Chapter 5
FIVE
RAY
“Sick move, bud,” I call out to Tucker as he rolls past me on his skateboard. By no means is Tucker able to do actual tricks on his board. But he’s come a long way already.
For Tucker’s ninth birthday, I got him a skateboard. I’d noticed him eyeing a few kids at school when I dropped him off at the car circle last fall, a hint of envy in his gaze. I asked him if skateboarding was something he wanted to try. With a shrug and emotionless half smile, he’d muttered, “I guess.”
I may have missed years of Tucker’s life, but I connect with my little man in a way no one else does. DNA isn’t the only thing we share. In so many ways, Tucker is a mini version of me. His smile and laughter. His sense of adventure and willingness to try new things. And his tendency to bottle up his feelings and guard his heart once someone has broken it.
Sad to say, both our hearts were broken by the same person. Unfortunately, Tucker won’t recover as quickly as I did. It’s one thing for me to move on from a girlfriend who slowly slipped away, then carried out unforgivable, atrocious exploitation. Tucker was ignored by his mom for years. Feeling unloved and unwanted by her the entire time, and then being handed off to me, who he didn’t remember because Brianna ran off with him at such a young age and warped his memories… it scars you in a way nothing else will.
Now that I have Tucker, now that he has a loving parent at his side, I’ll fight nonstop to offset the hurt Brianna caused. I will do whatever it takes to give Tucker a happy life. My little man deserves the stars, and I’ll hand him every single one.
Until recently, he rarely smiled. Most were forced. But the days his smiles come easily and shine brightest are at the indoor skate park. I’d bring him daily just to see more of those smiles.
The slap of wheels hitting concrete echoes through the space as I sit on a bench on the sidelines. Tucker glides from one side of the room to the other, arms slightly extended at his sides, eyes darting from the ground to what’s ahead.
On our first day here, a teenager took him under their wing. Taught Tucker the basics and talked him through his fears of falling. Before we left that day, I asked the teen what days they were at the park and if they minded showing Tucker the ropes more.
With a little financial incentive, Jordan happily agreed to spend one or two days at the skate park with Tucker.
It eases my anxiety and warms my heart that Tucker has someone to look up to who’s closer to his age. Someone he can make a lifelong friendship with.
A few weeks back, Jordan declared Tucker was ready to move on to something other than flat surfaces. The idea of Tucker flying through the air on his skateboard made my stomach flip—with thrill and unease. But I put my trust in Jordan’s capable hands, and it was the right choice.
I stare on as Tucker sails past me and heads back to the line for the smallest ramp in the park, one specifically in place for learning.
Waiting his turn with a glowing smile on his face, Tucker inches forward and prepares to take off. As soon as the person in front of him clears out of the way, he kicks off and charges forward. The ramp’s subtle incline teaches him how to build momentum safely. He flies up the ramp, crests the ridge of the low pyramid with a quick hop, coasts across the flat surface, then glides down the opposite side with a blinding smile on his face.
“Yeah, T-Man!” I cheer. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
I have yet to be told by Tucker I’m an embarrassment. So, I cheer him on as often as possible and pray it boosts his confidence.
An hour passes way too soon. We say our goodbyes to Jordan and leave the skate park. Tucker tells me how awesome it felt to do bigger kid stuff today. In response, I tell him he is a bigger kid.
A few blocks up the street, I park at the pizza place, and we head inside. Order drinks and a small pizza—Tucker’s half with cheese and mine with everything. As the server walks off, I nudge Tucker’s foot with mine under the table.
“You were awesome at the park today, bud. So proud of you.”
He bops in his seat to the song playing in the restaurant. A hint of a smile on his lips. “Yeah.” He sits a little straighter. Taller. “My moves were pretty dope.”
Dope. Yet another word to add to the list of slang Jordan is teaching Tucker. At least none of the words in his new vocabulary are curses, derogatory, or hurtful.
“Jordan’s a good teacher. Glad we met them.”
Tucker plucks a crayon from a cup on the table and starts doodling on his place mat. “Me too. Jordan said I’m like the best little brother.” The admission enlivens Tucker’s expression.
My heart squeezes at the sight.
I love that Tucker has a role model, someone considerate and supportive he can talk with who isn’t his therapist.
“That’s amazing, bud.”
The server deposits Tucker’s root beer float and my Pepsi on the table, says the pizza will be out soon, then disappears again.
Eyes on his glass as he pokes the scoop of ice cream, worry creases Tucker’s forehead. He takes a tentative sip of his float then sags in his seat. The sudden shift in his mood has my dad senses tingling. In an instant, a gray cloud swoops in and wipes away his happiness, and I don’t like it.
I nudge his foot under the table again. “What’s up, bud?”
He shifts his tight lips from side to side, unsure.
Ducking closer to the table, I peek up into his eyes and give him an encouraging smile. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.” I gesture between us with a finger. “Remember, this is a safe space.”
His brows bunch together in what I assume is hesitancy. Slowly, they relax, but not fully. Eyes still downcast, he asks, “Have you told Mom about Jordan?” His voice is so soft, timid, I barely hear his question.
My heart squeezes again but for a completely different reason. An achy tightness because my little man may never see or hear from his mom again. Tucker may be too young and unintentionally oblivious to grasp the finer details of why she is no longer in the picture, but he isn’t too young to experience the everlasting side effects.
The one and only time Brianna reached out since abandoning Tucker at Dad’s diner was two days after Tucker’s birthday. She called the diner, asked Dad for my number, then called me from a blocked number and asked for money. She didn’t ask about Tucker. She didn’t ask me to tell him happy birthday from her.
Brianna spoke to me as if Tucker didn’t exist at all.
Thoroughly repulsed by her attitude and behavior, I told her to lose my number and hung up.
Any time Tucker brings up Brianna, I tread lightly. His invisible wounds are still too fresh. He struggles to convince himself his mom doesn’t want him—something he will work on for years.
It’s natural for Tucker to ask about her, to want her to love him. Hurtful as the truth is, I refuse to lie. I refuse to give him false hope. But I will soften the truth.
“Not sure, bud,” I answer with as much tenderness as possible. “I told you about the last time she called.” Twisting my glass on the table, I watch the condensation roll down. “Don’t remember all the things we discussed.”
The corners of his mouth turn down as he nods.
“Promise I’ll tell her about Jordan if she calls again.”
“’Kay,” he mutters.
Every protective bone in my body rages at the sight of Tucker’s forlorn expression and wilted frame.
Fuck Brianna. Fuck her for doing this to Tucker.
Hate is not a strong enough word for how I feel about her.
You want to take off and traipse around who knows where doing who knows what? Fine. It’s your life. You want to dick people over and ruin every relationship you’ve ever had? I don’t give a damn. Go. Be an irresponsible idiot. Live like rules don’t apply to you. You’re the one who lives with the consequences.
But do not use my son as a pawn. Ever.
Tucker deserves the world. He deserves to be a kid, to not stress over food or bills or housing. He deserves to smile and laugh, to be carefree and happy.
If I have to make a wish on every falling star, birthday candle, dandelion, and wishbone, I will. All I want is for him to know life will move forward without her. That her actions and opinions don’t shape his future, he does.
Needing to brighten the mood, I switch topics. “Did I tell you about the cooking school?”
Tucker peeks up from his drink and shakes his head.
“Chef Beaulieu came up with the coolest idea,” I say, smile on my face and in my voice. “Summer cooking school for kids.”
A soft glow twinkles in his hazels, and I love the sight.
“And guess what?”
“What?” Tucker asks, curiosity edging his tone.
“You’re the first kid signed up.”
Tucker goes quiet. Eyes glued to the ice cream in his cup, he swirls the straw and blends it with the root beer. I don’t interrupt his thinking. Don’t push him to respond. Don’t force him to feel one way or the other about the news.
For most of his life, Tucker has had most of his choices taken from him. At an early age, he was forced into adulthood. Callously, Brianna stole the light in his eyes and used his innocence for her own personal gain.
I may have already signed Tucker up for the kids’ culinary classes, but if he says he doesn’t want to go, I won’t make him.
The server returns with the pizza and sets a plate in front of each of us. I put a slice of cheese on Tucker’s plate and add two supreme slices to mine. As I’m about to take a bite, Tucker finds his voice.
“Will…” His brows scrunch together as lines mar his forehead. “Will you be there?”
Shit. I didn’t mean to leave that part out.
“Yeah, bud.” I nod. “I’ll be there. I’m teaching the class with Chef Beaulieu.”
Tentatively, he picks up his slice of pizza, takes a bite, and sets it back down. Mulls the news over as he chews. And it’s like watching a butterfly emerge from a chrysalis, the way the light filters back into his features. Zeal dances in his eyes. Excitement tips up the corners of his mouth. And this undeniable effervescence makes him fidget.
“Are we gonna make weird food?” he asks, voice garbled as he talks around the bite in his mouth.
I chuckle. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, bud.”
He swallows, then takes a sip of his drink. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, bud.” I reach across the table and ruffle his curls. “And yes, we’ll probably make some weird, fun recipes.”
“Yes!” he says then does a fist pump. “When does it start?” He picks up his pizza. “How many kids will be there?” Bringing the pizza to his mouth, he goes to take a bite then pauses with the slice an inch from his mouth. “Do I get to wear a chef hat like you?” He shoves the pizza in his mouth, takes a monstrous bite, and stares at me wide-eyed, waiting.
God, I love his enthusiasm. Love the light in his eyes. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure it stays.
While we devour pizza, I share all the important details of the kids cooking school. When it starts. How many kids will be there. How many weeks it will be. And that we will get to spend almost all day together.
What I leave out is after the kids cooking school ends in August, I’ll have a new schedule. One more flexible and in line with Tucker’s schedule.
When I approached André to discuss my hours, he told me about the cooking school concept. I immediately loved the idea. Although most kids were likely signed up for summer programs months ago, neither of us worried about filling spots. Thirteen kids—a baker’s dozen. Parents will fight to get their children in.
The classes will bring new life to Calhoun’s Bistro.
Once the summer classes end, André wants to start adult classes. Monday through Friday, I’ll be teaching cooking basics and how to make decadent dishes without breaking the bank or your kitchen. After we have several classes under our belt, we’ll offer beginner, intermediate, and advanced classes.
The best part? On the days I teach, my evenings in the kitchen will be shorter. Several hours shorter.
If everything goes according to plan, between now and the end of the year, I’ll spend half the day teaching and the other half leading and prepping the kitchen. I should be home an hour or two before Tucker’s bedtime. If everything goes according to plan, next year, I should be home well before dinner.
The initial stab felt as though I lost my sous-chef position. But the more André and I talked, the more he explained this change as an advancement in my culinary career, not a step back.
“All chefs dream of running their own kitchen and restaurant, but the ultimate reward is passing on your knowledge. Watching someone create their first dish with the skills you taught them is the greatest gift.”
His words took time to sink in, but once they did, it was a shot of dopamine to my bloodstream.
As Tucker and I leave the pizza restaurant, I peek at him in my periphery. Take in his sunny disposition and bounce in his step. Soak up his happiness and let it seep into my bones. Let it remind me everything I do, every decision I make, is for him.
If Tucker is happy, so am I.
Sweat beads my brow and I take a deep breath to cool down. Twisting, I press my forehead to the sleeve of my chef’s coat then return my focus to the plate.
I spoon red wine demi-glace over the roasted quarter chicken on buttery, mashed cauliflower. Top it with a caramelized clove of roasted garlic and chiffonade of basil ribbons. After a quick wipe of the plate rim, I move the dish aside and follow the same process on the next plate.
The kitchen works like a well-oiled machine as tickets come in. André weaves through the kitchen, observing everyone at their stations, delivering praise and sharing tips. A moment later, he sidles up to me and does the same.
“Exquisite plates this evening, Chef Calhoun. Guests have sent compliments to the kitchen all night.”
My cheeks warm at his praise. “Thank you, Chef Beaulieu.”
As we do every night in the kitchen together, André and I fall into a harmonious dance. Tickets come in, we call out orders, and magic happens as each dish is plated under his hand or mine.
I love every minute—the rush, the stress, the pure chaos, and the art we create. I live for the thrill, the surge in my pulse. It’s why André and I work so well together.
After another dozen plates are sent to the dining room, the tickets slow. André and I move about the kitchen, checking in with the cooks.
“Chef Beaulieu,” a server calls from the pickup area.
He crosses the kitchen. “Yes, Ginny?”
Hands clasped at her waist, Ginny smiles. “A guest is requesting to speak with the chef.”
In some restaurants, a cook or chef may be concerned if a guest asks to speak with them. At Calhoun’s Bistro, we live for the requests.
André peers over his shoulder at me, pride highlighting his expression. “Chef Calhoun”—he gestures toward the dining room—“would you mind?”
I nod. “Yes, Chef.” I wipe my hands on a towel and toss it in the dirties bin off to the side.
Exiting the kitchen, I follow Ginny to the outskirts of the dining room. She pauses and nonchalantly points to a table across the room. “Table eight.”
From here, it’s difficult to make out the guests at the table. All I see is long, dark hair.
“Thank you, Ginny.”
“You’re welcome, Chef.”
Straightening my chef’s coat and smoothing my hands down my floor-length apron, I walk through the dining room toward table eight. Several guests stop me momentarily to sing their praise over tonight’s meal. I thank them and casually move on.
As I near table eight, muted conversation and faint laughter hit my ears. The light, whimsical sound warms my skin and quickens my pulse. I suck in a sharp breath and hold it as I step closer.
Clasping my hands at my back, I slowly exhale. “Good evening, ladies. You asked to speak with the chef?”
The woman to my right meets my gaze, a sparkle in her eyes and suggestive smile on her lips. She’s vibrant, beautiful. Just not the kind of beautiful I prefer.
“Yes.” The woman bats her lashes as she taps her fork on her plate. “Best steak I’ve ever had.” She spears a piece, pops it in her mouth, then slowly, seductively, slides the fork from between her lips. “So juicy…” Her eyes trail over my chef’s coat. “Chef Calhoun.”
A few years ago, when I had fewer responsibilities and would take anyone to bed, I would’ve flirted with this woman. Asked for her number. Had a wild night with her without a second thought.
But I’m not that man anymore. I can’t be, not with Tucker. The moment he was in my arms again, I made a promise to myself—and him, in essence.
No more frivolous relationships. No random hookups with strangers.
If I introduce a woman to Tucker, I want her to be someone who will stick around. Someone I’ve spent time with and gotten to know. Someone who won’t break my kid’s heart if things don’t work out with us.
I’ve had my fun. Hell, fun got me where I am now—fatherhood, dream career.
But now it’s time to be more selfless.
“Thank you. I’ll pass along the compliment to my kitchen.” I shift my gaze to the other plate on the table—a half-eaten piece of grilled halibut with citrus segments, diced onion, and minced jalape?os. “How’s the fi—” My voice catches when I lift my gaze to the woman on my left, and I clear my throat. “The fish. How is it?”
Shimmering copper-brown eyes stare up at me from beneath dark lashes. A faint dusting of pink colors her cheeks. The hint of a smile lifts the corners of her lips a beat before she swallows.
Unabashedly, I stare at her. Marvel at her rare beauty. Get lost in her sparkling, red-brown irises. Revel in the flush coloring her golden, light-brown cheeks as she holds my gaze. Take too much pleasure in her reticence as her hands fidget in her lap.
Damn, she makes me breathless, thoughtless, jittery in a way so foreign yet alluring. In a way that makes me want to know more about her. In a way that frightens me more than anything.