Chapter 39
Miller
I wake, reorienting myself.
I’m in Chicago.
Kai’s bed.
A smile immediately blooms on my lips until I blink away the sleep, looking around, looking for him.
Only I’m not in his bed. I’m in my van.
I’m in LA.
My stomach dips just as it did the first day without him because each morning, as I wake from my sleep, the realization sinks in that I’m two thousand miles away.
The realization that today I won’t be baking in their kitchen, won’t hear Kai’s encouragement, won’t get to kiss him. And I won’t be playing outside with Max in the afternoon. I’ll be at Luna’s to meet with Maven over her menu changes.
Stretching, I roll my way out of bed but as my feet hit the floor, so does the framed photo I slept with, crashing with an undeniable crack.
No, no, no. I’m too fragile for this right now.
I cautiously pick it up. The glass from the frame is completely splintered with the center of said crack landing right over my face.
That seems fitting.
A pathetic whimper creeps up my throat because yes, now I’m the person to cry over a broken frame. I guess that’s what happens when you start forming attachments.
I carefully place it upside down on the counter, promising to buy a new frame on the way back from my meeting with Maven. I unclasp the prongs, loosening the backboard so I can pull the picture out, hoping it didn’t get scratched in the fall.
And as I disassemble the thing, Kai’s handwriting comes into view, right there on the back of the photo.
Our names— Max, Miller, and Malakai are accompanied by the date and year with a small inscription below.
I hope you’re out there finding your joy because you’re the reason we found ours.
And just like that, on day eight, I’m ruined all over again.
“I’ve followed your career since I was in culinary school,” I admit like the fangirl I am. “You did a four-day seminar on brioche. Mixing, shaping, proofing, baking, all of it, and I don’t think I had ever been so excited about bread before.”
“I remember that. I think I gained like thirty pounds going around the country and teaching that class.” Maven brings her espresso to her lips. “You’re impressive, Chef. I enjoyed watching you on the line last night.”
“As are you. Your line is... well-trained.” I blow on my chai tea latte, helping it cool.
“They’re the best, and I’m looking forward to having you join us for the next three months. I can’t wait to see what kind of changes you’re thinking about for the dessert menu.”
I pull out my notebook and pen, setting it on the table between us.
The pages are filled with ideas on how to incorporate all the fresh California fall fruits.
I don’t know that it’s inspiration that’s struck me since I got here last week, but instead, a fear of allowing my mind to be quiet.
To allow it the space to miss everything I left behind.
“There’s a pomegranate dish stirring in my brain that I can’t wait to play with,” I explain as Maven flips through the pages of my notebook.
“Why haven’t you opened your own patisserie? With your name on the project, there’d be a line down the block.”
“I uh... never felt the desire to stay in one place long enough to do that. I liked getting to live in a new city every three months.”
She nods, continuing to flip through my notes. “Do you still like it?”
“Huh?”
“You said ‘ liked ’. Do you still like it?”
Her brown eyes lift from the pages to find me sitting in silence.
I take a sip of my chai. “I won’t lie, it’s lost a bit of its luster.”
She chuckles, closing the book and sliding it back to my side of the table.
“My advice, after twenty years in the industry, stop giving your brilliance to other people. Put your name on it and own it.” She pulls her espresso back to her lips, smiling behind the tiny cup.
“After you finish donating a bit to me this fall, of course.”
Chuckling, I tuck my notebook back in my bag.
“Sorry we haven’t gotten a chance to sit down like this yet,” she continues. “You know how hectic prep time is and I’m sure you’ve noticed I only work two dinner shifts a week.”
Thursdays and Sundays, to be exact.
“Shannon, your second in command, is great too. The kitchen really respects her.”
“She’s a lifesaver, having someone I trust so much to run things while I’m not here. When I decided to open Luna’s after my daughter was born, I promised myself and my family that work would come second. It’s a hard balance to have. This industry isn’t conducive to families, as I’m sure you know.”
“Oh, I’m well aware.”
“But I love this.” She gestures around the dining room.
“Running a kitchen, shaping a menu. Trusting my staff is the way I get to have both.” She finishes her espresso, pushing the saucer away from her.
“So, what’s your favorite part of all this, Chef?
Is it the chaos? The gratification of getting through a busy night? The creativity? What’s your why?”
There’s no hesitation when I say, “Feeding the people I love.”
Maven chokes on her own saliva with a laugh.
“Then what the hell are you doing here? I couldn’t tell you the last time I cooked for a loved one.
Now it’s all critics and fine dining..
. what do they call themselves? Foodies ?
But that’s what I enjoy most, feeding the people who want that kind of food. ”
I don’t respond, using my chai to keep my mouth occupied.
“This little summer hiatus of yours,” Maven fills the silence. “You’re named Outstanding Pastry Chef of the Year and disappear. You had the food world in a tizzy, Miller, and I’m honored to be your first kitchen back. But you’ve got to tell me, what the hell was that about?”
Do I tell her the truth about the burnout and the pressure? Will she look down on me for it? Judge me? Use it against me?
I tread cautiously, but honestly. “I was feeling a bit burnt out.”
“Already?” she raises a single brow.
I pull my eyes from her.
“I hit that place about four years ago. Granted, I was fifteen years in at the time. I left and had my daughter. Found a new passion for life in her, but I still had this ache to be here too.” She taps her finger against the tabletop, referencing her restaurant.
“Do you mind if I give you a piece of advice? From one old chef to a fresh, young one?”
I laugh. “You’re not old, but yes, please do.”
“If you ever feel like you’ve truly lost your passion for this, quit.
Your food will never meet its potential because you’ll never meet your potential.
This career is not for the faint of heart.
You will be beaten down on the line, day in and day out.
You know this. But if you’re questioning if you made the right decision, you’ve already made the wrong one.
“Find your passion, Miller. Find what makes you excited to get up every morning and if it’s not this, walk away.”
Well, fuck me, am I that obvious?
“This is what I’m good at.”
“Oh, you’re fucking brilliant at it. But you know what’s better than being the best at something you don’t love? Being mediocre at something you do.”
“It’s really not that easy, Chef. I have a four-year waitlist of kitchens I’m scheduled for, just like this one.”
“Do you have signed contracts? Has money been exchanged?”
“Just verbal agreements.”
She waves me off as if saying I didn’t owe anyone anything with only a verbal contract.
I don’t have much more to add to that piece of the conversation because my mind has been doing cartwheels all summer knowing something has felt off for quite a while.
“All right Miss Food & Wine cover girl.” Maven claps her hands, putting the big questions on pause.
“I need to know about these top-secret recipes. And where did you end up taking the cover photo? They called to get my permission to shoot here, but then called back to say they had a set in Chicago.”
A set in Chicago. I could laugh. They had a beautiful kitchen in someone’s home with a toddler running around.
“I was helping my dad this summer in Chicago. He’s a baseball coach and his starting pitcher has a son who needed a nanny for a couple of months.
We took the pictures in his kitchen. Actually.
..” I pull my phone out of my pocket. “Violet sent over the layout for the article. They just need to add the write-up from the interview we’re doing this afternoon. ”
Maven and I scoot our chairs closer as I scroll through my emails, finding the one Violet forwarded. As soon as I pull it up, the cover shot takes over the screen.
It’s blurred in the background, but it’s there. The kitchen I made so many memories in. I’m standing in front of it, chef coat in place, arms crossed over my chest.
But the most alarming part of this photo is how unhappy I look. Did no one else notice when they picked this shot?
“Wow,” Maven exhales. “Stunning photo, Miller.”
I don’t respond, scrolling down to find the images of my desserts and the recipes that accompany them. There are more photos of me, whisking, cracking an egg. I look just as unhappy.
“Oh,” Maven awes. “We need to feature that dark chocolate cylinder this fall.”
The dessert I thought of when I was in Boston with Kai.
And once again, I want to cry, crumble, dissolve into nothing because he’s everywhere.
He was so concerned about noticing my absence in his house, but I’m two thousand miles away and that man is embedded in every moment of my life.
As he should be.
I shake it off, trying to regain my excitement.
“Violet said the photographer sent over the shots that didn’t make it. I’m sure there’s more angles of the desserts there too. The mozzarella cheesecake turned out beautiful.”
In my emails, I find the photographer’s message with the subject line that says, “ Thought you should have this .”
I click, letting them load, but once they do, I realize there are no photos of the desserts. No action shots or pictures of the kitchen.