Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Sloane
I’m not sure what’s worse: the endless cascade of awful comments, or the fact that the silence between them feels deafening. Either way, it’s all crushing.
My phone’s battery is down to a terrifying twelve percent, and I know it’s not because I’ve been scrolling through my feed in some pathetic attempt to escape reality. It’s because I’ve been avoiding my phone like the plague.
Every time I unlock it, there’s another batch of online critics chiming in, reinforcing the story of my downfall.
“Scam artist, just like the source.”
“She’s finished. Doesn’t even deserve a second chance.”
“Bye, Sloane. Journalism’s better without you.”
They’re all right, of course. I don’t deserve a second chance. The irony of it all hits me in waves. Here I was, once holding the pen of power, the torchbearer of truth. Now I’m just a cautionary tale, one of those names people whisper about in industry circles.
How do you bounce back from something like this? How do you rebuild after blowing up the one thing you spent years cultivating?
My credibility is a pile of ash, and every time I try to imagine a future where I’m back in a newsroom, I can’t see it. It’s like trying to look through a fog so thick I can’t even find the way out.
The only thing keeping me from spiraling further is my kitchen.
It’s not much. Just the same cramped space I’ve been in for the last three years, with peeling paint above the stove and a fridge that rattles, about to give up. But it’s mine.
Even now, with my career in flames and my phone buzzing loud as a hornet’s nest in the other room, this is the one place where I can breathe.
I glance around at the mismatched mugs stacked on the counter, the crooked spice rack I swore I’d fix months ago, the tiny window above the sink that frames nothing more than a view of the brick wall next door.
It’s hardly picturesque, but it’s where I’ve been hiding these past few days, trying to cook my way out of my own head.
I’ve been moving from one recipe to the next like a lifeline, chopping, stirring, kneading, anything to quiet the noise inside me. Lately, it’s the only time that I have any control at all.
I pull my hair into a messy bun and toss an apron over my head. I’m not expecting anything special.
Hell, at this point, I’m not expecting much of anything from myself. But cooking, dancing around in the kitchen while I chop, stir, and season, gives me something to hold on to. I can lose myself in the rhythm of it all.
I throw some onions into the pan, and the sizzle is music to my ears. The sharp, sweet smell fills the air, and for a second, the world disappears.
I close my eyes, breathing it in, and when I open them, I’m already moving. My hips start swaying to an invisible beat, the crackle of the onions setting the rhythm.
Without thinking, I grab a wooden spoon, tap it against the edge of the pot like a makeshift drumstick, and, why not? I start to spin.
I’m spinning in the kitchen, one hand on the counter for balance, the other tossing garlic, thyme, and rosemary into the pan as if I’m in some culinary dance off. There’s this burst of energy, a weight lifted off my chest.
Who knew sautéing onions could feel so freeing?
I giggle to myself, spinning around again, my laughter light and a little too loud for the quiet space.
“I’m basically a chef, right?” I say aloud, as though asking the stove for its approval.
The heat from the pan, the music in my head, and the odd little pep talk are doing wonders. Who needs a therapist when you’ve got a skillet and some killer moves?
I twirl, doing a little jig as I chop the carrots. Maybe I’m a little offbeat, but hey, no one’s watching, right?
I glance at the counter, where the ingredients are neatly arranged as if on a cooking show set, and I can’t help but smile. Maybe I’m not totally ruined. Perhaps I can still make something of myself… even if it’s just a really damn good vegetable stew.
The kitchen fills with the smell of herbs, fresh tomatoes, and a bit of wine. Nothing fancy, but it’s a symphony of warmth. I toss in a pinch of salt, stirring the pot with exaggerated flair.
I’m practically performing at this point. I laugh to myself again, catching my reflection in the window. My hair’s a mess, my cheeks flushed, and I probably look like I’m halfway to a breakdown, but damn it, I’m having fun.
When everything finally comes together, I plate it up with more flourish than I think I’ve ever had. The stew looks… well, it seems like I’ve pulled off some magic trick.
It’s rich, comforting, and exactly what I need right now. I grab my phone and snap a picture of the steaming bowl, a goofy grin spreading across my face.
It’s a simple shot. My plate of bright vegetables and perfectly cooked chicken against the backdrop of the rustic kitchen. I add a filter, just enough to make it look warm and inviting, a little more “I’ve got my shit together” than I really do.
Then I hover over the screen, my finger resting on the “post” button. Usually, I’d overthink this to death. But today… Today, I want to feel light. I want a reminder that there’s still some joy left in me, even if it’s wrapped up in a bowl of food.
So, I post it, with a cheeky caption:
Cooking my way out of the pity party one dish at a time #NotAllBad #CookingTherapy #FeelingLikeAPro
I chuckle softly as I hit send. It’s a far cry from my usual carefully crafted posts. The ones that used to showcase my career accomplishments, my professional image. But now? Now, it feels right.
For once, the phone doesn’t immediately ding with notifications. No onslaught of messages, no instant wave of judgment. It’s like the universe is giving me a break.
Well, I mean, it makes sense, right? Everything is set to private now, so only the people I care about can judge me.
And then my phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times.
It’s Ivy.
Ivy: Sloane Katz, queen of the kitchen, strikes again. This looks insane.
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. Ivy always had a way of showing up right when I needed her.
Ivy: Remember all those nights in college when you cooked for us? I miss you as a roomie.
Ivy: You’d make pasta from scratch at midnight and somehow turn it into therapy.
Ivy: Anyway… this looks even better. Seriously. Have you thought about doing it for real?
I blink at the screen.
“Doing it for real?” I mutter, glancing at my stew. It’s good, but not that good.
I type back, thumbs flying: Thanks. But I’m not a chef. I’m a journalist. Or at least I used to be.
The three little dots appear immediately, Ivy’s reply practically jumping out of the phone.
Ivy: Well, technically, you’re on a break from journalism. And guess what? There’s a cooking job open here in Coyote Glen. Meadow Creek Retreat. They’re looking for a cook to handle meals for the artists staying there.
I stare at her message, my stomach doing a weird flip. Meadow Creek Retreat. The name rings as a faraway bell.
Ivy: You’d be amazing. You were already in college. People still talk about your “legendary dorm lasagna,” by the way.
I laugh out loud, the sound bouncing off the kitchen walls. “Legendary dorm lasagna” was basically noodles and whatever was left in the fridge. But Ivy’s enthusiasm is relentless.
I type back quickly: Ivy, come on. That’s cute, but I’m not about to play chef at some mountain retreat. I’m a journalist. This is just me keeping myself sane. I can’t cook for a living.
Almost immediately, another bubble pops up.
Ivy: Okay, but look.
A second later, a link appears. It’s the job posting. Cook wanted. Meadow Creek Retreat. Private artist residency in Coyote Glen. Room and board included.
I click on it, mostly to humor her. My thumb hovers over the screen, scrolling through the listing. The words jump out at me: “quiet,” “escape,” “creative environment,” “fresh, local ingredients.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how quiet the apartment feels around me. The brick wall outside the window seems closer than ever—it’s pressing in.
Ivy: Think about it. You love cooking. You need a break. It’s temporary. Plus, you’d be near me again. Olivia and I would love to see you.
I stare at the job listing longer than I mean to. The idea of getting off the grid, even just for a little while, hits a nerve I didn’t realize was exposed.
No doomscrolling. No angry comments. No career postmortem. Just me, a kitchen, and a bunch of strangers who don’t know or care about Sloane Katz, the disgraced journalist.
I type slowly: I don’t know, Ivy. It’s not me. It’s…
But even as I type it, I feel the tug. It might not be “me,” but the version of me who’s drowning in a brick-walled apartment in the city? She could probably use an escape.
I hover over the “send” button for a second, then hit it.
Ivy: Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.
I set the phone down and stare at the bowl of stew I just made. Warm. Colorful. Comforting. I take a spoonful and sigh.
Coyote Glen. Meadow Creek Retreat. Cooking for other people. Getting away.
The idea lingers hot as a spice on my tongue.