by Marika Ray
So, numbness I’d take. It would have to do until I could figure out how to get over her entirely. The job, the move, and getting custody of my sister had been a nice distraction. When that all became the new norm, then I’d address matters of the heart. I couldn’t be TinMan forever.
The move to Santa Monica was remarkably uneventful. Between Abi and me we didn’t have a whole lot of stuff. When Mom died, we went through all her things and kept what we wanted as keepsakes, the rest donated to the local shelter. One small truckload and my car were all we needed as we trekked down the coast to our new home.
We put away the essentials in our respective bedroom closets and in the tiny kitchen. We were unpacked in time to eat takeout Chinese on the living room floor and talk about what we needed to still buy for the place. First on both our lists was a television. The one at my old place had been Marcos’ and I could see how much of a priority that would be.
Abi was still on summer break, which gave me time to get her registered at the closest public high school. She was still sleeping the next morning when I had to leave to meet Jon Paul at the new restaurant space. I left her a note on the kitchen counter to keep unpacking and make a list of what else we needed, and then off I went. Thankfully, Santa Monica was a fairly sleepy part of L.A. and I didn’t get lost or need a smartphone with a map. And of course, my brain went straight to the days I navigated using Elle’s phone. She was probably right. I did need to upgrade my phone.
“Nope, not bringing her with me to my new job. Today is about new beginnings.” It was also apparently a day for pep talks out loud in the car. I knew where my thoughts had been the last two weeks and they were on a downward spiral into the shitter when I thought about how she hadn’t even reached out to me. She’d walked off that set without a backward glance or a “fuck you later.” I would never understand how she could have warm blood beating through her veins and do that.
I pulled alongside the curb of a side street that connected right to Pacific Coast Highway. I hopped out and the view stopped me in my tracks. As far as the eye could see was solid blue Pacific Ocean. Even the air there was different. Cleaner, cooler, the kind that made you want to suck in lungfuls of it and close your eyes, savoring it.
Instead I looked up and saw the newly installed iron sign Rustic Water over the giant bifolding glass doors. This was it. My new home away from home.
I walked through and saw people moving about in the back. “Hello?” I called out as I approached.
A very large man spun around and walked over, hand outstretched, his face mostly a giant smile with tiny eyes reduced to slits with the fullness of his cheeks trying to touch his forehead. “Hello! You must be Austin. I’m Jon Paul.”
I liked him instantly. “Nice to meet you, Jon Paul. Thank you so much for inviting me to be a part of your beautiful restaurant.”
His big hand swiped through the air, narrowly dodging my face. “No, no. The honor is all mine. Let me show you around and when my executive chef arrives, you two can sit and get the menu finalized. I have the final say, but you and he will build it. It’s good to be the boss, no?” His eyes twinkled and he looked ready to chuckle.
He gave me a tour of the kitchen, which was state of the art from the kitchen towels thicker than my bath towels to the specialty ovens made for hearth-fired pizzas. Everything was set up to be extremely functional and big enough for everyone in the kitchen to flow together even on the busiest of nights. The dining area was gorgeous in a sleek, modern California way. Tables along the side of the restaurant all had an ocean view, which would draw people in, even if the food sucked, which it wouldn’t if I had anything to say about it. And guess what? I was the sous chef, so I definitely had a say in it.
By the time the tour was over, Jon Paul was able to introduce me to the executive chef he’d hired. Before Jon Paul could break away and attend to everything else that needed to be done before opening, I shook his hand again and thanked him for the job.
“No thanks needed. Just do a killer job for me, that’s all I ask.”
“You bet I will. Make sure you let Bertrand know how thankful I am for the introduction.” I’d left Bertrand a message with my sincere thanks, but hadn’t gotten a phone call back, which as I thought about it, was quite odd. I’d been so busy moving, I hadn’t pressed the issue.
Jon Paul looked confused. “Bertrand Paul? How is that old goat?”
Now I was confused. “He’s good. But didn’t you two just talk?”
“No. I haven’t seen him in a few years. He still doing that crazy comb-over?”
I nodded, in a bit of a daze. Jon Paul laughed and walked away shaking his head. If Bertrand didn’t get me this job, then who did? Michael Fin?
There was no way. That man was a total bottom feeder and wouldn’t help his mother, let alone me.
The question swam through my brain as I tried to concentrate on my conversation with the new executive chef. We spent three hours hammering out the details of the menu. I was shocked he listened to me and implemented some of my ideas.
But mostly, I listened and absorbed, wanting to learn everything this man could teach me. I was an untried newbie. I had to show both him and Jon Paul that I could be trusted. The first way to do that was to be a team player, someone they could count on. I didn’t have much experience and I’m sure it was safe to say most people in the industry wouldn’t take a chance on someone like me. Either Jon Paul was particularly trusting or someone had really put in a good word. But my mom taught me never to look a gift horse in the mouth. I didn't care how I got it. It was mine and I was going to rock that kitchen.
As I left the restaurant, I reminded myself that my only focus beyond my sister was this restaurant and this opportunity. If I couldn’t have Elle—and it was becoming crystal clear I couldn’t—then I would devote myself to my career and my sister.
Maybe one day, a long way into the future, I’d patch together a new heart that could beat again for someone else. Not now, not any time soon, and definitely not for Elle.
17
Elle
“Deep breaths. Just remember to breathe,” I muttered to myself as I smoothed down my deep burgundy dress. Today was my grand opening. The day my restaurant was open for business. The day all my dreams would come to fruition.
My staff was ready, the space was ready, the critics were about to walk in the door, the press had already been by with their cameras and their interview questions. All that was left was for me to give the signal and the night would begin. My hands were shaking as I checked my makeup one last time in the mirror in the back where my staff stored all their personal belongings.
“Now’s not the time to go soft. Everything you’ve ever wanted is right here, right now. You’re going to go out there and smile like you’re the happiest woman in New York.” I gave myself a pep talk, one that was badly needed. I’d been going through the motions the last few weeks, doing what needed to be done to get this place open, but my heart was oddly not in it.
I couldn’t seem to get my thoughts away from Austin. I’d made the phone call to Jon Paul to assuage my guilt and to do the right thing.
I should have felt better. I should have been able to let Austin go. But if anything, he’d haunted my thoughts even more. I was in an Austin-induced funk and I didn’t know how to get out.
“El Jefe, you ready?” My executive chef popped his head in the room, the concern clear on his face. I was already five minutes late and that was very unlike me.
Forcing a broad smile on my face, I nodded and followed him out of the room, through the kitchen, and into the dining area. The maître d’ looked at me for the go-ahead.
One last deep breath and I bowed my head. My staff jumped into action and the doors to my restaurant opened for my first guests. The rest of the night was a blur of handshakes, kisses on the cheek, and softly spoken words to each diner as I made my way through the tables. My head pounded from holding the smile that should have come naturally. My feet proteste
d my sky-high heels and my chest ached for Austin to whisper in my ear to take them off and get comfortable.
The one thing that stood out the most from my night was that Mother and Austin weren’t in attendance. My mother because she just didn’t care, and Austin because I had been the one to push him away like I didn’t care.
One day blurred into the next. I read glowing reviews in the paper and online about my new restaurant. I smiled for pictures and thanked my staff profusely every night for a job well done. I shook hands and turned away more men just like the hot Italian from what felt like so long ago.
Nothing lit me up and set my spirit on fire.
I was dead inside.
So two weeks after my restaurant opened, I sat on my white couch in the dark after a long night of working, a huge glass of a full-bodied merlot in my hand. And I made a decision. One I would have never even considered in the past. I was going to take a vacation, leaving my restaurant in the capable hands of my executive chef.
I was going to Los Angeles.
I was going to talk to Austin and see where things were between us.
I was probably crazy.
But I was about to crawl out of my own skin, I was so tired of living a passionless life. I wasn’t yelling at my staff like I normally would. They didn’t even flinch when I walked through the kitchen. It was a disgrace. I was a disgrace.
Nothing seemed to penetrate this heavy blanket of sadness I was carrying around every day. I went to work, I came home, I went to sleep. Repeat. Thriving on that schedule was easy before, but now I could barely stand myself.
Where was the conversation? The teasing? The laughter? Austin had exposed me to so much more and now I couldn’t seem to live without it. I wanted hugs, and food fights, and him by my side while I navigated...well, everything.
As each sip of wine slid down my throat faster and my plan formed in more detail, I started to get angry. Just a tiny spark that lit up my brain and stirred something in my gut. How dare he push his way into my life and make me indifferent about everything I used to love? I’d rather hate my life than be lukewarm about it. Lukewarm was for losers who never amounted to anything in life because they just went with the flow without any clear opinion about anything. Dear God, let me hate or love it, but not that bullshit in between.
I was going to Los Angeles and Austin and I would talk. We’d get to the bottom of whatever was going on between us. We’d see if it was as dead as my feelings for my life or if I’d simply left my fire there with him. He probably hated me by now, so the whole thing might go up in flames, but I’d rather it all burn to the ground than stay where I was.
Two days later, I slid into a black dress, the lack of color the perfect symbol for what my life had become. I was in a small hotel two blocks away from where Austin was working. I’d driven by Rustic Water on my way from the airport last night and it was beautiful, situated right by the coastline, a warm and friendly look to it that seemed popular based on the number of people outside waiting for their table.
I’d felt a strong pull to park and try to catch a glimpse of him, or even to sit outside the building to just be closer to Austin, but even in my addled brain that sounded borderline crazy. Better to get to my hotel, check in, get some sleep, and plan my attack the next day.
So there I was putting on my battle armor, the slinkiest black dress I owned, my makeup on point, my hair down, and the most ridiculous shoes I owned. It didn’t escape my notice that no version of myself would ever do this unless I was in love. Which made my move this evening even more important to get right. How could I have fallen in love with Austin then betrayed him and walked away for a month? That was actually an easy question.
I’d been raised by a mother who didn’t understand what true love was, so how could she have taught me? A goddamn cupid in a white diaper could have flown right in front of me and hit me with an arrow and I wouldn’t have known it was love. I was floating in uncharted waters, flailing around with one oar and no sense of direction. I’d either be rescued by a hot seaman or drown all by myself. There was no telling.
In the worst plan in history, I decided to walk the two blocks to the restaurant, which would have been easy in normal shoes. In my stilettos I nearly broke an ankle and surely strained the tiny muscles that ran along the bottom of my feet. It was all worth it, though, when I joined the throng of people waiting to get in and I saw male heads turning to check me out. That sounded conceited, but I didn’t actually care about their attention. All I wanted was for one particularly shaggy-haired head to turn in my direction.
I was seated right on time at a little table for two. Yes, I’d called ahead to get a reservation—this was my grand plan, after all. I ordered a glass of red wine to calm my nerves and perused the menu like a starving woman. My nervous stomach probably wouldn’t let me eat more than a few bites, but I was hungry for any information on how Austin was doing.
I pulled in a quick breath when I read a menu item for squid, the description very similar to the dish Austin had made during the filming of Taste Test. That had to have been his addition to the menu. The coincidence was too great.
When my server came back for my order, I made sure to get the squid, needing to eat the dish Austin had made. If his hands made it, I wanted it in my mouth. I strained my neck trying to see into the kitchen every time a person came from the back, but it was never Austin. While I waited for my food I started to get nervous again, chastising myself for not calling Jon Paul ahead of time and making sure Austin was working tonight. This whole plan wouldn’t work if he wasn’t here.
Then my food was set in front of me and the smell was divine. Seeing his food on the fancy table in front of me, the diners all around me enjoying things he helped create was doing weird things to my heart. I was bursting with pride. He’d made his dreams come true, no thanks to me.
Taste Test was set to release our premiere episode tomorrow. Commercials had already been running and it was beyond bizarre to see myself on television. It was a special kind of hell to see Austin and not be with him. Between that series starting to air and his success at Rustic Water, Austin’s career would soon be exploding. Maybe talking to him now about how I felt would only be a distraction he didn’t need.
But as I put that first bite of food in my mouth I was thrown back to our days on set. Like people getting nostalgic over a song from their youth, that burst of flavor immediately took me back to how I felt when things were good with Austin and me. How alive I felt. How cared for and adored. How he listened to me and genuinely wanted to know how my day went. How he teased me and made me laugh.
I couldn’t walk away again without trying. I just couldn’t.
“Miss?” I flagged down my server. She came over with a confused smile. “I’m so sorry, but this squid dish is all wrong.”
She gave her head a quick shake like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I-I’m so sorry, ma’am. Let me take it back and get you a new one.”
I nodded, sorry to run this little charade, but needing a way in. “Thank you, I really appreciate that.”
She whisked the plate away and hurried into the back. My heart was in my throat, beating out a fast rhythm hummingbirds would envy. She was back in a matter of minutes, a new steamy dish in her hands.
“Here you go. Please let me know if this is to your liking.” She placed the food in front of me and then backed away to wring her hands.
I picked up my fork and speared a circle of squid, placing it carefully in my mouth. I chewed slowly and even though it was beyond delicious, I scrunched up my nose. “No. I’m sorry. It’s not going to work. The texture is not right. Take it back.”
The server looked well and truly alarmed by then, whisking the plate away again and practically running to the kitchen. She came back, a look of dread on her face. I sniffed, sat up straighter, and took another bite. I set my fork down as I chewed and clenched my fist under the table to get through what I had to do.
“No. I must
speak to your chef.”
To her credit, she handled the difficult situation well. She nodded and asked if I could follow her. I scraped my chair back and set my napkin next to my third plate of the best squid dish I’d ever had. My focus momentarily shifted to simply walking in my stilettos and not embarrassing myself in front of a room full of people. My plan couldn’t come to fruition if I went down before I made it to the kitchen.
I found myself in a cramped office space with a messy desk and a calendar on the wall with appointments circled and crossed out. The server asked me to wait for just a moment before she slipped out to check on diners who were far less difficult than me. Clasping my hands behind my back, I waited and reminded myself to breathe.
What felt like years later, but was probably only minutes, the door burst open and in walked everything that mattered to me. His hair was disheveled, like he’d run his hand through it one too many times that night. But his chef’s whites looked incredible on him, like he was born to wear them.
His eyes flew down my body and then back up to my face. He stumbled back a step and I lurched forward. If he was going to run from the room, I had to get a head start to stop him what with these damn shoes.
“Austin—” I reached out to touch his arm. He flinched and I let my hand drop down to my side, dejected.
“I should have known it was you sending back my signature dish. That squid is fucking perfect. There’s no way someone would send it back.” His voice was delicious, tickling my senses and easing the craving I’d had for weeks.
I shrugged, acting casual, though I was anything but. If anything I was bursting with pride that he believed in himself. He was finally confident in his abilities and he wore it like a sexy layer. “I was always a little difficult.”