Chapter Thirteen Madison #2
Most guys are either too scared or too freaked out by my emotions to sink into them with me.
I could write a magazine article titled “How to Lose a Guy in One Step: Cry in Front of Him.” And that would be the entire article.
No need for bodies of paragraphs . . . because that one act alone has had most guys I’ve interacted with take off running. Or . . . yell in my face.
“I promise, I’m not going to die,” James says in a quiet whisper at my ear. “Everything is fine.”
“Your elevated blood pressure suggests otherwise.”
“I think this is the antithesis of a pep talk.”
I angle my face up, resting my chin on his chest. “Swear to me you are going to take care of yourself and do what the doctor said to do?”
He looks back and forth between my eyes, seeing the ever-present shadow of loss in them. “This is nothing to worry about. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Swear it.”
A beat passes, and then he nods. “I swear.”
Satisfied, I peel out of his arms because any longer spent pressed up next to him is going to impregnate me. “Is there any way I can help with the stress part? I bet I could be a pretty good farmer. I look sexy in overalls too.”
He grins and shakes his head no. It’s hard to believe that this is the same James I’ve always known.
The James who looked annoyed when I was in the same room.
There’re no traces of that man here. In fact, the one looking at me with the stomach-swooping smile looks whatever the exact opposite of annoyed is.
He’s my friend now.
I track James’s hand as he lifts the toast to his mouth, taking a huge bite. “You’ve really already had this exact thing before?” I ask.
He balls up the paper towel that once held his toast and then takes mine and does the same, throwing them both away. “My mom used to make it for us all the time when we’d come in from working on the farm. But I haven’t had it in a while.”
I hop up onto the counter. “Next time I’m teaching you to make a beef Wellington.”
“Pass—I’d rather smoke.”
I playfully kick him, but he catches my foot with a laugh. Almost the second his hand comes in contact with my skin, his laugh cuts off. “Your toes are like ice. Are you cold?”
“My feet are always cold. I probably need to exercise more or something.”
He releases my foot and wordlessly leaves the kitchen.
Okay, bye. While I wait to see what James is up to, I lean my palms back onto the counter.
My fingers connect with paper, and I glance over my shoulder to find an open word search puzzle magazine.
It’s bent so severely on the spine it doesn’t need any help staying open.
It’s lying next to an abandoned mug, and I can only assume that James Huxley does word search puzzles over his morning coffee.
My heart twists at the image. I slide the puzzle over and find where he’s left off.
He only has one column left to complete, and suddenly it feels like my life’s mission to find these words.
James returns a minute later with a nondescript, balled-up pair of white crew socks.
They most definitely came from his drawer, and before that, a value pack.
I’m tapping the pen against my lips and if he is shocked by my commandeering of his puzzle he doesn’t show it.
Instead James—ever protective—slides a sock onto each of my feet.
They’re so fluffy they would never fit in a pair of sneakers.
These socks are made for boots and cozying up on the couch. And apparently . . . me.
I straighten my legs and wiggle my toes, taking a pleased look at my little piggies in a blanket. And then I point at the page. “I found excellent.”
He studies where I’m pointing and nods. “Cross it out.”
I do as he says. “You’re a menace for crossing out the words you find. Everyone knows you’re supposed to circle them.”
“My puzzle, my rules.”
I can’t keep the charmed smile from my mouth. “I never would have guessed you like word search puzzles.”
“I start and end my day with them. It’s relaxing.”
I hum a sound of agreement. “I should do this too. I like it.”
James stares at me a moment, then takes the little grocery store magazine from me and rips out the page I was working on. He folds it into a neat little square and hands it over for me to take home. I pocket it, feeling like I’m stowing away precious jewels.
“By my count, I’ve now told you three personal things about me and”—he pretends to count on his fingers before closing them all—“and none about you.”
I let my legs dangle again. “What do you want to know?”
“Why you had a panic attack in the kitchen the other day.”
I take in a huge breath and let it out through puffed cheeks, preparing to say it quickly.
“Okay . . . so the truth is . . . I’ve been having panic attacks almost every time I go into a professional kitchen lately.
” I pause. “There was this chef in the kitchen where I did my internship in New York, and he was”—I flinch as an image of his severe expression hits my mind—“brutal.”
“In what way?” James is mentally finding his shovel.
“Very much the stereotypical high-profile chef. He demanded perfection. He didn’t tolerate any softness.
And he . . . hated me from the second I walked into his kitchen.
I was berated a lot in front of everyone.
My sauces were always a disgrace—even though I excelled at them in technicals.
And my knife skills were apparently atrocious.
” It was always something. Changing every day to where I couldn’t keep up or expect what he’d hate about me next.
I wasn’t enjoying New York, but I was actually doing well in school before that internship started my third semester.
My decline happened rapidly after—keeping me from class, dipping out early when my hands would shake uncontrollably, forcing me to take a zero on the assignment.
That anxiety bled into all areas of my life.
“Instead of firing me, he made me the official mascot for what not to do as a chef. He needed someone to take his aggression out on. When I’d take my short pee break, I’d cry in the stall, and then I’d come out and deal with his condescending comments about my puffy red eyes and lack of balls.”
James’s voice is pitched down to Batman level when he says, “Tell me his fucking name.”
“No,” I chuckle, because I know James. He will get on a flight and hunt that man down to avenge me, and then I’ll have to get on one too in order to bail him out of jail.
“The point is, he made sure I—and everyone around me—knew I was not cut out to be a chef and that my imperfections and tendency to cry when under stress were downfalls.”
“Why didn’t you quit?”
“Do you know how hard it is to find an internship in an elite restaurant in New York? I kept thinking I could win him over eventually. That I’d get the hang of it at some point.
And then it just became a matter of determination or pride, I don’t know.
I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me quit. ”
“You’re really strong, Madison.”
I scoff. “I don’t feel strong. In fact, I live in terror that my confidence is gone forever.
How am I going to be an executive chef and manage other people, demanding perfection when I can’t even achieve it myself ?
Cooking in a professional kitchen is impossible lately because the fluorescent lights and the sterile metal countertops trigger me.
” I heave a sigh. “I’m so sorry, James. I don’t want to let you down. And I should have said no to this job.”
“First”—he holds up his hand, thumb sticking up—“impossible to let me down. Second”—his index finger pops up—“maybe you can’t do it.”
I frown. “Now whose pep talk needs work?”
“I’m not done!” he says in amusement. “Maybe you can’t do it like that chef implied you should, but this is your damn kitchen.
You can run it however you want. There’re no rules that say you have to be a perfectionist to be a chef.
You don’t even have to expect perfection from your staff if that’s not something you believe in personally. ”
His words massage a knot of worry in my chest. The one that has set up camp in there.
I can run the kitchen how I want. Is that true?
Could it really be that simple? I’ve never really explored that idea because perfection was so ingrained in our practice at school.
But maybe he’s right . . . maybe there’s another way.
He closes in a little. “I know you can do this, Madison—but I think you should do it in a way that brings you the most joy. Which is why I hated watching you lie to Tommy the other morning about liking the direction of the restaurant.”
“But . . . I don’t think I have enough experience to voice what I want.”
“Yes, you do. Be loud. Trust yourself.”
Trust yourself. Those are two words no one has ever uttered to me.
Focus. You can do it. Keep going. Those are the phrases people say to me, and even though they’re meant to encourage, they’ve always implied that I’m lacking in some way.
And I’ve been so quick to believe them. But James . . . he said, trust yourself.
Maybe it’s the toast and the hug and the soft, warm lighting, but honesty pours out of me.
“The other problem is, my mind is blank. I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this, but I haven’t been able to come up with a menu yet and the opening is right around the corner.
I can’t find my creativity and it’s killing me. ”
“But you know what you don’t want it to be . . . which is what Tommy was full steam ahead for?”
I cringe. “Yeah. I really don’t like the direction of those designs. They would be perfect in L.A., but here it feels like a mockery in a way.”
“I agree.”
“But it’s too late.”
“No, it’s not. Leave Tommy up to me. I’ll get you more time.”
“James. We just established that you have high blood pressure from stress. I don’t need you taking on even more.”
“Okay, then you can help me in another area to make up for it.”
I widen my eyes suggestively. “Now you’re propositioning me?! I’m so proud. Yes, James, I’ll be your lady of the night.”
He smiles in a way that has me wishing he was propositioning me. “Can you be ready Tuesday morning by six?”
“That’s early for sex but okay.”
“Madison.”
“I’ll be ready.”
James walks me to the back door, where I shove my socked feet into my thong sandals, giving them the wedgie of a lifetime, but also unwilling to take off the socks yet.
When I’m almost down the back steps, I pause and look back at him.
“Hey. I’m sorry you’ve been so stressed,” I tell him.
“And that you’ve felt like you had to manage it alone. ”
“I didn’t say I had to manage it alone.”
“But you have been. Because Tommy has never helped and your parents can’t and Noah is busy a lot now. So . . . I guess I’m saying, if the late-night cigarettes or the cinnamon toast aren’t doing it for you, I’m here to talk. Hurricane Madison at your disposal.”
The corners of his mouth tug up. “Noted.”