference when Lola pulled away.
The first time she slipped up, I barely noticed. A casual mention of a weekend getaway to a resort. Nothing unusual until the bills hit my card, and I saw it was a couple’s resort. When I confronted her, she played me like a guitar.
Denials: I went with Sara. Diversion: Shouldn’t you be focused on the restaurant? When the truth came out: anger. You haven’t been here, Zach, what the hell did you expect.
She pulled me down that energy rabbit hole knowing I didn’t have the time, strength, or will to fight it out with her. We both promised to do better, and we both failed.
Two months after opening the restaurant, Lola and I were done, our relationship dying with a whimper. A text from her. I’m in the Bahamas with Michael. He’s asked me to move in with him when we get back. What do you say?
What do you say?
How about WTF? Did she really ask me what I thought about her moving in with another man?
My response, not my greatest moment. I still remember reading the message clearly. I was about to plate the twentieth order of shrimp scampi in an hour. I only had moments to get it to the server, my response telling me more about my headspace than anything,
Whatever.
She apparently didn’t take rejection easily. Two days later, I returned home to my condo. All her stuff gone, and all my things busted up. Broken TV, spray-painted walls, and ice cream melting on the stove.
So now every day when I come to work, I grimace seeing her name when entering. My agent tells me it’s too early to change names; my accountant tells me I can’t afford it, anyway.
“Hot, back.” The sous chef passes again, pulling
me out of my memory. The heat from the tray of biscuits warms my back as he passes closer than he needs to.
“Watch it,” I snap. The aisle in the kitchen is more than wide enough for two people. I made sure of that when I sprang for the extra foot in the design, setting me back another twenty thousand dollars.
My expediter shoots me a look. He’s been managing the back of house, making sure the runners and waitstaff are on point. We have to be on alert as we are approaching our three-month mark. Seattle is notorious for hitting new restaurants with mystery diners, food bloggers, and restaurant reviewers right around this time. These reviews, more so than an ad or a Yelp review, shape our future.
Marc, our top waiter, pushes into the kitchen holding a full plate and a look of frustration. “Table six again.” He begins toward the expediter. “Claims he asked for medium, and this is rare.”
The expediter flips through the stack of tickets. “Says right here rare.”
Marc nods. “Yeah, I know, did the same with the appetizer,” he says, pointing to the ticket which is a series of scratches and rewrites.
I step toward them as the grill cook fires off another steak. “Which table?”
“Six,” Marc says as a look of concern spreads across his face. “Sorry, Chef, I’ll take care of it. Sometimes customers don’t remember.”
He practically flinches as I approach, which doesn’t surprise me. Since Lola left, I’ve practically lived in the kitchen and have become shorter and shorter with everybody who enters my orbit. I know it’s counterproductive, but I’ve taken no steps to stop. “I got it,” is all I offer. I wipe my hands on a towel and push through the doors.
I stand for a second as my eyes adjust from the bright lights and chaos of the kitchen to the quiet and candle lights of the dining room.
Justine, the maître d’ this evening, spots me and rushes toward me. “How can I be of assistance, Chef?” I bite my lower lip as my eyes adjust and I lock in on table six.