Chapter Eight Summer #3
That’s it, but it sounds like so much more than just that.
It sounds like What the hell were you thinking? and You should have told him yes.
I hate that he doesn’t say the words out loud. It would be better if he did. It’s worse just being stared at like this.
He takes another bite, chews, then swallows.
“Do you have anything else to add?” I finally ask.
“Sure don’t, kiddo.”
“Oh, come on. You clearly have an opinion about this. You ate that piece of turkey bacon without making a face, so this must be bothering you more than that. If you have something to say, then say it, old man.”
He sets his fork down, then rests back against his chair. He folds his hands over his belly, which he got from eating way too many sweets. “Well, I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you told him no.”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Bullshit.”
My head whips back at the word. It’s the same one that Ezra used. Repeatedly, actually.
What is it with the men I know and that word?
“It’s really not. I used to run a five-star restaurant. Running a kitchen in a cidery is a bit of a step down, isn’t it?”
“If it’s something you love, then no. Nothing is a step down if you’re happy.”
“I . . .”
But nothing else comes out, because he has a point.
Still, I shake my head. “No, it’s not what I want.”
I don’t want to be under anyone’s thumb when it comes to being in the kitchen.
That was my biggest problem at Lore. I could never truly do what I wanted, and if I helped build the kitchen at Stick Taps, it would be the same thing.
Perhaps not immediately, but eventually it would.
I would itch to spread my wings and do something else.
I’d be in the same limbo I’m in now, and I’d hate it.
Just like I hate how I don’t know what I want, and I hate how I’m afraid to make a decision. If I go back to Chicago, I’m risking having the same breakdown I did before. And if I stay and work at Stick Taps, would I just be sidelining myself and working for someone else forever?
I don’t know, but what I do know is that I’m not happy. And I really, really want to be. I’m just not sure what the right call is here.
“Listen, Summer,” Dad says, leaning closer, “all I want is for you to do something that makes you feel good. I don’t give a flying hoot what that is.
You could move back to Chicago and be a damn street musician for all I care.
I just want whatever you want. So if you want to run the kitchen at Stick Taps, then do it.
But do it for you. Don’t do it for me or for Ezra Rawlings or for anyone else.
You. And remember that whatever you decide to do, I’ll be proud of you and I’ll be cheering you on every step of the way.
But . . .” He pauses, then sighs. “But for what it’s worth, I think you do want this.
Or some version of it. Sure, it might not be your greatest dream right now, but it’s your chance to try again.
It’s your chance to get it right. So why not seize it? ”
He gives me one last meaningful look before picking up his plate and walking into the kitchen to do the dishes.
That’s how it works—I cook, he cleans. Those are the rules.
And right now I’m thankful for it, because I don’t want to be here right now with his words hanging between us. His very, very poignant words.
I grab my own plate with the half-eaten breakfast on it, then scrape the food into the trash before setting it on the counter beside him.
“I’m running to the grocery store. Need anything specific?”
“Real bacon would be nice.”
“Dad . . .” I warn him.
He sighs, then shakes his head. “Nah, nothing specific. Just whatever you think is best, Doc.”
I roll my eyes, then press a kiss to his cheek with a loud smack. “See you tonight, Sheriff.”
He grunts in response, and I laugh, grabbing my purse from the hook near the door and slipping it over my head.
I turn right out of our driveway, taking in the gorgeous views as I stroll along Harborview Boulevard, the waterfront to my left, and the Cascades silhouetted in the background.
This has always been my favorite part of living here—cool early mornings, the smell of salt in the air, and the postcard-esque backdrop. It’s heaven on earth, and sometimes I wonder why I ever moved away.
Oh, right. Culinary school.
I don’t remember exactly when I fell in love with cooking.
Maybe it was all those hours after school I spent with my mom, mixing up cookies and bread and helping with dinner.
Or maybe it was before then, when I would just watch her.
Either way, it’s always been part of me, so when it came time to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, it made sense.
Going away to school made me love it even more.
Maybe that’s why I’m so scared of saying yes to Ezra. I love it so much, I’m afraid of failing again, because that’ll make me hate it, and I never want to do that.
But maybe my dad is right. Maybe this is my chance for a do-over. Maybe this is my shot to make it right. To do it better.
Maybe . . . maybe I should seize it.