Chapter Eighteen
Aubrey
Classic rock filled the old warehouse-turned-shopping commons that served as the location for the ongoing charity tasting.
The event was halfway through, the crowd still thickening with attendees weaving between the tables of participating restaurants.
Jillian had signed Ardena up for it last year, but now that Arden Catering was operational, it made more sense for me to snag the marketing opportunity.
I let the song’s rhythm guide the steady flow of my plating spoon as I topped the rows of fried oyster mushrooms and tomato béarnaise that lined Arden Catering’s table with seaweed caviar.
It was a recent dish I’d come up with for the catering competition, and as far as I could tell from today’s reactions, it was solid. All the dishes I’d come up with in the two weeks since the disastrous wedding-prep night were. Perfectly edible, unlike my first attempts. Skillfully prepared.
They just weren’t enough to win.
Nothing on my current menu was unexpected enough. I’d incorporated some of the sustainable practices Jase had made a statement with in his menu for the symposium last year, but that alone didn’t convey the kind of story the competition’s event called for.
It needed drama. Passion. To inspire as much feeling through the food as the museum’s art inspired in its patrons.
What I’d created was boring in comparison. Or as a local food blogger had put it in their recent post about the engagement party I catered last weekend, “Arden Catering’s food lacked innovation, inspiration, or anything that hadn’t already been at the table—or any table—for decades.”
The words hadn’t meant anything to me when Jillian had stormed into the prep kitchen yesterday, printed article in hand, and thrown it into the lit flame of a burner.
“Everything in there is horseshit. Do you hear me?” Jillian had said.
I’d been more concerned about her burning down the building than the review. Especially considering I thought the engagement party had gone well.
Curiosity more than anything prompted me to find the blog post on my phone and read it once Jillian had left.
Fair criticism toward my craft only made me better, and while the blog was decently well-known in fine-dining circles, most of our clients still came from referrals, so there was little risk to the business.
If it had all been horseshit like Jillian said, I would have disregarded it without losing sleep.
But while whoever wrote the blog may have thrown around a lot of commas, they knew enough about food to pinpoint what was wrong with each of my competition attempts in a single sentence.
Lacking innovation, inspiration, or anything that hadn’t already been done.
They were right. And with only three weeks until the competition deadline, I didn’t know how to fix it.
As if summoned by my misery, Christian emerged from the crowd and strolled to my table like this was his regular hoagie spot.
I’d spotted Pépère’s van in the parking lot when I arrived, but the event space was huge, and over thirty restaurants were participating. My delusion had me convinced he and I would make it through the day without crossing paths.
Ha. As if Christian would pass on an opportunity to search me out. Especially when he had something so satisfying to rub in my face. I wanted to scrape off his smug smile with my spoon.
“Yes?” I asked as patiently as I could manage. It was by the strength of the three Advil I’d taken earlier for my period cramps that I didn’t roll my eyes at his widening grin.
“I read a fascinating review recently of a new caterer in town. Arden Catering, I believe it was? I can’t decide on my favorite part.
” He took his phone from his pocket and cleared his throat.
“‘One guest described the meal as “something her grandmother would like,” which isn’t what you expect of an engagement party for a couple in their twenties.’” He flashed his screen my way.
“It’s between that or the line about your entitled insistence to work your events alone.
” His gaze swept behind the table I stood at by myself.
“I see he wasn’t wrong on either count.”
I clenched my teeth and said nothing. Better he assumed I was the only restaurant here to choose to serve hundreds of attendees solo than know how hard a time I was having finding qualified help.
He’d probably send me the worst chefs he could find to waste my time.
At this point, I’d probably already interviewed them.
“What, no defense for your flailing empire?” He eyed my tasting plates again. “’Cause I don’t think it’s working to have your food speak for itself.”
Even knowing it was his goal, the words burned like the edge of a hot pan. I was saved the need to respond by two couples who approached the table.
“Welcome!” I said too eagerly. “Would you like to try our fried ‘oyster’ dish?”
I described the components and avoided looking at Christian. If I ignored him as if he were a bee, maybe he’d go away.
A moment later, another pair of ladies stepped behind the couples, and he did just that. I went through the rest of the event trying to forget he was ever there, offering my food to tasters with all the confidence I wished I felt.
At five o’clock, I responded to Evan’s text about grabbing dinner and packed up my table.
By five forty-five, I was one of the last restaurants still loading my van, this side of the parking lot more or less empty. With all my stuff locked safely away, I grabbed the last of my trash and headed inside to pee for the first time all afternoon.
When I returned, Christian was leaning against the driver’s door of my van.
I could always leave the van and walk home, I thought.
It was what? Five, six miles? Sure, it would take a few hours, but I had more energy for that than dealing with him again.
If I’d brought a jacket and wouldn’t have frozen my ass off as soon as the sun went down, I might have seriously considered it.
I crossed my arms as I approached. “What do you want, Christian?”
He looked as smug as ever. “You never answered me before. What’s your response to the article? Or are you giving up already?”
I forced back a sigh. I was too exhausted to decide if I should to scream in his face or lie on the pavement and stay there.
I’d packed and unpacked the van twice today.
My back was tight from hunching over the table trying to plate perfect food for three hundred people.
Having no one with me meant I never got to leave the table for a bathroom break, to try the other restaurants’ dishes, or to network for Jillian (or in Christian’s case, harass former coworkers).
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. At this point, all I wanted was to crawl under a pile of blankets and stay there until I became one.
To make matters worse, my nostrils burned with a sudden burst of emotion, and I didn’t know if it was anger or a sign that Christian was right.
Not that I was ready to give up. But that for the first time in my career, a part of me wondered if I should.
I hated that, of all people, he was the voice of those doubts in my head.
“Why do you care?” I asked. “You’re the head chef of a James Beard Award-winning restaurant, remember? What does it matter to you what I do?”
It was one thing when we’d both been at Pépère, two sous chefs battling for the top spot. But I’d left. And at no point had my goal been to drag the battle along with me.
His boastful expression slid away. “Don’t act like I don’t know how much better than me you think you are. How you and Jase snickered behind my back and acted like I didn’t deserve to be there. You two tried to push me out every chance you could.”
Now, I rolled my eyes. Because yes, we did talk about him. About our multiple attempts to address his shitty behavior with him directly that went completely ignored.
There’d been one especially gross comment Jase had tried to fire him for, but the restaurant owner took Christian’s side. Jase made sure I was never left alone with him after that.
“I earned my spot as executive chef,” he said, a finger to his chest. “Despite what Jillian fucking Matice seemed to think when she handpicked the rest of you for her little project. And I’m going to make sure she and Jase and everyone in this city know it’s my food they should care about. Not yours.”
“Fine.” It was all I had for him. That and the best of luck. I’d name him Philly’s top chef right now if he’d let me get to my van so I could go home. We’d both know I was lying, but only one of us would care.
Before I could tell him as much, the door to the building swung open, and Evan stepped outside. My shoulders loosened at the same time Evan’s tensed.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he aimed at Christian. They’d only met twice, but Evan had heard me vent about the other chef enough to know all he needed to about the current situation.
Going by Christian’s face, the revulsion was mutual. “Just reminding Aubrey where she stands.” He shot me a parting glare. “Good luck in the catering competition. You were always going to need it.”
He strode for the building, ignoring Evan, who flashed him both middle fingers. When the door clicked shut, Evan turned to assess if I was okay.
Aside from the headache pounding my skull and incessant throb of my uterus, I was peachy.
He lifted his brows. “You telling this one over takeout or drinks?”
“You need to carry pepper spray or something,” Evan said as we walked into my apartment a little later, a paper bag of Indian food in hand.
“I carry a chef knife most of the time. Does that count?” I joked.
He set the food bag on my counter and pinned me with his serious face. “I don’t like him cornering you like that. Not to mention, any drunk guy at a wedding or creep on the street could sneak up on you at night after an event. It’s not safe.”
I snatched the bag from him and pulled out containers. “All right, Dad, I’ll be careful. Can we talk about your job now?”
We made our way to my small round table in the corner and ate while Evan told me about the rumor that the current creative director of his graphic design agency might retire next year. It meant a huge opportunity for a promotion for someone on the team.
“You thinking of trying for it? Or do you still want to start your own company?” I asked between forkfuls of chicken korma. He’d mentioned doing it more than once. Even took on some freelance projects to build a portfolio outside of his agency work.
“I’d rather the promotion. I already have good relationships with a bunch of our clients. I just want the chance to do more.”
“Plus, the raise would be nice.”
“I guess. I won’t really need it as long as I’m living with Dad. Nothing says creative director like sleeping in your childhood bed, right?” His voice was teasing, but his eyes stayed downcast.
“Do you want your own place again?” He’d given up his Center City apartment when he moved in with his dad.
“I mean, I want one. But I don’t think I should leave Dad yet. The house would be too quiet for him alone.”
“Maybe Gabe could move in with him.” There was an old apartment above the gym he planned to renovate once he owned the building, but he could always rent it out for the extra income if he decided to live with his dad for a while.
Evan snorted. “The guy who would rather sleep in an abandoned building than stay at home? Sure.”
“You could ask him,” I said. “He might surprise you.”
For all the reasons Gabe preferred sleeping at the gym—reasons he hadn’t said outright but I sensed were tied to his mom—he spent a huge chunk of his free time at home with his dad.
Pretty much whenever he wasn’t training or with me, he was there, watching whatever game was on with his dad or helping with projects around the house.
I knew Evan had noticed from how often he’d started staying late at work or grabbing dinner with me.
For as much as he beat on Gabe for avoiding his family, he’d been doing a five-star job of it himself.
I’d call him out for how alike he was to his brother, but he wouldn’t take it as the compliment he used to when we were teens.
It didn’t change that both he and Gabe cared about their dad. If their dad or Evan—especially Evan—asked Gabe to help, he’d want to do it.
“I don’t want him to surprise me. I just…want him to go away.”
I lowered my fork. “Do you really?”
He didn’t answer. Just ripped off a piece of naan and dragged it through his sauce.
“What if you tried talking to him? Not about anything big, just…ask to see the gym or something. He’d love to show you that.”
“I doubt he cares.”
“You know that’s not true. And I really think you’ll be excited about it. It’s not a lot to look at right now, but the space has so much potential. Especially when you hear what he plans for it.”
He let out a breath and met my gaze, studying me as if deciding whether to say something.
“What?”
“You two are hooking up, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a question. Not really.
It also wasn’t said with anger or disappointment. Just a need to know.
I swallowed the urge to deny it. He’d be able to tell I was lying anyway. “Yes.”
He leaned back in his seat. “I thought you said you didn’t have a crush on him anymore?”
“I don’t. It’s not like that, it’s just…” Whatever word I had for it struggled to form.
“Sex?” he filled in.
I lifted a shoulder. “Yeah.”
He nodded a few times, pushing his fork through the rice on his plate. “I’m guessing me saying it’s a bad idea won’t change anything?”
“I know why you think that, but I’m telling you, it’s okay. I know what I’m doing. You don’t have to worry about it.”
His eyes flicked to mine, more concern lining them than I’d seen since my grandma had died. It nearly knocked me back. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I won’t,” I assured him, not entirely sure it was true. But if I did get hurt, it would be my own stupid fault, which I refused to let come between Evan and his brother.
“He won’t commit to you,” Evan warned. “I’m not sure he can. To anyone.”
I ignored the clench in my gut at the confirmation of what I’d been telling myself all along. Gabe wasn’t looking for long-term. Evan knew it, and I did too.
“I know,” I said.
He blew out another long sigh. “Just—promise me you’ll end things before you develop feelings?”
I swallowed again, fighting to slow the heartbeat in my throat. “I will.” This one was for sure a lie.
One I planned to keep telling us both.