Chapter 3 Who’s in Your Corner?
Who’s in Your Corner?
— T ODAY —
With a sharp intake of air, I emerge from the water. I wasn’t under for that long, but the cold has me breathless, shivering as the strong waves push me closer to the rocks on the shore. My hand clutches around my necklace and, relieved it’s still there, I fight the tide. The jump seemed like a cathartic little gesture from the top, but, once below, I swam for a while to reach the surface. “What a sh-sh-shit idea,” I murmur as my teeth clatter.
Throwing myself off the edge of a cliff and plummeting into the void for about fifty feet, not knowing what’s under?
That’s not cathartic; it’s potentially fatal. And no matter how hard life has been in the past year, I’m far from done.
My arms move frantically to keep me floating, my clothes weighing me down, and with the stupidly tall cape blocking out the sun, the water is almost pitch-black. Note to self: pitch-black waters are terrifying. Especially because my feet can’t reach the bottom by a lot. There really could be anything down here, couldn’t there? A shark. A whale. A kraken.
Shaking my head as if to propel myself from such thoughts, I slowly make my way toward the shore, which happens to also be farther than it looked like it was from the top of the cape. Of course, I was dry, warm, and not about to be eaten by a kraken back then.
Other note to self: the possibility of being eaten by a sea creature makes one severely reconsider distances.
It takes me many more minutes than it would if I wasn’t awkwardly flapping my arms and feet around and actually swimming, but I eventually escape the shadow cast by the cape. I’m quickly and brutally aware it doesn’t change much in terms of temperature or visibility through the water, but it’s something. My need to be surrounded by fellow humans has never been stronger, and at least now I can see the shore, where people are sunbathing or swimming. With more confident strides and warmer muscles, I reach shallow waters, where finally my feet touch the sand and I stand upright.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper in relief. I’m not sure if I’m technically out of kraken territory, but it definitely feels like it now that I know where the ground is.
I drag my feet forward, curious eyes meeting my gaze as I emerge fully clothed and wobble out of the water like someone from The Walking Dead ’s cast.
I’m not sure the jump was worth it. I figured it’d be liberating. That I’d let myself go and leave all my problems behind. Maybe that my sorrows would drown and I’d come out a new person with a thicker, tougher skin.
But I feel exactly the same empty shell of myself.
“Darling, are you okay?”
I turn to the left, where an older woman is staring at me in my jeans and shoes. She’s holding a child’s hand, keeping him slightly behind her as her expression becomes one of concern. It’s imperative I go back for my bag and get home; I’m starting to scare the civilians. “I’m fine, thanks. Just took a swim.”
“You might want to take off your clothes first next time.”
Nodding, I squeeze my T-shirt, water rippling down on the sand. “Yup, you make a fair point.”
She smiles, her eyes still suspiciously scanning me as she walks away. With a resigned sigh, I walk until the beach is behind me, then begin the long trek back up the hill. At least the sun is unseasonably warm, so my drenched clothes aren’t even that bad, even with the weight of them.
Look at me: finding positivity in the little things.
I just hope I’ll also find my bag and keys where I left them.
My shoes make an annoying slapping noise as I enter my building post–ocean dip and leave a wet trail behind me. A neighbor on his way out throws me a disgruntled look, similar to the ones I received walking past the city center. No amount of positive thinking can make up for crossing most of my town looking like a drowned cat.
As I jog up the stairs, the damp shirt glues itself to my body uncomfortably. My hair smells like salt as it moves in wet chunks over my face, and even with the warm summer day I’m so cold that I’m fighting goose bumps and shivers with every step.
Once on the second floor, I grab the keys out of my bag and walk toward my apartment, but I stop in my tracks when I see Barb’s red curls jostling from side to side as she knocks at my door. “Barb?”
“Oh, Ames.” She turns around and stalks toward me, holding a hand to her baby bump. Her arms lock around my neck and squeeze; then, as quickly as she crowded me, she pulls away. “Are your clothes… wet?”
With a sigh, I look down at my jeans and T-shirt, a tone darker than they’re supposed to be, then shrug. “I took a dip off the pier. I’ve always wanted to.”
“The pier?” she asks worriedly. I unlock the door and enter, leaving it open for her to follow. As she joins me inside the apartment, her eyes scout the dusty, crowded space, then dart to me. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m…” The last few hours flash in my mind. You’d think I’d be crying my eyes out or cursing the journalist who wrote the most degrading words that have ever been said about me, but I haven’t spilled a single tear since the magazine was delivered to me two hours ago.
When I sit on the couch and bring one of the cushions to my chest, Barb yanks it away. She might be five inches shorter than me, with sweet, big brown doe eyes, but neither matches her superhuman strength. “Are we really not going to talk about it?”
I flinch when I realize she’s read it. I wonder how many people have so far—how many will in the next hours and days. “I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”
“Ames…”
“You’ve seen it, Barb.” I press a finger over my temple. “By tomorrow, everyone else will have seen it too. My career, my life—I failed . My worst mistakes, the most painful humiliations of my life, have been made public. And now…”
She swallows, her wide eyes filling with the same sadness enveloping my bones.
“…now… it’s over.”
“Ames, it’s not that bad. Yes, the article was… harsh,” she whispers while trying to mask her disgruntled look, “but it’s not too late for you to bounce back. You can’t give up.”
I chuckle. I understand Barb’s just trying to help, but it’s pretty safe to say my career is over. No one will ever hire me again, not with what Yum magazine said about me. My only shot at getting back into the kitchen would be working at my dad’s restaurant, and I wouldn’t go back for anything in the world.
It’s fine. I will retire from my career as a chef and explore something else. And I’ll do that while retaining as much dignity as I can.
“So… that’s it?” she asks, awkwardly shifting positions as she holds a hand to her bump. “You’re one of the most talented and promising chefs in this part of the country, and you’re giving up?”
When I give her a distracted nod, she carefully lowers herself onto the couch, leaning back with a tired exhale. “What about the ICCE?”
My eyes widen as my arms fall limply down my sides, droplets of water still dripping from my short, dark brown locks onto my shirt. The International Cooking and Culture Expo, a global cooking conference for newbies and professionals alike, as well as a great networking event. With my life tumbling down a hillside for the past few months, I completely forgot about it. “When is it again?”
“September seventh,” Barb says. When she notices my expression, she adds, “Right before Martha’s wedding, remember?”
Oh my God. I barely know what month we’re in.
“Ames? It’s in a week.” She studies my face. “Have you been sleeping?” Her eyes barrel down my body. “Or eating?”
Avoiding both questions, I study the mess of my sad studio apartment, the dust and plates and clothes accumulated everywhere. I’ve been to the ICCE twice before, and when I was invited as a speaker for this year’s edition, I was more than thrilled. So much has changed since. “We should definitely withdraw. I’m sure they’ll be relieved. With that article, the drama would follow me to the convention.”
“Are you sure?” she ventures. “It might be good for you. Give you something to distract yourself with. Maybe motivate you.”
Or, more likely, someone will bring up the last six months of my life and ask what gives me the right to teach anyone anything at all. “I’m sure.”
“Okay. I’ll order dinner.” Her finger swipes over the coffee table, and as she shows me the dust on her fingertip, she adds, “We can clean up a little while we wait, then binge something.” Patting my knee, she gives me a smile that reaches up to her warm eyes. “How does that sound?”
Like I should have called her sooner. I’ve been avoiding her and everyone else for months, and now that she’s here, I forget why. “Yes, please,” I tell her as I squeeze her hand.
“Great. Let me just call Ryan.”
“Why? Did you guys have plans?”
Her dismissive gesture is as convincing as my recent smiles, and as her eyes drift to her wedding band, I suck in a surprised breath. Martha’s getting married on September fifteenth, a day after the weeklong conference will be over, so today must be September first. “Barb?”
“Hmm?” she asks as she taps on her phone.
“Is today your anniversary?”
She waves me off again as she makes a pfft sound. “It’s fine, Ames. I’m stuck with Ryan for the rest of my life. We’ll have many more anniversaries.”
It feels like my brain is shutting down, my fingers and toes tingling until they feel entirely numb. Just when I’d started to think the sorrow in my soul was at maximum capacity, a new wave hits me and leaves me breathless.
It’s been a year since her wedding. A whole year since… him .
“Ames?”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I hold a hand over Barb’s phone. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your first wedding anniversary, and you’ll spend it with your husband.”
“But—”
“No buts.” I squeeze her into a side hug, wetting her T-shirt with my damp hair. “Congratulations, Barb.”
Her shoulders slump, and she gives me a half-hearted nod. “Thank you. We won’t do anything special anyway. The baby only allows for a few nausea-free hours at a time.”
“Did you have another ultrasound?”
“Last week. You wouldn’t believe how much he’s grown already. We saw his little fist this time.” She takes out her phone, then shows me a picture. Then a video, then another picture. I grin at the happiness pouring out of her and can’t help thinking that their baby boy might be the only good news to come out of the past year.
“Go on, get out of here,” I tell her. Knowing she feels like she’s abandoning me when I most need her, I put on a mask of cheerfulness and stand. I walk her to the door, then squeeze her into a hug, her belly pushing into mine as I hold her close.
“Ames,” she says as I let her go. Twisting a sticky lock of my hair away from my face, she gives me a strained smile. “I haven’t seen you happy in so long.”
My lips purse as I study the billion freckles on her face, praying whatever she has to say won’t take long.
“You know I’m not wrong. Is there someone in your life you like? Someone you’re close to? A person you trust?”
When I wink at her, she chuckles, squeezing my hand. “Same, and although I wish I could be there for you more often, when the baby comes, I’ll be barely holding up myself.”
“I’m doing just fine, Barb.”
“ Really ?” She rolls her eyes and raises a small hand, thumb extended. “You and Martha aren’t on speaking terms. Your dad can’t think of anything but his career, your mom is on the other side of the world”—she shakes her head as she continues listing off each item with her fingers—“and after Frank…”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
She lets loose a sigh. “I know. All I am saying is…” She looks around, as if trying to find the right words. “Who’s in your corner, Ames? You need someone you trust. Someone you love, someone who gets you smiling and is there for you. You need someone in your corner.”
When I say nothing, she kisses my cheek and squeezes my arm, then walks away.
Closing the door of the apartment, I let the question poison my mind.
Who’s in my corner?
I thought Frank was, but things went the way they did. Martha was, but I can think of so many instances during the past year when she wasn’t. Then I think of him .
He was in my corner.
He stayed in my corner, protecting it with everything he had, until I forced him away.
Ian.