Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
brANDON
“ Q uarterly projections look solid.” Elijah walks ahead as we leave Conference Room A. “Anderson, though? Could’ve been a fucking email.”
“I’ve seen hostage negotiations move faster.” I yank my tie loose. Give me a chef’s coat any day over this corporate straitjacket.
The corridor stretches ahead, all glass and steel and everything I’m not. Nothing like a real kitchen, where every ding, clatter, and shout means something.
My fingers still tingle from last night, showing that kid how it’s done at Elliot’s. Luckily, Naomi didn’t see, or she would have pushed again.
“How are things with Naomi?” Elijah’s question pulls me back.
“Good. She’s… We’re good.” She’s eating, not throwing up.
“You seem better.” There’s genuine warmth in Elijah’s voice. “Both of you.”
I am. For those few minutes… “What if—What if I tried cooking again?”
He whirls to me. “What?”
“Nothing.” Keep walking. Don’t look at him.
“Brandon.” He seizes my arm, bringing me to an abrupt stop. “What did you say?”
“I said, what if I tried cooking again? And before you start with the lecture, yes, I know I’m supposed to be focusing on quarterly whatever-the-fuck-Anderson-was-talking-about. But last night in that kitchen—fuck, Eli. First time since Dad died, I felt like myself again.”
My brother is silent, too silent. Then he nods slowly. “Okay. So what’s the plan? Cooking at home? Classes?”
“No.” My heart starts to race. “What if I actually did it? Opened my own place?”
“The one you signed away months ago?”
“Yeah.” My hands clench, unclench. “That one.”
“The family business?—”
“You know I’m shit at this corporate stuff.”
“You’re better than you think.”
“I’m exactly as bad as I think.” I run a hand through my hair, probably messing it up. “Dad wanted me here, but Dad’s dead.”
“Brandon—”
“I’m being stupid.” I turn away, staring at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. A corporate zombie stands in my place, all pressed suit and dead eyes. “Forget it.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I spin around. “Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. You’ve been walking around here like a drone for months.” He steps in close, eyes hard. “You think I enjoy watching my brother die a little more each day in these meetings? And now you’re finally showing a spark of life, and you want to what? Run away?”
His words carve through me, opening old wounds I can’t see but definitely feel.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us blinks.
Finally, Elijah speaks. “Can you still cook?”
My brain stutters. “What?”
“To make it happen. The restaurant. You need to cook. So can you?”
Can I? The last time I tried… But that was different. I was drunk, grieving, angry. “I think so.”
“Prove it.” Elijah retrieves his phone. “Cook for Gemma and me. Show me you can do it, really do it, and I’ll back you completely. Whatever you need.”
What should I cook? Duck? Steak? Something simpler? “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” His eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see the brother who used to sneak tastes of my experimental sauces. “This weekend?”
That’s soon. But if I don’t do this now, I might lose my nerve. “Sunday?”
“Deal. And Brandon?”
“Yeah?”
“Make something Mom would be proud of.”
The weight of the grocery bags hits the counter with a satisfying thud. Fresh vegetables, thyme, rosemary, garlic, and premium cuts of beef that cost more than I’d admit to anyone are spread across the counter.
The screen of my phone lights up.
Naomi: Are we still on for later?
Brandon: My place.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Naomi: See you there.
When I cooked for Naomi, it was different. Pancakes could be misshapen. Wraps could be messy. She made imperfection beautiful just by existing in my kitchen.
I can do this. “Sunday will be perfect.”
My cutting board finds its home in the center of the counter. Clean, seasoned wood. None of that plastic shit that dulls blades. Mom taught me that.
“Everything has its place.” I arrange the ingredients in stations.
Vegetables on the left: carrots, celery, onions. Herbs in small bowls: thyme sprigs, whole garlic cloves, fresh rosemary. And the beef rests at room temperature, waiting.
I roll up my sleeves and wash my hands under scalding water. The familiar sting grounds me, my fingers flexing, itching to wake from their slumber buried under months of corporate bullshit.
I retrieve my favorite knife. Eight inches of high-carbon steel that used to be an extension of my arm now sits foreign and clumsy in my palm.
I test the edge against my thumb. Still sharp enough to split a hair.
Deep breath. Focus.
The first cut splits a carrot. Too fast. The pieces scatter across the granite, uneven and ragged. Amateur hour.
I have to ease back into it, find my rhythm.
Another carrot. Slower this time. The knife catches, jerks. More chunks fly. These cuts would get me fired from any decent kitchen.
My hands shake. When did they start shaking?
The onion’s worse. The pieces come out thick on one end, paper-thin on the other. Nothing uniform, nothing precise. Nothing like what Mom taught me.
Take your time, cookie. Let the knife do the work.
But it feels wrong in my grip, as if it belongs to someone else. Someone who didn’t walk away. Someone who didn’t let their father’s words poison everything they loved.
The celery snaps instead of slices. My grip on the handle stiffens, and more green shards scatter like shrapnel across the counter.
Mom always said cooking was about love. But right now, all I taste is fear.
“What if I can’t make it taste like love anymore?”
I grab another stalk. Try again. The cuts are rushed, desperate.
“Shit. Shit. SHIT.”
The knife clatters against the counter, and I brace myself against the edge, knuckles white, breathing hard. The scattered vegetables paint a picture of failure.
Mom would be ashamed. Dad would say he told me so. And Elijah, fuck, what was I thinking, agreeing to cook for him?
This has to be perfect, to prove that I deserve my own restaurant, and that I’m not just playing chef while hiding from Dad’s legacy.
“Fuck it.” I sweep the mangled vegetables into a pile. Not perfect, but they’ll still taste the same.
Taste is what matters.
I grab a heavy-bottomed pan from the rack.
The vegetables go in first. Even butchered, they release that perfect sizzle against hot oil. This, at least, I haven’t forgotten.
With each stir, the aroma deepens, caramelized onions, earthy carrots softening, and bright celery melding into the mix.
A splash of wine deglazes the pan, the sizzle and steam rising like music.
“That’s more like it.” My hands are steady as I add thyme first, then rosemary, letting it sit.
Meanwhile, I pat the meat dry, seasoning it generously with salt and pepper, promising that perfect crust.
“Look at you,” I whisper as it simmers in a fresh pan, waiting for that telltale color change that signals it’s time to flip. “Fucking beautiful.”
That perfect sear, that’s what separates the amateurs from the pros.
I pull out my best plate, white porcelain, when it’s ready. Presentation is another important part. The vegetables create a bed, arranged just so, with a drizzle of sauce at the edge.
Now for the star of the show.
“Easy.” I lift the pan, tilting it just enough to let the meat slide toward the edge. My hands remember a move I used to do, a little flip that would position the meat perfectly centered.
The pan feels slick in my grip. Sweat or oil, I’m not sure.
Everything moves in slow motion, but the meat moves too fast.
“Shit!”
My wrist twists to compensate, muscle memory failing when I need it most. The plate tilts, falls from my grip, and catches the counter’s edge with a crack.
Porcelain shatters, and the meat hits the floor with a wet slap that echoes in my skull, while the sauce splatters across my feet, the cabinets, everywhere
The perfect crust I’d achieved collects dirt from the floor.
Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I don’t belong in a kitchen. Maybe I never did.
My phone buzzes on the counter, but I can’t look away from the mess at my feet.
Some things break too completely to fix.
I slide down the cabinet, head between my knees. How the hell am I supposed to cook for Elijah on Sunday when I can’t even manage a basic fucking steak?
Keys jingle in the lock. Shit.
“Brandon?” Naomi’s footsteps pause. “What’s that smell?”
“Don’t come close.” I scrub at my face, but there’s no hiding this disaster zone. Fucking pathetic.
She stands beside the counter, taking in the carnage. Broken plate, ruined food, me on the floor like some kicked puppy. Her eyes widen, then soften.
“Just had a little accident.” I push myself up, avoiding her gaze.
She navigates around the broken pieces toward me. “Brandon.”
I hold up my hand. “I’m fine.”
“Talk to me.” Her fingers graze my arm, cold against my skin.
I grab them, covering them with mine to warm her up. “Nothing to say.”
“You’re cooking again.”
“Trying to.” I gesture at the mess. “Failing spectacularly.”
“Why now?”
I don’t. I can’t look at her. Can’t see that softness in her eyes that makes me want to spill everything. “Told Elijah I’d cook for him. Sunday.”
“That’s… big.”
“Yeah.” I absently trace patterns on her palm. “Thought I could handle it.”
“And?”
The broken plate mocks me from the floor. “Look around, cupcake. Pretty clear I can’t.”
“The Brandon Milton I know wouldn’t let that stop him.”
“The Brandon Milton you know is currently wearing half his dinner.”
“So make another one.”
I bark out a laugh.
“Brandon.” Her voice is softer now. “Look at me.”
I can’t. Each broken shard on the floor reflects a different failure—the restaurant I never opened, the son I couldn’t be, the chef I’m pretending to be.
Her lips find my neck, soft and unexpected, the touch sending electricity through every muscle, momentarily short-circuiting my spiral of self-loathing. She always knows exactly how to pull me back from the edge.
Her breath tickles my skin. “You’re thinking too hard.”
“I need to clean?—”
She cuts me off with another kiss, catching the corner of my mouth. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging until I have no choice but to look into her eyes telling me everything I need. It’s okay.
“Naomi—”
She kisses me properly this time, rising on her tiptoes and looping her arms around my neck to reach. Her body is warm and insistent, and the broken plate, the ruined steak, even Sunday’s looming disaster—it all fades into background noise.
My hands find her waist automatically, pulling her closer. She tastes like mint gum. Mint—I withdraw, searching her eyes. Did she?
Her eyes avert mine.
Shit. “You okay, cupcake? What happened?”
“We were talking about you. Not me.”
“And now we’re talking about you. You relapsed. Didn’t you?”
Her fingers twist in my shirt. “Someone brought cinnamon buns to the office. Again. Would it be weird for me to ban them?”
Cinnamon. Clara.
“The smell—” Her voice cracks. “It was everywhere. And—I couldn’t control it.”
I draw her in, pressing my lips to her hair as she hides against me. Her shoulders shake, but she’s not crying. Just trembling.
“Hey.” I stroke her hair, feeling helpless. Useless. Here I am having a meltdown over dropped plates while she’s fighting real demons. “You called Blake?”
She shakes her head against my chest. “I wanted to be here. With you.”
“Cupcake—”
“Just hold me.” Her fingers dig into my sides. “Please.”
We stand there in my disaster of a kitchen, holding each other like we’re both afraid the other might disappear. The irony of us both failing today, both trying to hide it, isn’t lost on me.
“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” I murmur into her hair.
“Disaster twins.”
“Hey. I’m a disaster king, and you’re my queen.”
That gets a real laugh, small but genuine. She pulls back enough to look at me, her eyes red but dry. “You’re going to nail Sunday’s dinner.”
“And you’re going to call me next time. Deal?”
She nods, then glances around us. “Let me help.”
“With what?”
“Practice. For Sunday.” Her lips curve slightly. “I happen to know someone who needs cooking lessons anyway. But first…”
“First what?”
“I’m hungry. How about wraps?”
My sweet, lovely cupcake. How could I ever survive without you? “The ones you actually ate?”
“The ones I actually ate.” She steps closer, carefully avoiding the broken plate. “And this time, we’ll make them together.”
Together. Maybe that’s what we both need—not perfection, just presence.