Chapter Thirty-Four
Aubrey
I wiped the edge of a dessert plate with my towel, letting the precise movement soothe my mind.
For the first time I could remember, cooking in the catering prep kitchen brought me a kind of peace.
Almost like something had settled that allowed the space to feel more like home. Or the start of one, at least.
The five dishes Jase and I had brainstormed for the catering competition sat completed on the counter, and they felt better too. Not quite perfect, but something I was proud of. And grateful to be able to sink myself into after last night with Gabe.
If I thought about it too much, I’d end up crying again, and it wasn’t something I wanted to cry over.
Crying made it seem sad, like something else to mourn, when what Gabe and I had shared these past few months was something I wanted to celebrate.
To think back on and smile. To remember the confidence he helped me feel and the boldness I’d found, the freedom it had given me.
To have experienced that level of passion safely, in a way that nothing had been taken from me that I wasn’t ready to give.
It had been perfect. Especially last night.
Right now, there were also just tears. So many of them sitting below the surface, ready to pour out of me at the slightest nudge, like a giant Jenga tower of emotions balanced on a single block I was desperately trying to keep standing.
I would have to see Gabe again before he left for Colorado, and no doubt at several points in the future, and I couldn’t be a weepy mess in front of him.
He couldn’t know how hard it was for me to say goodbye or realize I ached for him in any way beyond the physical.
I wouldn’t let him take on that guilt or feel like he didn’t deserve to choose his own path forward because of me. I would be fine.
I was lucky enough to have experienced more than one kind of passion in life, and the satisfaction I got from my job would be more than enough to make me happy.
Even if sometimes that work had to happen alone like it did this morning.
That didn’t mean I was alone. And unlike a few months ago, it felt true.
The thud of a knock on the door rang through the space, and I checked my phone for the time.
Five minutes early. Off to a good start.
I pushed open the back door to let in the young chef.
Their braids today were pulled up in another patterned headband, but instead of the Froyo tee, they wore the standard chef uniform—a plain white T-shirt and loose black chef pants.
The large teal cloud-shaped hoops they’d added to the outfit gave the vibe they would rock some stellar press-on nails when they weren’t working.
“Mackenzie Bishop?” I confirmed as they stepped inside. “I’m Aubrey Witter. Nice to officially meet you.”
They shook my hand. “Mack is fine.” Their nails were clean and unpolished. Another good sign.
“Mack. Got it. I go by she/her pronouns. Your résumé said you use she/they. Do you have a preference?”
They adjusted the strap of their bag on their shoulder. “Not really. I usually go by she/her at work.”
“Is that what you want to go by here?”
She nodded.
“She/her it is. Let me know if that changes, all right?”
Another nod.
“You can hang your bag there.” I pointed at the coat hooks on the wall behind the door. “Grab your apron if you have one. We’ll do some cooking later. For now, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself? What made you want to be a chef?”
We talked for a bit while I got a feel for her.
She’d grown up in Philly with both parents and a younger sister.
Her parents kept their meals pretty basic growing up, and after seeing food posts on social media and watching a bunch of cooking videos online, she took it upon herself to experiment with the kind of food she’d been curious to try.
That led her to culinary school and, after a year of washing dishes and serving frozen yogurt while she waited for her shot, here.
“You don’t want to stick with a traditional restaurant?” I asked. “This won’t be as structured. The schedule will be all over the place, depending on the event.”
She shrugged. “I’m more interested in the food than the schedule. And I don’t think I’m really a fan of big kitchens. Something small like this seems cool.”
“Okay, well…” I gestured to the lineup of plates on the counter. “Here’s a peek at the food. Have a taste and tell me what you think.”
Her eyes brightened as she took in the dishes, and excitement sparked in my belly. I wrestled it down, not wanting to get ahead of myself. There were still a thousand reasons she could end up not working out.
I passed her a silverware roll and stepped aside so the countertop was hers to explore.
She took a moment to look at the dishes together, then homed in on the hors d’oeuvre, leaning closer to examine it from all angles.
After a couple of deep breaths to capture the aroma, she gathered a bite with her fork and had her first taste.
Nothing on her face gave her away. She could have loved it or hated it, but after a few seconds studying the bite, she moved on to the appetizer and repeated the same steps.
My nerves disintegrated into Pop Rocks bursting throughout my body. It didn’t matter what she said about the dishes; she was hired. Everything I needed to know was in how she approached the food. Like she respected it. Like she was trying to learn from it. Like she wanted to give it her best.
I could help her reach her best. The same way Jase helped me.
He could help her too. Between her and the guys, we could foster a whole new set of chefs, bring new voices to Ardena. And I could already tell she’d make me better too.
When she’d finished her bite of the dessert, she lowered the fork and turned to me. I gave a nod of encouragement.
“It’s…” She appraised the dishes again, a faint smile tugging her lips. “Really good. The progression is awesome. Everything makes sense, and the presentation is gorgeous…”
I tried not to smile at the note of something else in her voice. “But?”
Her gaze lingered on the entrée as she fought her hesitation, no doubt a holdover from whatever kitchen she’d apprenticed in during culinary school that probably drilled the expectation of never questioning the head chef. We’d work through that real quick.
She finally let the words free. “The rhubarb-glazed squab…I’d use duck instead.”
I nodded in concession and gestured at the counter. “Let’s try it.”
She beamed and reached for her apron as I went to grab the duck still in the walk-in from recipe testing earlier in the week.
Her knife skills proved to be as clean as I expected from someone who went to culinary school, and she asked the kinds of questions only someone with a strong understanding of flavor profiles and cooking techniques would.
She even plated the dish to be nearly identical to the original, committing to her placement of components rather than giving her hands the chance to shake.
When it was time to taste the updated version, I let her go first, then followed her steps of smelling the dish before taking a careful bite.
She sought out my reaction, but I made her go first.
Her opinion came out quicker this time. “The texture’s not as good.”
“No. That’s why we ended up going with squab. But this has a richer flavor. It might be worth trying to combine the two.”
“You mean like rendering the duck fat and using it to cook the squab?”
“That could work. There’s a risk it will be too busy, but we won’t know until we taste it. You want to come back tomorrow and give it a try?”
She grinned. “Really?”
I grinned back. “This week is all about fine-tuning this tasting menu to submit by Friday’s competition deadline. Then we’re back to events. If you’re still interested, I’d love you to join me for both.”
“I’m so in.”
A wedge of frustration that had been jammed between my ribs for weeks dissolved as another piece of the catering puzzle settled, and an eagerness for tomorrow shimmered throughout the kitchen.
“Here,” I said, digging my phone out of my apron pocket. “I’ll email you the paperwork Jillian will need so you can bring it back tomorrow.”
A text message popped on my screen before I had the chance. I read it and froze.
“Is…everything okay?” Mack asked when I didn’t move.
It took me longer than it should have to process her question. Then longer still to answer it. As soon as I could, my body snapped into action.
“No.” I ripped off my apron and spun to find my bag. “I’m going to have Jillian email you the forms instead. I’m so sorry, but I have to go. Don’t worry about locking up.” I’d ask Jillian to handle that too. She’d have one of the guys run over if she couldn’t do it.
“Sure, no worries,” Mack said as I rushed by.
I attempted another smile, hoping to whatever goddess ruled the kitchen that I hadn’t just lost the perfect sous chef for my team, but I couldn’t worry about it now. I pushed through the door and took off for the subway, dialing Evan’s number on the way.