Chapter 2 #2
Violet has been my agent for the past three years, and though I don’t have many friends due to my hectic lifestyle, I’d consider her one of them.
She manages my schedule and lines up my interviews.
Anyone who wants to write about me in their food blog or have me consult on their menu must go through her first.
And though there are very few people I can be honest with about what I’m dealing with, she’s one of them.
“Vi, you might kill me, but I think I’m going to take the rest of the summer off.”
If the Miami highway wasn’t so fucking loud, you’d be able to hear a pin drop.
“Why?” Her tone is frantic. “You have the biggest job of your career in the fall. You have the cover booked for Food & Wine magazine. Please don’t tell me you’re backing out of that.”
“No. God no. I’m still doing it and I’ll be in Los Angeles by the time my next job starts, I just...” Shit, how do I tell her that her highest-paid client is losing it? “Violet, I haven’t been able to create a new dessert in three weeks.”
“You mean you haven’t had the time?” she assumes. “Because if you’re needing more time to perfect the recipes for the article, I could understand that.”
“No. I mean I haven’t made something that didn’t fall apart in the process or burn to shit in the oven. It’d be comical how bad I am at my job if I weren’t on the brink of a mental breakdown because of it.”
She laughs. “You’re fucking with me, right?”
“Violet, a five-year-old with an Easy Bake Oven could make a better dessert than me right now.”
The line goes silent once again.
“Violet, you still there?”
“I’m processing.”
Taking the exit for my dad’s hotel, I wait for her to speak.
“Okay,” she says, calming herself. “Okay, this is fine. Everything’s fine. You’re going to take the next two months to breathe, gather yourself, and get out to Luna’s by September first.”
Luna’s is Chef Maven’s restaurant that I’ll be consulting at in the fall.
Maven did a seminar while I was in culinary school, and I’ve been dying for my chance to work with her, but she left the industry shortly after we met.
She became a mother, then came back into the food world by opening a restaurant named after her daughter and asked me to come help with her dessert menu.
The interview for Food & Wine magazine will be taking place in her kitchen in Los Angeles, and I couldn’t be more excited for the opportunity.
At least, I was excited until everything turned to shit.
“You’ll be at Luna’s by September first, right, Miller?” Violet asks when I don’t respond.
“I’ll be there.”
“Okay,” she exhales. “I can sell this. You’re celebrating your new award by spending the summer with family and you’re looking forward to being back in the kitchen in September.
God, the blogs and critics are going to be up my ass about this, wondering where the hell you are.
Are you sure your dad isn’t sick? I could spin that. ”
“Jesus, Violet,” I laugh in disbelief. “He’s perfectly fine, thank God.”
“Good. That man is too beautiful to be dying so young.” Finally Violet laughs through the receiver.
“Gross. I gotta go.”
“Tell Daddy Montgomery I said hello.”
“Yeah, I won’t be doing that. Bye, Vi.”
The Windy City Warriors, Chicago’s professional baseball team, have been in town for a couple of days.
My dad has been the field manager, which is essentially the head coach, for the past five years.
Before that, he worked with their minor league team after being snatched up from our local college back in Colorado.
Emmett Montgomery rose through the baseball ranks quickly.
As he deserved to. He was already on the fast track to making a name for himself in the sport when everything changed for us.
He gave up everything to become my dad, including his thriving career, refusing to leave his local coaching job until I graduated from high school and was off doing my own thing.
He’s one of the good ones. In fact, I’d argue he’s the very best.
It’s been just the two of us most of my life and, though you’d think I left home at eighteen to spread my wings, I really did it so he could.
I knew then, just as I know now, that the moment I stop moving, he’ll tie himself to whatever city I settle in to be close to me.
So, for his sake, I haven’t stopped running since I left home at eighteen, and I have no plans to.
He’s given up everything for me. The least I can do is make sure he doesn’t give up any more.
I stop at a convenience store, grabbing a couple of Coronas, one for me and one for him, before trading my kitchen pants and non-slip shoes for a pair of cutoff overalls and flip-flops.
I peel off my long-sleeved shirt, replace my septum ring to its rightful home, and take the furthest parking spot from the entrance to the stunning hotel my dad is staying at.
Even after watching him coach in the majors for the past five years, I still can’t get over seeing him like this.
We never had fancy or expensive things growing up.
He didn’t make a lot of money being a college coach, and he was only twenty-five when he became my dad. In a lot of ways, we grew up together.
He fed me mac and cheese from the box more nights than not because he wasn’t the most proficient in the kitchen.
Which is why, when I was old enough to, I took over in that department, learning to cook and finding my love for baking.
I lit up whenever I impressed him with a new recipe, which, let’s be honest, was every single time. He’s easily my biggest fan.
But seeing him here, thriving, doing what he loves most and being so good at it that he’s already got a World Series ring, makes me infinitely proud of how well he’s done without me around.
I want to make him equally as proud, especially after everything he sacrificed for me, and I have the opportunity to.
After being one of the youngest recipients of the James Beard Award, I’ve been booked for an eight-page spread in Food & Wine magazine, including the cover and three brand-new featured recipes that I can’t find the inspiration to create.
All happening in two short months when I get to LA for my next project.
No pressure, whatsoever.
I twist the cap off one of the beers to swallow down the sky-high expectations I put on myself as the elevator opens on the lobby floor. The two men inside don’t get off, so I slide in between them.
The one to my left has a head of light brown hair and what seems like the inability to keep his jaw from hanging open.
“Hi,” he says, and I don’t know what it is about him, but I can almost guarantee this guy plays for my dad. He’s somewhat tall, athletic build, and looks freshly fucked.
My dad’s roster tends to be equally as invested in the women they take home from the field as they are in the game itself.
“Get off the elevator, Isaiah,” the man to my right says, and while yes, they’re both objectively good-looking, this one is offensively attractive.
He’s got a backwards hat on, dark-rimmed glasses, and a toddler in his arms with a matching cap for goodness’ sake.
I try my hardest not to look too closely, but I can see the dark hair spilling out around the edges, ice-blue eyes framed by those glasses.
Scruff slopes over his jawline, screaming “older man,” and that alone is my kryptonite.
Then you add the cute-ass kid he’s got slung on his hip and he’s almost begging to be drooled over.
“Bye,” the man to my left says as he gets off the elevator, leaving me to ride with the two cute boys to my right.
“Floor,” I ask, taking a swig of my beer as I press the number for my dad’s room.
There’s not a chance in hell he didn’t hear me, but still, Baby Daddy doesn’t respond.
“Should I just guess?” I ask. “I can press them all if you’d like and we could take a nice long elevator ride together?”
He doesn’t laugh or even crack a smile which is a red flag if you ask me.
His little boy reaches for me, and I’ve never been one to fawn over kids, but this one is especially cute. He’s happy, and after the morning I’ve had, a toddler smiling at me like I’m the greatest thing to ever exist is surprisingly what I need.
His cheeks are so chubby that his eyes almost disappear from his beaming grin as his dad continues to ignore me, pressing his floor number himself.
Well, okay then. This should be fun.
The longest elevator ride of my life has me concluding that the gorgeous man I rode with has a giant stick up his ass. And when I make it to my dad’s room and knock, I couldn’t be more thankful that our brief encounter is over.
“What are you doing here?” my dad asks, his face lighting up. “I thought I wasn’t going to get to see you again this trip?”
I hold up both beer bottles in faux excitement, one empty, one still full. “I quit my job!”
He eyes me with concern, widening the opening into his room. “Why don’t you come in and tell me why you’re drinking at 9 a.m.”
“ We’re drinking,” I correct.
He chuckles. “You seem like you might need that second one more than me, Millie.”
Crossing the room, I take a seat on the couch.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“I suck at my job. I don’t even enjoy baking right now because I’m so bad at it. When have you ever heard me say I don’t enjoy baking?”
He holds his hands up. “You don’t have to justify it to me. I want you to be happy and if that job wasn’t making you happy, then I’m glad you quit.”
I knew he’d say that. And I know when I tell him that my new summer plans consist of driving around the country and living out of my van to get some fresh air and a fresh perspective, he’ll say he’s happy for me even though there will be concern laced in his tone.
But I’m not fazed by his concern. What I’m worried about seeing is disappointment.
In the twenty years he’s been my dad, he’s never once shown it so I’m not sure why I constantly look for it. But I’d work my ass off and stay in every miserable kitchen for the rest of my life if it meant I could avoid disappointing him.
I’m self-aware enough to know that I have an innate need to be the best at whatever checkmark or goal I’m chasing.
Right now, I’m not the best and I don’t want to give anyone the opportunity to watch me fail.
Especially him. He’s why I strive for perfection in my career, which is a stark contrast to the wild, unattached, and go-with-the-flow attitude I have towards my personal life.
“Are you done for good?” he asks.
“Oh, God no. I’m taking the summer to get my groove back. I’ll be back and better than before. I just need space without prying eyes to get it together, and to give myself a little break.”
His eyes lighten with excitement. “So, where are you spending this summer break?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve got two months and my next job is in LA. Maybe I’ll take my time driving to the West Coast and see some sights along the way. Practice in my kitchen on wheels.”
“Live out of your van.”
“Yes, Dad,” I chuckle. “Live out of my van and try to figure out why every dessert I attempt to create since I won that fucking award has been a complete and utter disaster.”
“Every dessert is not a disaster. Everything you’ve made me is phenomenal. You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Basic cookies and cakes are different. It’s the creative stuff that’s giving me a hard time.”
“Well, maybe it’s the creative stuff that’s the problem. Maybe you need to go back to the basics.”
He’s not in the food world the way I am so he doesn’t understand that a chocolate chip cookie isn’t going to cut it.
“You know,” he starts. “You could come spend the summer in Chicago with me.”
“Why? You’ll be on the road half of the time for work, and when you’re home, you’ll be at the field.”
“Come on the road with me. We haven’t been in the same place for more than a few days since you were eighteen and I miss my girl.”
I haven’t had a holiday, weekend, or more than a single evening free in seven years. I’ve been endlessly working, killing myself in the kitchen, and even tonight, my dad’s team has a game in town. It never dawned on me to take the night off to go watch.
“Dad—”
“I’m not above begging, Miller. Your old man needs some quality time.”
“I just spent three weeks in a kitchen full of dudes, one of whom was practically begging me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR. The last thing I want is to spend my summer around another team full of men.”
He leans forward, tatted arms propped on his knees, eyes wide. “Excuse me?”
“I handled it.”
“Handled it how, exactly?”
“With a swift knee to the balls.” I take a casual sip of my beer. “Just how you taught me.”
He shakes his head with a small laugh. “I never taught you that, you little psycho, but I wish I had. And now I’m even more adamant about you coming on the road with me. You know my guys aren’t like that.”
“Dad, I was planning...” My words die on my tongue when I look up at him across the couch. Sad and pleading eyes, tired even. “Are you lonely in Chicago?”
“I’m not going to answer that. Of course, I miss you, but I want you to come hang out with me for a couple of months because you miss me too. Not because you feel obligated to.”
I don’t feel obligated. Not in that regard, at least. But everything I do, in some way, is an attempt to erase the guilt I have towards our situation. To repay a debt he paid by giving up his entire life for me when he was only twenty-five years old.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss him too. It’s why I ensure all my jobs overlap with his travel. I pick kitchens in big cities with MLB teams that my dad will be coming through for work. So of course, I miss him.
A summer with my old man does sound nice, and if having me nearby for a bit will make him happy, it’s the least I could do after everything he’s done for me.
Except there’s one problem.
“There’s no way upper management would allow that,” I remind him. “No one on the team or staff is allowed to have family members with them while they travel.”
“There is one family member who’s allowed to travel with the team this season.” A sly smile slides across his lips. “I have an idea.”