The Chef's Passion (Her Perfect Man Contemporary Romance)

by Z. L. Arkadie

  As soon as I’m inside, I fall on top of the couch. I want to watch the next episode of Head Chef Total Domination, but the thought of seeing Randy on TV makes me queasy. Instead, I pull up the calendar on my phone and think back to the day I had my last period. I’m pretty sure it was on a Friday because I worked my shift at the café and then I went to Standards, a restaurant uptown, with Gemma and Sarah, two friends from high school. Both of them are married and pregnant and were grilling me on when I was going to get with the program and join them. Two things happened that made me smile victoriously—the entrees were served, and I had to excuse myself to go to the restroom because I got my period.

  From the date of our dinner, I count to the night Randy and I fucked without a condom.

  “One, two, three, four…” I keep counting until I reach, “fourteen.”

  I gasp and sink deeper into the sofa. I sit very still and try to will my period to come. Maybe it’s delayed because I’ve been so busy with school and then work. I breathe deeply, relaxing all my limbs and then the rest of my body. I repeat, “Come period, come.”

  After a while, my eyes pop open. I swear I felt two cramps. I race to my bathroom, pull down my pants, and check. There’s no blood. Grappling with anxiety, I pull my pants back up, walk out to my bedroom, and pace in front of my dresser. I could go to bed and hope when I wake up in the morning, my cycle will have started.

  I can’t wait that long.

  I rush back into the living room, grab my keys off the coffee table and my purse off the sofa, and head to Walgreens. My hands are trembling during the entire drive. I mean, seriously, what sort of mother could I be? I would have to buy diapers and baby formula. Then there’s preschool and, oh God, how would I handle it if my child were to be bullied? I used to hate to see that happen to kids when I was in school—and boy, does it happen a lot. I never participated in such acts, nor did I need to be friends with kids who did. My dad used to say, “It’s all a personal choice, Gina. If you cross lines, then you’re to blame.” He used to repeat that all the time. It never made any sense until I turned fifteen or so. Then I knew. I would never sacrifice my beliefs and my decency in order to be liked. Fuck ’em. If anything, I stood up for those who were convinced that they couldn’t stand up for themselves, and I mean I literally fought. By the time I turned fifteen, I was already a black belt in karate. Of course I abandoned the practice when I turned sixteen. Naomi thinks I have a problem with staying focused and I should sit down and talk with a therapist about that. She’s right. I am unfocused at times. Now, what sort of parenting skills can an unfocused person like me have?

  “I’m fucked,” I whisper as I park in front of the drugstore. Not only that, but if I’m pregnant, my child is fucked. No way—God is more merciful to children than that. But then I think of all the screwed-up households my friends had growing up—and mine wasn’t that perfect either—and I realize being mentally and emotionally stable isn’t a criterion for bringing new life into this messed-up world.

  I take a steadying breath before I force myself to get out of my car, and soon, I’m walking under the fluorescent lights of the drugstore. My head feels like it’s in a daze as I go up and down the aisles until I locate the pregnancy tests. For some reason, I’m jolted by an infusion of optimism. There’s no way I’m pregnant. But I still take the most popular pregnancy test brand off the shelf and stroll confidently to the register. I pay, avoiding the look of dread on the face of the woman who rings up my purchase.

  Soon, I’m home and in my bathroom, peeing on a white stick. I’ve already read the instructions, and they’re pretty easy. Pee on the tip, and wait twenty minutes. If a pink plus sign appears in the results window, then I’m pregnant. If a blue minus sign appears, then I’m not pregnant.

  I sit the test stick on top of a clean paper towel on the counter, set the timer on my phone for twenty minutes, and wait. I return to the living room and sink deep into the sofa. I’m still feeling pretty optimistic. Sure, I made a mistake by screwing Randy without a condom. Never again. Actually, I’ll never have sex with Randy again. I’m pretty sure he’s hot for Chef Deanna Blume, anyway. I turned off the last episode after he picked her first for his team challenge squad—even when she was on the bottom the week before. When they cut to Randy’s interview, he said he picked beauty before skill. What a dick thing to say and do. Right then and there, I was so over Randy. I felt as if I was ready to conquer life.

  New goals. New dreams. Perhaps after I graduate from culinary school, I’ll move to Los Angeles or, even better, Seattle and open my own little restaurant. I would specialize in American and French fusion. Maybe I should open my restaurant in New Orleans. I’ve been saving the bulk of my inheritance for a big move. Whatever decision I make, I have to make sure it’s the right one and cost effective.

  I play with the idea of turning on the TV to see if Randy has fallen in deeper with Chef Deanna. I also want to know if he won last week’s challenge and if he’s winning this week’s too. I could check the blogs. That might be more palatable. I spring up off the sofa to get my computer, but the timer rings. Twenty minutes went by so fast. I hightail it to the bathroom but stop to brace myself once I reach the door. This is the big moment. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. After I walk to that counter and see that test, I will no longer be able to delude myself. One last breath, and I go in and look. There’s a pink plus sign.

  I look up and stare at myself in the mirror, blinking slowly. My head is light, and I feel as if my spirit has left my body. These results could not be right. No way. Maybe this particular test is defective. Maybe I need to drink some water or something first. I shake my head conclusively. I’ve prayed. I’ve bargained with God. Those results are wrong—I just know it.

  I run out of the bathroom, grab my keys and purse, and head back to the drug store. This time, I buy six different tests—three brands, two of each. The same girl from last time rings up my purchase. She looks at me sympathetically, but I reject her sentiment. I’m not pregnant. I can’t be pregnant.

  I take my bag and hurry out of the drugstore. I’m aware that I’m speeding as I drive home. I partly wish I would get pulled over by a patrolman—then I could cry to him about not wanting to be pregnant. As if whining and crying to strangers would change my earlier results. Nope, it can’t. It’s going to take more prayer, so that’s what I do.

  I promise God a lot if all the pregnancy tests come out negative. I will never have premarital sex again, which in effect will make my church-going mom happy. Heck, I’ll even attend services with her at least once a month. Now, I know church isn’t God’s requirement, but going would make me a better daughter. For my dad, I would sell my Mustang and only drive the brand-new truck. He would love that.

  When I make it home, I race to the bathroom and start all over again. I take the first test and wait twenty minutes. My result is a blue cross, which means pregnant, but it’s sort of fuzzy. I force myself to pee on another stick. I wait ten minutes for these results, and my result is a pink cross. I keep going. At this point, my eyes are glassy and my head hurts. I’ve prayed so much that I feel as if God has stopped listening. I’m only clinging to the hope that he’s going to grant me a miracle at some point and one of these tests will show negative results.

  I’m pretty sure a few hours have gone by. I’m in the kitchen, drinking water. Four pregnancy tests down, two more to go. I wonder if I should make the ultimate deal with God. My mom, Tessa, may have a line to God that going to church every chance she can affords her. She never rides me about settling down and starting a family, but I know it would make her happy. She’s always mentioning hugging and kissing her grandchildren one day. I’m her only child, so apparently, I’m the source from which they will come. So I press my hands together and close my eyes. God, I’ll do it. I’ll do it for her—one day, not today—ten years from now at least.

  I open my eyes and take two deep breaths. Hell, I didn’t even manage to convince myself I was sincere abo
ut my vow. So I close my eyes and dig deeper. I will soon find a good guy and make a family so that my mom can have grandchildren. I open my eyes. Thinking those words feels all kinds of wrong, but still, I hold onto the hope that it’s enough to make one of the last two tests come up negative.

  I head back to the bathroom and force my bladder to dispense enough urine to pee on both sticks. Twenty minutes later, and I’ll know the results. Twenty minutes later, my life will change for the better or the worse.

  10

  When I wake up this morning, my head feels as if I dove into a deep swimming pool and didn’t hold my breath. Now there’s a sharp pain on both sides of my head, and my eyes are still tight from crying myself to sleep last night. According to all seven tests that I took, I’m pregnant, and Randy has to be the father. What’s even worse is that I’m the mother. However, I can hear my own mother in my mind, saying, Nothing is confirmed until the real doctor says it.

  So I get out of bed and call my doctor. The receptionist asks me why I want to come in, and I recount the awful night I had.

  “Seven pregnancy tests?”

  “Yes.”

  “All positive?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Then I can confirm that you are pregnant, but we’d still like to get you in for a checkup. You’re lucky because we have an opening this afternoon at one. Is that a good time for you?”

  Oh, how I want to say no and delay the inevitable. “I can make it.” My voice is filled with doom and gloom.

  Six hours later, Dr. Haskell has taken another pregnancy test to confirm my predicament. She ordered a series of blood tests, prescribed prenatal pills, and scheduled my next checkup. Of course, she asked the probing questions about the father. I told her I’m the mother and that’s all she needs to know for now. She didn’t seem to like what I said, but she didn’t quarrel with me.

  For the rest of the day, I decide to neglect class. I also call into work and tell them I’ll be out not only today but also for the rest of the week. Tomorrow I have Naomi’s graduation and party to attend, and I’m not scheduled to return to the Calypso until Monday.

  Now that I have no more obligations, I curl up in bed and wait until my eyelids become heavy. The doctor has confirmed that I’m four and a half weeks pregnant. The life inside me was definitely conceived the night before Randy ran off to make TV. The thought is once again too much for me to bear, and I make myself fall asleep again.

  On Friday, I practice being sprightly enough to not tip off Naomi about how I really feel deep down inside. When I pick her up, she’s a sight for sore eyes in her cap and gown. Her little apartment that she used to share with Elena, our friend who died in a car accident four months ago, is filled with boxes. She’s finally moving in with Derek. Of course, she says she will be living with him only until she finds her own place, but I don’t buy it. As we head to the ceremony, I let Naomi do all the talking about the party at her father’s house and how much Dick Sutters has changed since his fiancée entered his life. The weird thing was the fiancée, Alice, is Derek Valentine’s sister and an interior designer. Naomi mostly talks about how Alice is going to remodel Derek’s house. I would butt in and say it sure sounds like she’s planning on living there permanently, but the more she talks about herself, the less we have to discuss me.

  When we make it to the university, I feel a lot better. The day’s ceremony momentarily suspends the reality of my pregnancy. When I graduated, Naomi came out to support me. She cheered the loudest. So I make sure I cheer even louder for her, even beating out Derek Valentine. Admittedly, he can’t cheer too loud because they’re still “in the closet” with their relationship since he’s her professor and boss. But I’m pretty sure that come the day she doesn’t have to set foot on campus again, they’ll be out, proud, and loud about their relationship.

  By the time the ceremony ends and Naomi’s graduation dinner starts, I’m so exhausted. Now when I eat I have to be mindful that I can potentially harm another life. So I ask myself, are all the pesticides washed off the vegetables, and what about preservatives? Should the fetus inside me consume that shit? I keep a smile on my face and engage in light conversation with her family members. Also, I make sure I drink nothing but water, and I am aware that Naomi is not too involved in her own party to notice. She’s watching me like a fucking hawk.

  After the toasts have been made and dinner consumed, we go to the backyard to mingle around the pool and have drinks and hors d’oeuvres. For the first time ever, I didn’t really taste the food that was on my plate, and right now all I want to do is go home and sleep.

  I talk to Dick for a while, and he gives me tips on how to pass the bar. Actually, I’m thoroughly entertained by how he’s handling me with kid gloves.

  “You just relax, and it will come back to you.” Dick tilts his head and looks at me intently. I think he really wants to know if it’s sinking through my thick skull.

  I smile. “I understand. But you know, Mr. Sutters, what if I want to be a chef?”

  He looks astonished. I can tell he’s reading my expression, trying to figure out if I’m being serious. Alice joins us. She’s brought a silver platter of cream puffs.

  “Richard, try these,” she says.

  Dick takes one of the savory-scented puffs off the platter.

  She places the platter in front of me. “Would you like one?”

  I’m a little nauseated, but I say, “Yes. Thank you.”

  I figure it’s time to redirect the conversation, so I tell them that they have a beautiful backyard and ask them to explain what kind of shrubs they’ve planted. I hit the jackpot with that subject because they talk over each other, explaining how they made over the backyard. I’m only half listening. Finally, Naomi comes over and tells her dad that she wants to speak to him. She hasn’t told Dick that she’s in a full-blown relationship with Derek yet, and tonight, she’s supposed to break the news.

  “Of course,” Dick says, and they stroll off together.

  Alice finishes telling me her plan to drain the pool and retile the bottom and sides with porcelain. I fight the urge to yawn. Gosh, I really don’t want to let Naomi’s future stepmother know that I’m bored already. Thank God someone calls her name. She offers me another cream puff, I take one, and she practically dances off to see what the guy who called her wants.

  Finally, I’m alone, so I yawn.

  “Hey,” Naomi says close to my ear.

  I turn around to face her. She chuckles and wags her finger. “But next time, I’ll make sure you don’t see me coming.”

  I think I’m smiling—at least, I feel like I’m smiling. Actually, I didn’t see her before she revealed herself; I was just too exhausted to react. “Right.” I yawn again. “Listen, nice dinner party, but I’ll be leaving soon.”

  She points her chin toward the glass in my hand. “I notice that’s your second glass of water. What’s up with that?”

  I figure now’s the time to come clean. I sigh. “I’m pregnant.”

  She smirks. “You don’t even feel like beating around the bush, do you?”

  I rub my stomach. “What for? I figure eight months from now, when I’m pushing a baby out of my hoo-ha, you’ll know why tonight I’m drinking water, so why lie?”

  Naomi nods continuously. “Wow. So Randy’s the father?”

  I instinctively look around for the cocktail tray, even though I won’t indulge. “I think I need a drink for that answer, but yes, Randy’s the father.” I raise a finger. “But it gets better. I failed the bar—again!” I got my results from February’s exam a week before I banged Randy in the kitchen. I never told Naomi about it because I didn’t want to listen to her encourage me to take the exam again in July.

  Just as I thought, the corners of her mouth turn down sympathetically, and she pats me on the shoulder. “That’s okay. The fifth time may be the charm.”

  I grunt and roll my eyes. “Fuck it. The only reason I kept taking that fucking test was because law
school was expensive.”

  “Yes, it was,” Naomi says.

  “Right. But I’ve come to the realization that failing was my way of telling myself that I really don’t want to be a lawyer, and no matter how hard I try, I don’t want it.”

  Naomi’s eyes expand as if she’s experiencing my crisis. “If that’s the case, then what are you going to do now?”

  “The million-dollar question.” I take the brochure for my culinary school out of my purse and give it to her.

  She grimaces while studying it. “This is for culinary school.”

  I smile. “I want to be a chef.”

  “Really? I’ve never seen you cook anything in your life.”

  I snatch my brochure from her. “I cook,” I say defensively.

  She looks at me with one eye narrowed and then sighs. “You know I will always support you no matter what you decide.”

  I look down at my belly.

  “So does Randy know?” she asks.

  I look up. “Not yet.”

  She jerks her neck. “You haven’t told him yet?”

  I envision Randy off in New York, filming the cooking show. He’s already having a thing with another contestant. “I don’t even like him,” I say, partly to remind myself of that fact.

  “You should have thought about that before you screwed him twice.”

  “Well… three times.”

  Naomi’s jaw drops. “Three? Why not four or five?”

  “Okay, maybe four…”

  Naomi shakes her head. “I can’t believe you.”

  I raise a hand. “Could we just drop it for now? I’m too sleepy to explain myself at the moment.”

  She sighs. “Okay, but call if you need anything from me, and unlike tonight, I won’t get all judgmental with you. Deal?”

  I read her expression to see if she really means it and then extend a hand. “Okay, deal.”