by Riley Bancroft, Evelyn Berry, Cara Carnes, Jax Garren, Irene Preston, Rebecca Royce, Chandra Ryan
“Hoofed it. You don’t live very far.”
“Why didn’t you call? I could have picked you up.” Okay, it was only a few miles, but after an eight hour shift and before dawn?
“I’m fine, Win. You can’t ferry me around all the time.”
“If you’re working late-nights, Annie won’t mind if you take the Guzzler.”
“We’ll see.”
“But—“
“Let it go, baby. I’ll work it out.”
Aston ate another taco and wondered how many times he could happen to be driving home at the same time Dylan was walking.
“Dylan?”
“Hmmm?”
“Did you really not break up with me?”
Silence. Well, it couldn’t be that easy, could it? It was just the sex had made him think maybe…”
“I didn’t think so at the time.”
The words were low, spoken to Dylan’s half-eaten taco.
“So if you didn’t break up with me, and I didn’t break up with you…” He trailed off, not sure where he wanted to go with this.
Across the table, Dylan wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Aston shoved the final taco and the mango away. Okay, then.
“Win, I—“
“What?”
“Just let me get back on my feet, okay, baby?”
Aston searched Dylan’s face looking for clues, but it told him nothing except the obvious. Dylan wasn’t jumping across the table to seal their reunion. Get back on my feet. A job? What did a job have to do with them?
“Sure.” He forced a smile. “Why don’t you try O? She’s still using most of your same menu at Ophelia’s. She’d probably jump at a chance to have you back.”
—
Except it wasn’t so easy.
Dylan didn’t want to go back to Ophelia’s. He was guiltily aware that O had given him his first big shot and he had left her in the lurch with barely a week’s notice.
After two weeks of fruitless job hunting, he sucked up his pride, prepared to grovel, and returned to the place that had not only launched his career but also had given him Win.
Ophelia ushered him back to the office instead of sitting with him in the corner of the bar where she did interviews. Dylan took it as a good sign. They spent a few minutes catching up and talking shop before he got to the point. O’s face instantly closed, and he knew before she said anything he would never be back on her line.
“You’re the best chef I ever had, Dylan. You put this place on the map. When you left, I thought I was in trouble. I hired the two best applicants I could find on short notice.” She shook her head. “Crazy thing, they both worked out. I don’t have enough hours for them already. Even if I was willing to take you back, I wouldn’t cut either of them to do it.”
Then she gave it to him straight.
“The truth is,” she said. “I can forgive you for leaving me. The job was a career move. But hon, I can’t forgive what you did to Win.”
I never meant to leave him, Dylan wanted to say. He deserves more. I wanted to give him more.
Win had proven he could take care of himself and, no, Dylan didn’t see him as a child. But despite Win’s size, Dylan always thought of him as delicate, something bright and beautiful to be protected and cherished.
All excuses. The truth was he had been too cocky, too confident in his own invincibility, and too blind to see what mattered to Win.
Now he had nothing to offer at all.
So he put in applications. He slung hash browns at the diner. He worked out a deal with Annie to borrow the Guzzler. He fed Win. Sometimes they came together, urgent bodies and fevered words. Sometimes he held Win in his arms afterward, absorbing the warmth of Win’s skin before moving back to the cold daybed in the guest room.
At first it was hopeless. Then it was routine. He barely noticed when his dreams slipped away.
5
“Dylan?” Aston flicked on the light in the living room.
There was a groan from the couch and then, “What time is it?”
“Do you work tonight? Shouldn’t you be gone already?”
“Fuck. Yes. Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I’m sorry.” Aston eyed the pile of soda cans and the game-controller on the coffee table in front of Dylan. “I was working. I lost track of time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You were working? Like I don’t work?”
“No. I just didn’t realize I’m now your alarm clock. Sorry.”
“Fuck. Fuck. I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t do supper, baby.”
He hadn’t done much of anything as far as Win could see, except maybe make grand master pooh-bah level of whatever game he was currently playing.
“I thought you were going to get a haircut today.”
Dylan scowled at him. “It’s only a little long.”
“And the scruff?”
“I thought you said it was sexy.”
It was a little, but sexy or not wasn’t the point.
“So are you going to work?”
“Yeah. Lemme go get dressed.”
“You don’t have to, you know. We don’t need the money.”
Dylan ignored him. “You want me to see if I can scrounge you up some leftovers before I head out?”
“No, I’ll see if Annie wants to walk down to the food trucks with me. I’ll be fine.”
Five minutes later Aston walked Dylan out to the Guzzler. Dylan rolled down the window after he started the engine.
“You’ll go eat, right?”
“I’ll eat. You don’t have to cook every night. I lived a whole year without you, remember? I can feed myself.”
“Only eleven months, baby. Another month and you would have turned orange and crunchy.”
Aston cocked a smile at him. “Eleven months, then.” He reached out and stroked a lock of hair back off Dylan’s forehead. “Have a good night, Dylan. Don’t worry about me.” He stuck his head in for a final kiss, and then watched until the Wagoneer’s taillights disappeared around the corner.
Annie was standing at her door when he turned around. “So,” she said. “Want to walk down to the food tucks?”
“Not particularly.” He paused, “Unless you want to.”
“Not particularly.”
“Can I come in?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, but I’m going to start making you eat over a tarp if you keep this up.” He followed her into the kitchen where she tossed him an orange bag. “Those crumbs get everywhere.”
“Don’t tell Dylan.”
“If Dylan didn’t have his head up his ass, he would be able to smell and taste this shit on you, not to mention your perpetually orange fingers and clothes.”
Aston ignored her and flopped onto her couch, chips cradled in his arm.
“Awwww, not on the furniture.”
“I don’t know what to do, Annie.”
“It’s very easy. Just put the chips down. Whatever else is going on, it’s not like Dylan doesn’t feed you.”
“That asshole in New York broke him.”
Annie sat down beside him. “The restaurant guy? What happened, anyway? I assumed the restaurant went belly-up.”
“I don’t know. He won’t talk about it, but…I never liked the owner. I mean Dylan can cook anything, but he’s so great this guy has to import him?”
“So you think it wasn’t just Dylan’s knife skills the man was after?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I know he was supposed to find Dylan a place to stay cheap. I know Dylan never called once he got there. I know he came back broken.”
“Sweetie, I don’t want to be mean, but Dylan made those choices on his own. Maybe he knew exactly what he was getting into.”
Aston admitted to himself he might be ignoring things he didn’t want to see. He didn’t have to admit it to Annie, though.
“He hasn’t been the same since he got back. At first he seemed okay, but after he got turned down f
or a few jobs…it’s like he just gave up. Except the grocery and work, I don’t think he’s been out of the house in weeks. His hair is long. He rarely shaves. I don’t think he’s doing laundry very often, either.”
Annie took the bag of chips from him and ripped it open. She snagged a handful before giving it back to him and crunched thoughtfully.
“You’re wearing a faded Doctor Who T-shirt with a rip in the armpit, your hair is sticking up on end, your glasses need cleaning, and you have on mismatched socks. I guess neither of you is putting too much effort into looking good for each other these days.”
Aston looked down at his socks, then back up at Annie. “But I always look like this.”
“Yet you’re upset Dylan’s not making the extra effort?”
“I don’t care how long his hair is or how often he shaves. Dylan cares. Or he used to. Jeez, he should have lived in the stupid gated community on the lake, not me. He used to spend hours fussing over his clothes, his hair, the way he looked. He’s the only chef I know who doesn’t have at least one tattoo—doesn’t fit his image, you know? He couldn’t afford designer clothes new, so he got them from one of those consignment stores. It drove him crazy because he could never find my size there. He couldn’t get that I just don’t care.”
“Huh. Yeah, he did used to look spiffier,” Annie conceded.
“And he hasn’t put in a job application in weeks.”
“Didn’t y’all used to fight about him working too much?”
“I suppose.”
“You need the extra money?”
“No. We don’t need the money. You’re missing the point. I don’t care if he sits around the house all day and never goes to work again. But he cares. Or he always did before. Before he went to New York he was a cocky, goal-oriented, vain, workaholic, over-achiever.”
“And that was a good thing?”
“I don’t know. But it was the real Dylan, and I want him back.”
6
“He wants what?” Dylan stared at Annie.
“Barbacoa,” she said. “In a pit in the back yard with all kinds of sides and stuff. He said he saw your uncle do it.”
“Aston wants me to make barbacoa?”
“He wants to invite a bunch of people over for his birthday and do a big shindig with a band and the whole works. He wants some of those special chips you make.”
“The adobo chips? Are you sure?”
“Adobo. Those are the ones. I think there are a couple of other things, too. He’s afraid to ask you, but I figured if he wanted it for his birthday, you would want to know.”
“I don’t know, Annie. We’ll need drinks and, Jesus, barbacoa in a pit? And appetizers for how many people?” Because of course he could do the cooking, but as soon as Annie had started talking, a ticker had started running in his head tallying up the expenses. He was still only part-time at the diner. After buying enough non-hydrogenated groceries to keep a 6’7” Win healthy plus what the Guzzler ate in gas, he didn’t have much left over. And he’d be damned if he asked Win to pay for his own birthday party.
But what the hell else could he do? Just one more thing he couldn’t provide for Win. It was so depressing he almost missed what Annie said next.
“So, anyway, I ran it past Jim, and if we invite a bunch of musicians, which of course Win will, he says he’ll kick in for the booze and the groceries as a networking expense if you can donate your services. You know, get off work and do the pit digging and cooking and whatnot?”
So of course Dylan said yes, even though the fact that he had to rely on Jim to pay for everything rankled. It rankled a little less when Win started rattling off all the dishes he wanted. Dylan didn’t know Win could name half that stuff. He would have charged Joe Bob’s a fortune to do it, and he would have hired staff, to boot. He damn sure wouldn’t have had to be the gardener and housekeeper which, looking around the house, he realized they needed before they invited people over.
The long and short of it was, he was run off his feet for the next few weeks, getting everything ready. At t-minus two days, he looked in the mirror and realized he needed a haircut and even finding an extra half hour for the barber was almost impossible.
The night of Win’s birthday, he had to admit it was worth all the trouble. For being so shy, Win somehow managed to attract a lot of friends. It looked like half of South Austin had shown up to wish him happy birthday. Their backyard party had morphed into a mini block party with cars parked everywhere and people mingling in yards up and down the street. Their neighbors brought out lawn chairs and strolled over with their own contributions of food and beverages to supplement the mountain of food Dylan had already prepared.
The big event of the night was getting the barbacoa out of the pit. They had the meat out, and Dylan was enlisting a few muscular guys to haul up the pot of vegetables from the bottom when Win’s cousin showed up.
Win didn’t have much family in the area and seemed excited to see his older cousin from out of town. Dylan stopped what he was doing long enough to be introduced. The guy looked familiar, but Dylan didn’t have time to figure out why. Maybe Win had pictures of him someplace.
He noticed him a few more times throughout the night, mostly because he was always with Win. Unlike Win, he didn’t seem to have a problem talking around strangers. In fact, Dylan got an earful from half a dozen people about how great Carlo was. Good. Dylan was glad the guy had made the effort to come to Win’s party while he was in town on business. It had obviously made Win’s night for his cousin to show up.
He didn’t think much more about Win’s cousin until he went into the kitchen for some extra cups. When he turned around, he found Carlo leaning in the doorway.
“So you’re Dylan. I’m glad we can finally meet.”
Maybe it was the brighter light in the kitchen, or the way Carlo blocked Dylan’s exit, but right then he looked less friendly than he had standing next to Win. Or maybe it was because the big Italian seemed like the type of guy who took family, even long-distance, extended family, very seriously.
Dylan was pretty sure Carlo was checking out his cousin’s loser roommate. Dylan didn’t blame him one bit. He braced himself for some probing questions about either his prospects or how long he expected to be occupying Win’s guest room for free.
What Carlo said instead was, “Aston wasn’t exaggerating about your skills as a chef.”
Dylan shrugged. “This stuff I mostly learned from my family. I don’t know what Aston’s told you, but I work at a diner. They basically hire people off the street. It doesn’t take any particular skill. Anyone can fry an egg and stick it on a plate.”
“But you haven’t always worked there, and Aston is right, you’re talented. Wouldn’t you like something a little more upwardly-mobile?”
“Yeah, I guess if something came along.”
If something came along? What the hell was wrong with him? When had he stopped looking? When had he stopped trying to make things better?
He sat down at the table, stunned. This party was the first time he had exerted himself in months. And it felt good, he realized. Despite all the headaches and work, it was awesome to be doing something he cared about again, especially something for Win.
“Dylan? Are you okay?” Carlo sat down across the table from him.
“Yeah. Look man, don’t worry. I’m not going to sponge off your cousin forever.”
Carlo’s eyebrows shot up. “I never thought you were. I checked you out. Your history doesn’t point to the type of person who would spend his life on the couch playing video games.”
Ouch, but…
“You checked me out? What the hell do you mean?”
“Calm down. It means I asked Aston a few questions, made a couple of phone calls, and dug around online for information about the places you worked. When Aston called me, I wanted to know your work experience. You had great reviews, by the way.”
“Why would Aston call you about…” He stopped talking becau
se it hit him why he recognized Carlo. He looked different in jeans and a t-shirt. Dylan had only seen pictures of him in a suit.
“Carlo.” He laughed. “God, I’m so stupid. I didn’t recognize you. You’re Giancarlo Rotolo, from the Ransom Group.”
“Guilty. But don’t worry, I don’t expect to be recognized. Being a celebrity is Garrett’s job. I’m just a glorified manager.”
Chef Garrett Ransom was a household name. Joe Blow on the street might not know the name of his partner, Giancarlo Rotolo, but everyone in the food world did.
“I can’t believe Aston never mentioned what you do.”
“Well, fine dining isn’t Aston’s priority in life. Is he still eating those awful orange chips?”
“He hides them in his studio and with Annie next door. Don’t tell him I know.”
“You care about him.”
It wasn’t a question, but Dylan felt it like a slap anyway, as if there could be any doubt.
“I’m not just crashing here for the free room.”
“Ah, but you are still in the guest room.”
“That’s not your business.” Jesus, how much had Win told his cousin?
“I’m just trying to understand the situation. Aston called me because he thought I might be able to help revitalize your career.”
“What, like a letter of recommendation or something?” Win shouldn’t have interfered. Dylan wanted to tell Carlo he didn’t need Win to get him a job. But, yes¸ a rec from Giancarlo Rotolo? His mind churned with the possibilities.
“I was thinking something a little more concrete, like maybe a job.”
Working at a Ransom restaurant? Even at the lowest level, it was his dream job, except…. “You would hire me just because Aston asked?”
“No. Because Aston asked and because you’re a talented chef with a solid resume. Are you interested?”
Was he interested? He tried to play it cool. “I’m definitely interested. I had no idea Ransom was opening a restaurant in Austin.”
“We’re not.”
7
Three a.m. Party over.
Aston supposed a few people might have been inclined to stay longer, but he was done. The happy party vibe had worn off, and the energy swirled inward, leaving him tense and unsociable. Dylan must have noticed the mood change because he had taken care of shooing off the stragglers.