18
Kill it: To intentionally overcook something is to “kill it.”
2015
All the anxiety of the lead-up.
The frenzy of the taping.
The words Gale Carmichael, you’re cut.
Over and done. He hadn’t won the ten grand, but at least he’d made it to the dessert round. Disappointing, but not embarrassing. And now he rode home in a fancy car with a minibar and plush seats. Probably because the producers hadn’t had to put him up in a hotel like the contestants from farther afield.
It’d been a long, long day.
The car picked him up at six in the morning.
He wouldn’t get home until around ten.
Gale closed his eyes, but even the car’s smooth purr didn’t help him sleep; his brain played his performance over and over. What he could have done differently. Had his plating been equal to his creativity. Why he’d put overcooked octopus on the plate when it wasn’t even a crate ingredient.
You’re going to make yourself nuts, man.
The driver behind a thick, plexiglass wall bobbed her head in time to whatever music she listened to but Gale couldn’t hear.
“I really thought I had it, Sean.”
You did great.
It was the dessert.
Got both of you.
“But if I hadn’t overcooked the octopus in the main course round . . .”
Yeah, but you did, and it’s what went down.
You did really well.
“I did, didn’t I?”
Gale felt his face smile, even if his stomach still twisted itself in knots.
“I totally took the appetizer round.”
You know Marco’s going to want you to put that on the menu.
“Totally.”
Gale laughed softly.
All in all, he didn’t feel as bad as he thought he would.
He not only didn’t go out first but also won that round solidly with a perfectly executed risotto—ballsy, as one of the judges said, to attempt in such a short time—topped by barely warmed uni and a dollop of smoked caviar.
One competitor edged him out in the main course because of that stupid octopus, but the other completely hammered the chard—which was a crate ingredient—and Gale had skated through.
“I really thought I had her in the dessert round,”
he told Sean.
“She made bread pudding, for fuck’s sake.
What was she thinking?”
But she did it well, while your napoleon really sucked, man.
“It was more creative.”
Inedible.
Isn’t that what Harold said?
“Shut up.”
Just saying . . .
“Well, don’t.”
Gale let go a deep breath.
“Sure would have been cool to get that ten grand.”
You’re making good money now.
“Not good enough to get my own apartment.”
That’s not exactly true.
It would just be more expensive, and for the first time in your adult life, you’re not constantly strapped.
“Yeah, but I’m too old to be living with roommates.”
Who says?
“Adulthood says.”
Don’t be an asshole.
You’re doing great.
Way better than me, am I right?
Sean’s sniggering sounded sinister inside Gale’s head.
Echoing.
The afterimage always in his periphery blinked out.
Sean knew, he knew exactly how to hit Gale hardest when he was most vulnerable. Always had, and wasn’t that the truth? His gut welled up to his throat, glands in his jaw watering. Bile pooled in his mouth. His already-knotted stomach clenched. Heaved. Lunging for the divider, he banged on it even as it lowered. “Pull over. Quick.”
Gale was puking out the open door before the car came to a complete stop.
His driver came around to his side of the car, rubbed his back in that motherly way some people just knew how to do, without making him feel gross or weak.
“It’s okay.
Long day.
I know.
I can’t tell you how many pukers I’ve had in my car.”
Gale dry-heaved, his stomach convulsing long after it was empty.
Way better than me.
Way better than me.
Way better .
.
.
way better . . . way better . . .
A sob welled in his still-convulsing gut.
Let it go.
Hold it in.
Gale inhaled the eruption, making him gag all over again. Why you and not me? Goddammit, Sean.
Gale dropped onto his butt, right there at the side of the road, barely missing the pool of his own vomit.
He reached for a cigarette that wasn’t there.
His driver pulled a pack from her shirt pocket, shook one out.
Gale lit his first cigarette in months.
“Thanks.”
“No worries.”
She lit one too.
“I’m trying to quit.
I only smoke where my kid can’t see me.”
“I quit over a year ago,”
Gale told her.
“You’re right.
It really has been a long, exhausting day.”
Exhaling a long stream, he rested his arms on his knees.
He tried to hold on to some semblance of dignity and failed even more horribly than he already had.
Tears rolled warm down the sides of his face.
“Hey, come on, now.”
An arm around his shoulder.
“It can’t be that bad.”
Nothing from Sean.
No words of comfort.
Or accusation.
No afterimage burned into his retinas. Just that bomb dropped, leaving him alone to weather the aftermath.
She ducked into the car, came back with a bottle of water in one hand, a minibar-size bottle of scotch in the other.
Gale took the water.
He rinsed his mouth, spat over his shoulder. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She took his elbow, coaxed him to his feet.
“GPS says we have another half hour until we get to your place.
You going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
She held out her hand.
“You’re Gale, right?”
Cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, he took it.
“Gale Carmichael.”
“Jenara Bizzarro.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, I know.
Sounds like a DC supervillain.”
“More Jedi Master.”
She cocked her head.
“Chancellor Genarra? Sith Wars? No?”
“No, sorry,”
she said.
“It’s Italian.
Jenara means January.
Odd January, that’s me.”
“Were you born in January?”
Jenara laughed.
“No! That makes it even funnier.
My mom’s kind of a kook, and my dad loved her for it.
It makes for a good icebreaker, at least.”
She let go of his hand.
“You feeling better?”
His stomach gurgled.
Gale took another drag, tossed the rest.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“All right.
Back in then.
I got to get home to my daughter at some point tonight too.”
Jenara waved him into the back seat.
“I’ll keep the divider down, if that’s okay.
Then, if you need to stop again, just shout.”
“Okay, good. Thanks.”
Gale got in, sprawled across the back seat.
He could only see the top of her curly head from there, and a bit of her face reflected in the rearview mirror.
Pretty eyes.
Dark on dark. He imagined her eyelashes lush, if her brows were any indication, but he couldn’t tell for sure.
You should ask her out, man.
When’s the last time you went out with a woman, anyway?
Gale put his arm across his eyes.
You not talking to me now?
Answering inside his own head never worked, even if that’s where Sean’s voice came from.
Answering outside of it wasn’t possible, not with his driver right there.
Gale rolled onto his side, his back to her.
He whispered, “Not now.”
“You okay?”
she asked over her shoulder.
“Yeah, fine. Thanks.”
She turned the radio on.
Turned the volume way down.
All Gale could hear was the backbeat. And Sean.
When’re you going to get over it, man? It happened.
It’s done.
You didn’t make me do anything.
I could have said no when you brought it over. I fucking should have, right? I should have taken it from you and flushed it. But I didn’t. Now you’re alive and I’m not. Could’ve been the other way around. Or both of us could’ve bit the shit. But that’s not what went down. It’s not your—
“Mind if I stop for a pee break?”
Jenara glanced at him in the rearview.
“I thought I could make it home.
There’s a twenty-four-hour diner just up ahead.”
“Go for it,”
Gale told her.
He’d grab a coffee.
Maybe a donut or something, to absorb the pukey taste in his mouth.
She pulled into the parking lot.
“I’ll be right out.”
“I’m coming in,”
Gale said.
“You want a coffee or something?”
Jenara smiled.
Perfect, white teeth—definitely had braces at some point—and dimples.
Deep ones appearing like magic.
“I’d love it, thanks. Why don’t you grab a table? I’ll be right out.”
Uh-oh.
You asked her out and didn’t even mean to.
“Shut up, Sean,”
he grumbled under his breath.
Gale took a table in the window.
The waitress, entirely too chipper for that time of night, set down two menus and two glasses of water. “Coffee,”
he croaked. “Please.”
“Sure thing.”
Pink-lipped, toothy smile.
She came back with two mugs and a pot of coffee.
“Rough night?”
Gale managed to smile his thanks.
“Long day.”
He sipped the coffee she poured.
Dishwater.
Trying not to grimace, he took two creamers from the bowl on the table, sugar packets from the sticky holder.
They felt as if they’d gotten wet at some point and partially solidified. He dumped them into his coffee anyway. Passable, at best.
Jenara slid into the booth opposite before the waitress had a chance to move along.
“I’ll take one of those croissants.”
She pointed.
“Good choice.
They just came out of the oven. And you?”
Gale glanced at the bakery window.
“Two glazed donuts.”
“They’re from this morning,”
the woman said.
“But the crullers are from about an hour ago.”
“Okay, two crullers.”
“You bake all night?”
Jenara dumped cream into her coffee.
“Twenty-four hours a day.
We get a lot of truckers on this stretch of ninety-five.
You wouldn’t believe how finicky they are about their baked goods.”
The waitress returned with their food, left them with a smile.
Jenara pulled her pastry apart.
“I don’t have to get home to my daughter,”
she said.
“I mean, she’s home, and I do have to get there at some point, but my mom is with her.
She lives with us.
I just wanted you to know I have a kid.”
“I .
.
.
uh . . . okay.”
She pursed her lips, dimples deepening.
“I know.
TMI.
I just like to get it out of the way when I meet someone. That way, if we have a good time, or whatever, he knows from the get-go. Too many guys hear the word ‘kid’ and suddenly have to be up early in the morning or whatever.”
Gale bit into his cruller, brain whizzing.
“It’s .
.
. we’re just having coffee.”
“Duh.”
She winked.
“But I’m about to ask you out and I wanted to be clear before I did.
And, just so you know, I don’t do this.
Ever. I mean, I drive lots of guys to lots of places, and I’ve never once wanted to ask any of them out.”
“Yeah?”
Something warm pooled in his belly, and it wasn’t the lukewarm coffee. “Why me?”
“Because you barfed and didn’t get all weird and manly man about it.”
She ate a piece of the croissant she’d broken off, smiled as she chewed.
Her dimples had dimples.
Her curls kind of flopped around her face, soft and shiny and so, so black.
“And you’re cute.”
“I am?”
“I dig redheads.”
“It’s chestnut.”
“But it was red when you were a kid, am I right?”
Gale stuffed the rest of the cruller in his mouth.
Heat Miser.
Carrot-top.
Yukon Cornelius. Ron Weasley. He’d heard them all. “Yeah. I got my dad’s red hair, but my mom’s brown eyes. Irish Italian.”
“Puerto Rican Italian.”
She winked.
“Hot tempers.”
“Every nationality claims that.”
“Not the English.”
“True.
Or the French.”
“I don’t know about that.
Swedish? Norwegian?”
“What are we even talking about?”
They laughed together.
Jenara said, “So? Want to go out with me?”
Gale picked up his other cruller, broke it in half, and dipped it in his coffee.
He hadn’t dated anyone in years.
Too fucked-up.
Too much stress. Until recently, he’d always felt like he was still on that knife’s edge. Until Regina and her kitchen and his promotion at work. The edge had dulled a bit, but it remained, and it was only fair to warn her.
“I’m an addict,”
he said.
“I mean, not, like, currently.
It’s been almost two years.”
Jenara covered his hand with hers.
“That’s a great accomplishment, Gale.
Wow.
So, do you want to go out with me?”
“You still want to?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Because people don’t trust addicts.
Ever.
No matter how long since the last fall.
Because they believed it was never an if, but a when. Because it was mostly, exactly that.
Gale ate the rest of his cruller.
Jenara ate her croissant.
The waitress refilled their coffee cups without being asked, and they both seemed obliged to drink it.
“I did that DNA thing,”
she said.
“I’m not really Puerto Rican Italian.
I mean, I am, culturally.
Mom was born in Puerto Rico, and Dad . . . well, that DNA thing shows just how mixed”—air quotes—“all those Europeans are. I’ve got a little bit of everything in me. I bet you do, too, even if you look Irish.”
“What does it mean to look Irish?”
“Fair skin.
Freckles.
Red .
. . sorry, chestnut hair. And that’s an Irish chin if I ever saw one.”
Gale rubbed his chin.
“Irish chin?”
“Yeah.”
She reached out, stuck a finger in the deep cleft.
“Irish chin.”
“If you say so.”
He motioned to the waitress.
“My brother’s superfair.
He can’t go out in the sun without fifty-block on.
I tan in the summer.”
“Do you really, though?”
Jenara cocked her head.
“Or do your freckles just spread out?”
Laughing with her got easier each time he did so.
Gale paid the bill, waving away her offer to cover her three dollars on the way back to the car.
“Call it part of your tip.”
“I’m not allowed to accept tips.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
He shoved his wallet back into his pocket.
“Yes, by the way.”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to go out with you, if you still want to.”
Jenara pulled out her phone, scrolled.
“How about this Thursday.
You busy?”
Regina would be able to do without him.
Maybe he’d get his mom to cover service for him.
“Thursday is good.
I don’t have a car. Do you? I mean, obviously that one, but one of your own?”
“I do.
And I already know where to pick you up.
Do we do the requisite dinner thing? You being a chef, it might not be your jam.”
“No, dinner’d be great.”
Thank goodness he hadn’t maxed out his credit card’s measly five-hundred-dollar limit.
“You have a place in mind?”
“I might.”
She grinned at him over the open car door.
“Why don’t you sit up front? Less chance of you barfing up your donuts.”
Gale grabbed his knife kit from the back seat, tossed it onto the front.
“GPS says we have another twenty minutes to your place.
Seat belt.”
“Oh, right.”
Gale clicked himself in.
Jenara started the car, pulled smoothly from the lot.
This sure as hell ended different than either of us thought it would.
Dammit.
“Mind if I turn on some music?”
Jenara asked.
“Please do.”
Gale wished she’d talk, but she took her job seriously, and they drove the rest of the way listening to music in companionable silence.
Head back.
Eyes closed.
Gale willed Sean to stay quiet. Except for a, She’s cute, he obliged.