18. Crew
T he last three weeks had settled into a routine of sorts. Winnie and I met on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays after our rush hour. Although lately, we’d been pushing the time back further, and I wasn’t sure if she noticed it too, but it seemed like each day we worked a little harder to get our customers fed and happy before rushing to one of our kitchens. She had perfected a strawberry tartlet: a crisp, buttery short crust pastry shell filled with smooth vanilla pastry cream, topped with fresh, ripe strawberries arranged in a circular pattern that would have taken me years to master. Each night, she took one home with her and left me with the leftovers—meaning I was now eating about eight tartlets a week. I knew for certain that strawberries were quickly becoming my favorite fruit.
The first few days, weeks even, after my surgery felt like dipping our toes into a hot tub—testing, waiting, and eventually lowering ourselves in. It took a while for us to find our footing anywhere but the kitchen. That was the one place we both thrived. It was where we took turns sharing playlists and podcasts over the speaker, and then we’d go to work, gliding and dancing around each other in tandem. It was entirely effortless when we were doing our jobs; it was when we stopped that we struggled to find our level. When the music died down and the food was done and cold, everything fell into a dull silence, except for the distant traffic.
Ever since I found out the truth about Winnie’s past, something had changed. How could I keep up the whole “I despise you” act when the real reason didn’t even exist anymore? I tried, sure—going as far as keeping all eyes to myself, even when she showed up the other day in the smallest sweater known to mankind. I saw the dimples in her back and had very few other thoughts since. Every day, it became more impossible to ignore this. To ignore her. No wonder half the town lined up at her food truck. I’d line up too, if it meant a minute of her attention or anything she conjured up in there.
And that was before I started cooking with her.
She was on her science-baking kick, dissecting measurements and heat like a chemistry experiment, and I was there with my “let’s toss this in for flair” attitude. And somehow, it worked. Our rhythm locked in, like we’d been doing this together for years instead of weeks. Between her perfect tart shells and my fire-roasted peppers, there was no way people wouldn’t vote for us in the competition. We had looked at the lineup—our food wasn’t just good, it was exciting. It was new, sexy, and alluring but safe and controlled and so incredibly delicious that I was having literal dreams about it.
Every time we shared samples, our kitchens became moaning, groaning messes. We had to force our eyes apart from each other and continue with our days.
And if the food wasn’t enough, she had been getting to know me more too. Not just my personality—I think she always knew how I was—but in this funny way where she could predict me. We had inside jokes now. Actual jokes, not just us constantly ragging on each other about the things we hated.
I found a box of band-aids on my truck the other day after she sliced her finger during one of her flirty knife disasters. Partially my fault, for deciding on a whim to give it right back to her. She left the box without a word, but the band-aids said enough. So, naturally, I had to one-up her. The next day, I left her a taco with a sign that said, ‘not poisoned or overly salted’ and it got a snort-laugh out of her, which I considered a win too.
My phone buzzed on the counter, Winnie’s contact—which used to have a witch hat emoji and was now replaced by a strawberry one—flashing across the screen. I swiped it up at an alarming rate and didn’t wait a single ring before answering.
“You’re not getting that jalape?o sau—”
“Have you checked the weather for Saturday?” Winnie rushed out, skipping the formalities.
I tilted my head as I placed her on speaker, already pulling up the weather app. “I haven’t, no. But you know that stuff is wrong all the time.” The number of times I had packed up my truck after assuming it was going to rain like the end days, only to see it was just a light sprinkle and then having to set everything back up again, wasn’t lost on me.
“Crew, please listen. I just got a call from Craig—”
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “Let me guess, he wants you to visit him again? Bring him some more donuts? Give me his number, and I’ll show him how a real man—”
“Crew.” She cut me off, and I could hear a shakiness building in her voice. “They’re considering rescheduling the whole competition to the week after Thanksgiving.”
Winnie’s breath was rapid and chaotic, and I tried to think of anything to make her feel at ease. “Okay, so they’re not canceling, just rescheduling? No big deal. We’ve got more time to practice and make everything perfect.”
“No. Crew, it is a big deal.” Her voice cracked, and I stopped tapping my foot. “I needed that money before Thanksgiving.”
“Then talk to me. Why does the date matter so much?”
She let out a heavy sigh that wrapped around my chest and heart. “I was going to fly home for Thanksgiving with that money. I haven’t been back since...” She didn’t finish, but I didn’t need her to. I knew. Ever since her ex-fiancé made the biggest mistake of his life, she had been on her own. Here. Away from the place I knew she had been dreaming of. And she hadn’t been able to visit because she had been putting all her money into the ridiculous apartment he left her with.
“Come to my Thanksgiving.” The words were out before I could think them through. “Mom would be thrilled to have you. The mac and cheese might not rival your Nana’s, but it’s still pretty damn good. And Rachel keeps threatening me if I don’t bring you over anyway, so this really might be the best solution.”
She hesitated. “I told my cousins I was coming. My Nana was excited. This competition moving ruins everything. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing this. I feel stuck here. I need a break—I just can’t wait anymore.”
I ran a hand through my loose hair, glancing at the forecast again. It was grim, but something in me refused to let this crush her. “It won’t rain.”
“But it says—”
“I know what it says, Winnie, but we’re not freaking out yet. They haven’t officially canceled anything, right? Don’t tell your family you can’t come, because you don’t know that yet.
There was a pause on the other end, followed by a few sniffles. “Yeah… yeah, okay. You’re right. We’ll just wait and see.”
“Exactly. Now, get your head back in the game and make me some more of those chocolate croissants to keep your mind off things.”
A gasped laugh came through the speaker, and I felt the edges of my lips pulling up. “Oh yeah? To keep my mind off things?”
“Listen, I’m doing this for you.”
“Sure.” She laughed, and the load on my chest got progressively lighter.
“Hey, come on, we’ve got this, alright? I’ll keep checking, but I promise it’s not going to cancel.”
Winnie eventually calmed down fully, and after we hung up, I sat down at the table and pulled out my laptop, scrolling through ten different weather sites like I was some kind of amateur meteorologist. “Absolutely whipped by a girl I’m not even dating,” I muttered to myself. “This is a new low.”
But who was I kidding? The more time I spent with her, the less I minded the whole “whipped” thing. If this was what it felt like, I couldn’t say I hated it.