28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter 28
Risto
I nstead of dirtying my home’s kitchen, I stood, arms locked on the counter, visualizing the meal. In my mind’s eye, ingredients scattered everywhere, service swirled around me while I plated stunning dishes with tweezers that were swept away for waiting diners. Manicured meals were a far cry from the homier fare I typically served. But wasn’t that the whole point of stretching myself? To make dinner an event worth remembering?
“Penny for your thoughts?” Leslie’s hand caressed my back before I sensed her presence. Having her in my house was still a thrill, and I planned to take full advantage.
I turned, wrapping my arms around until they cupped her ass. With one solid squeeze, I held proof her new meal plan was working. Which made me wonder.
“Can I ask you something?” I kissed her forehead.
“Sure,” she said.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about your struggles with food?”
“Oh, that little thing?”
She nestled into my chest. “I… I don’t think I had the words to express it. I just thought it’s how I was and that it wouldn’t change. That sounds silly now. But I can’t explain it any other way. Learning that I have an eating disorder threw me for a loop. It was a surprise, a relief, and a hard, scary truth mashed into one. All those times I felt like crying because I was so hungry, fear kept my lips closed. From food, and from you.”
Leslie tilted her head, her brown eyes liquid with longing. She loves me. And she wanted a kiss, which I gladly delivered.
“I wish I’d been able to handle things differently,” she said.
“Well, we can now. I’ve learned so much from you and Dot. Sometimes giving our feelings a name helps make sense of them. It lights a path forward that was too dark to see before.”
“Thank you. That’s a beautiful way to put it.” Leslie pulled away and glided around the counter to the opposite side. She ran her fingers over everything, the milled-maple cabinets, the smooth quartz, the rough baskets holding my aromatics—onions, garlic, and shallots. I swore, I’d never seen anything hotter than watching Leslie touch the tools of my trade. Making peace with a world she denied herself for so long.
At last, she met my eye.
“Since we’re coming clean, tell me more about this whole restaurant thing. How much do you want it and how much are you trying to please a bunch of fancy people from Manhattan?”
“There’s only one fancy person from Manhattan I care about.”
“Be serious,” she pleaded.
I sighed. It was a good question.
While I pondered my answer, I grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses from the bar area. I handed them to her while I opened a drawer for a picnic blanket.
“Let’s discuss this under the stars,” I said.
We exited my home’s rear sliding doors and strolled across my backyard to a clear spot under the night sky. Inky black surrounded stars twinkling brightly within the infinite cosmos. Crickets chirped, sparring with the frogs from the nearby stream. During heavy rain, the water roared, rough and furious. Tonight its shimmering surface quietly flowed without end.
Leslie breathed deeply, stretching toward the heavens. “Anything seems possible out here.”
As teens, we’d spent countless nights giggling in the grass while our guardians slept inside. Desperate kisses escalated to hushed confessions of love and dreams for the future. Some came true. Others smashed against stormy shores. But here we were, shining as brightly as the stars above us.
After spreading the wool blanket, we both sat. Glasses in hand, words failed me. But I owed her my truth. I sipped my wine and gazed into Leslie’s moonlit face, its contours never more alluring.
“I want to be famous. I want the world to eat my food, love it, and crave more. But most of all, I want them to remember it was me who prepared it. It sounds shallow, I know.”
“No. It’s honest and real. You’re amazing. Why wouldn’t you want everyone to know? We’re so often taught not to dream. Not to aim impossibly high, that it’s too risky. Even that ambition is selfish. But where would we be without people driven enough to think they can make a difference?”
“For me, it comes from a place of giving. The dishes I create—especially this new menu I’ve been working on—they’re both tasty and transformative. I want everyone in the world to experience that joy. It’s what drives me to create.”
“Sign me up.” Leslie leaned over for a fruity kiss, the tang of pinot grigio fresh on her lips. I pictured her naked in a sauté pan, slathered in caramelized onions and a savory reduction. Mixing metaphors, for sure, but this woman was good enough to eat.
We downed our wine and lay amongst the crickets, talking for hours. About our hopes and our fears. About what we wanted in life. Under these stars, we bared our souls in a way we never had before. Raw honesty scraped off the artifice, then bright moonlight rinsed us clean.
Leslie was mine, and I was hers.
Whatever came next, we’d conquer it together.