Chapter 10
TEN
HARLAN
FEbrUARY
“Amarillo Steakhouse? You’re sure this is the place you meant?”
“I’m sure!” Emma chirped. Her hands glided across my ribs, and I had to stiffen to keep from shivering at her soft touch.
That was weird.
Her hands came to rest on my shoulders as she swung her leg over the bike. She winced and stumbled, and my hands shot to her waist to steady her. “Careful.”
I noticed how small her waist looked under my hands. I hadn’t touched her since . . . well, since the accident. And that second where I accidentally pinned her to the counter in that storage room at work.
Emma chuckled. “I’m a little wobbly. Had more fun than I thought I would.”
She pulled her helmet off and immediately pawed at her hair, leaning to check it in the side mirror.
“Here,” I offered. I tugged her elbow until she stood straight in front of me, and her palms landed on my chest. I didn’t expect her to be so close to me, facing me head-on with her gaze tracking from her hands on my chest up to my face.
I lifted my hand and ran my fingers through her short, blonde locks, flashing back to how silky it felt the day of the accident.
I continued smoothing down her chic little bob, finishing by tucking a lock behind her ear. “There.”
“Better?” she asked, and her voice was all breathy. Sometimes it was almost like she got flustered by me, and I was shocked by how much I didn’t hate it.
I didn’t hate it at all.
“You look ready to dazzle everyone in this suburban chain establishment. I can’t believe you’re making me go here. They probably spray paint the grill marks on the steaks.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed, turning toward the door.
“Four steaks? You hungry, Chef?”
Emma had just ordered for us. “Nervous about the tab, rich boy?”
“What? No. That’s just so much food.”
She shrugged. “Okay. Take leftovers then. Steak and eggs tomorrow for you.”
I grimaced. “We brought the bike.”
“Oh. Oh, right.” She leaned to take the straw from her surely sugar-sweet lemonade between her lips. “Hmm.”
“We’ll make it fit.” I clamped my jaw thinking of another context for that sentence.
Emma must have had the same thought because she pressed her lips into a line and wouldn’t make eye contact.
I didn’t quite know her well enough to laugh about it.
We’d already had several inappropriate jokes for a man and woman hanging out alone and trying to be professional.
I desperately needed something to do with my hands. I opened my wallet and looked through it for a receipt. I folded it and tore it into a perfect square, getting to work on a piece of origami.
Emma watched my hands. “What are you making?”
“This paper kinda sucks, so a crane. It’s easy enough.”
She continued watching. “You do it before games, don’t you?”
“I do it a lot,” I said, chewing my bottom lip as I made a deep crease down the center.
“What’s your favorite to make?”
I gave that some thought while my fingers deftly folded the receipt paper. “Lately, cranes. They say if you make a thousand of them, all your wishes will come true.”
“How close are you to a thousand cranes?”
I sighed. “Not close enough.”
Emma nodded, resting her chin on her fist. “And what are you wishing for, Mr. Royce?”
“If I told you,” I held up the finished crane on my palm, “they wouldn’t come true.”
I lowered my hand, holding it out for her to take. “For me? Does that mess with your wishes?”
I shrugged. “I’m content to keep folding. Cranes also bring happiness.”
“And you don’t want to keep all the happiness for yourself?” Emma asked.
I paused, looking across the table at her.
This woman saved my life and changed the way I saw everything.
I thought about how she made soup for the shelter.
She easily could have clocked out at the end of her workdays, let the food go to waste.
But instead, she put in a little extra work and spread the love around.
Before the bus, I’d wanted to hold that happiness for myself, now it seemed more important to share it with someone else.
“Not anymore.” I nudged the crane her way with the back of my finger. “For you.”
Emma’s cheeks flushed, and I noticed how it warmed her whole appearance. She took the crane from my palm and stretched it in her fingers to make it fly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Hey, how often do you take soup to the shelter?”
She let out a slow breath and set the crane on the table, reaching for the bread basket.
“Every day that I work. And sometimes I bring in extra when I think we won’t have as much left over.
Then I freeze portions for the weekend. It’s probably technically stealing from the company or something, but I don’t really think y’all are hurting for money. ”
I chuckled. “Okay, Robin Hood.”
“Well? Tell me who in management has gone hungry. I bet the number is zero.”
I hummed to agree. I picked up my butter knife and cut off some of the swirled yellow peak. I held it up and noticed little brown flecks. I spread it over my bread and took a bite.
And struggled not to spit it out. Not because it was disgusting, but because it was unexpected. “The fuck? This is sweet?”
“People love this shit, Mr. Royce.”
“God, all the stuff about Americans being addicted to sugar is true.”
“Well. Sugar is good. It’s cheap.”
I shook my head. “Don’t get me started on the American capitalist complex in food.”
Emma grinned and narrowed her eyes. “Such a rebel you are.”
“Well, it is! The system is rigged to keep us poor, sick, and hungry.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’m with you, buddy. Preaching to the choir.” She spread another hunk of butter onto her roll. “But don’t you think we all need a little sweetness now and then? Isn’t that what makes life special?”
I pointed at her drink, some neon lemonade concoction. “Is that what that is? A little sweetness?”
“You sound jealous. Tell our server you want one. Look, here they come now.”
Two servers carried a multitude of plates on trays high above their heads. One started to announce the items, but Emma stopped them. “Ope! Actually, don’t tell us. He needs to guess the cuts. This is a test.”
The food runner behind our server kept subtly staring at me.
She recognized me. Had to. I was grateful Emma picked the seat she did so I could face fewer people.
I mostly didn’t mind getting recognized.
People didn’t notice our team near as much as the local college’s football team, because Columbus isn’t a huge hockey town.
But I was scarred by the times people had known me. Generally, people were super nice. I was the hometown boy, after all. But for so long, the Rusties hadn’t been the strongest team, and the goalie often takes the brunt of the blame.
And some people were bold enough to tell me what they thought I was doing wrong.
Couch coaches tried to force their half-baked opinions onto me, and even though I shouldn’t have taken it to heart, it was hard not to.
When a goal got past me, their words rang in my ears.
I’d gotten better at shaking it off over time, but the words still surfaced.
Lately, the Rusties were on a good run. I’d only lost two games in the last couple of months. And this server at Amarillo seemed unlikely to issue critiques.
“You want a lemonade, Harlan?” Emma’s voice cut into my thoughts.
“Oh, uh, no thanks. Can’t hit the hard stuff and drive. You know me.”
Both servers laughed and I felt better, even though it was a grandpa joke at best.
“Alright, Chef, what’s my challenge? Eat all four steaks?”
She laughed too. “I want you to tell me how done they are and how you think they did it. Bonus points for the cut.” She lifted her fork to examine a piece of steak.
“Start with this one. And no, these aren’t the finest cuts of meat, but I want you to step away from all the fancy gadgets and equipment, and perfect ingredients.
If you learn nothing else from me, I want you to learn how to make something amazing from something basic. ”
I sliced a piece off the same plate and held it up to my eye level. “Medium rare. I bet they aren’t allowed to do rare here.” Emma’s soft nod let me know I was on the right track. “I don’t see how they could do it at scale other than sous vide and searing.”
She shook her head. “They don’t have that. Keep thinking. And what cut?”
I looked at the plate. “Based on the shape and probably not the taste, New York strip?”
“Good job. And I need you to get over the taste factor. These aren’t grass fed and grain finished to perfection, but this restaurant is full on a Monday night. Why do you think that is?”
I looked around the dining room. Peanut shells littered the floor. “Marketing. Being able to throw peanut shells.”
“Atmosphere, sure,” she agreed.
At other tables people celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, other special occasions, all at a chain restaurant.
Maybe Emma was right. I’d gotten so caught up in perfect ingredients and prime conditions that I’d lost touch with what mattered: celebrating life with people you cared about.
That insight fell in line with my “savor” Harlan 2. 0 vow.
But Harlan 2.0 wasn’t fully formed yet, and I still had plenty of snarky asshole in me. “The illusion of luxury with steak.”
Emma nodded again. “Perceived quality. What else?” She studied me. “What does Coffeetown do in every airport, every corner cafe, every drive thru?”
“Serve shitty coffee,” I snarked.
“Consistency,” she corrected me and stuck her fork in a sopping wet green bean. “You can go into any Coffeetown in America and order a caramel crumble latte, and it will taste exactly the same as all the other ones. So here, people know the quality they can expect.”
I lifted a brow. “You’re not wrong.”
She winked, and warmth spread from my chest down my arms. I was actively not hitting on Emma, but she was pretty. I couldn’t put a finger on how old she was. Maybe early thirties? “I know I’m right. Now eat your steak.”
I forked a bite and held it up to toast her. “Here we go.”
She folded her hands on top of each other on the table. “So? How did they cook it? No sous vide.”
I shook my head. “I don’t see how they could cook so many at once without sous vide.”
She licked her lips and sat back, picking up her fork again. “Keep thinking.”
This steak was buttery soft with a satisfying crust at the edge. Some steaks taste iron-heavy, but this one was smoky without much of the metallic flavor. “Pan searing in cast iron, then finishing in the oven?”
Emma nodded, and I resisted pumping my fist into the air. “At home, that’s a good method. And what I was going to have you do. But that would be too resource-heavy here. So, what do they do here? And how did they season it?”
What the hell? I thought I’d be learning techniques, not working on cooking theory. Clearly, I didn’t have all the answers and that spoke to my gap in education. I decided to answer half of her question. “Doesn’t taste like real butter. Butter-flavored oil?”
“Good. And?”
I took another bite from the edge of the filet, trying to get as much seasoning as I could. “Sugar. Seasoning salt. Tellicherry pepper, medium grind.”
She chuckled. “Very specific. And what else?”
I pressed the bite to the roof of my mouth. “Garlic, onion . . . chili?”
“Just missing one.”
I licked my lips to look for any clues, and Emma tracked the movement. “Paprika?”
“A plus, Royce. But you still haven’t answered how they cook it. How do they get it tender?”
“Grill? Like cooktop, then instead of the oven, grill?”
Emma leaned across the table, hand up for a high five. I gladly slapped it. “Great work, Chef. Now identify the cut for extra credit.”
I speared a bite of mac and cheese and smirked. “What do I get for being such a good student?”
Emma shot me a look, then her face contorted. “Fuck.”
I could have made a joke that she was going to fuck me for being a good student, but she was clearly in pain. “You okay?” My question felt silly, since she obviously wasn’t okay.
“Fine,” she gritted out, a hand shooting to the middle of her back.
“Your back hurts? You can get in the hot tub when we get back to my place.”
Her eyes squeezed shut as she continued to ride out the pain. “I don’t need to go skinny-dipping in your hot tub.”
I suppressed a laugh. “I’m not worried about what you’re wearing. I’m worried about your back. How did you hurt it anyway?”
She shook her head. Guess I wasn’t getting that answer. I hated being helpless while she writhed in obvious pain. “Should I get our check?” I stuck a finger out and looked around for our server. “Will riding the bike hurt it? I can leave the bike here and order us a ride home.”
A soft hand landed on mine on the table. I was suddenly very aware of my heartbeat, the way it sped up and felt erratic, like it was starting and stopping over and over again. I turned my hand over so she could squeeze my fingers.
Those big brown eyes met mine, and in that moment, I saw the truth. “Is this since the bus?”
Emma’s jaw clenched and her gaze fell to our joined hands. She chewed her lip and sat back, taking her hand away from mine. “It’s starting to pass. I don’t know why I did that. Sorry.”
My hand felt cold without hers, and I ached to touch her again. “It’s okay.”
Emma refused to look at me. The accident was the source of her pain, but she wasn’t going to talk about it. Now she could add emotional discomfort to her physical discomfort. If she wouldn’t let me alleviate her physical pain, I could do something about the emotional pain.
“I mean, I did suck your fingers, after all. That’s a little worse than grabbing my hand.”
Her ensuing snort and twinkling laughter had me feeling like I won the lottery: rich, overwhelmed, and like my life would never be the same.