Chapter 21 #2
“Mais oui, of course!” Chef Laurent’s smile widens. “This is wonderful. Please, tell me what you tasted in each dish.”
Kiera goes through her analysis, starting with the butternut squash soup. Chef Laurent nods along, his expression growing more impressed as she lists each ingredient.
“Very good, very good,” he says. “You have an excellent palate. The brown butter, yes. The sage, yes. The orange zest—you were correct, not lemon. And the nutmeg, just a whisper.” He makes a chef’s kiss gesture. “But you missed one thing.”
“I did?” Kiera leans forward. “What was it?”
“Miso paste,” he says. “Just a small amount, maybe half a teaspoon for the entire pot. It adds umami, depth, makes all the other flavors more vibrant.”
Kiera’s eyes light up with understanding. “Of course! That’s why it had such a rich, savory undertone even though it’s a sweet soup. Miso would do that perfectly.”
“Exactement.” Chef Laurent moves on to the duck confit. “And the duck?”
Kiera lists her findings again—the cherry or fig in the glaze, the red wine reduction, the juniper berries. Chef Laurent nods enthusiastically.
“You are very close. It was a fig and port wine reduction, yes, with juniper. But also”—he pauses dramatically—”a touch of balsamic vinegar and black pepper. Not just any black pepper—Tellicherry peppercorns, crushed very fine. It adds a subtle heat and earthiness.”
“That makes so much sense,” Kiera says, and I can see her mental cookbook updating in real time. “The port wine would be sweeter than regular red wine, and the balsamic would add that depth I was tasting but couldn’t identify.”
When they get to the sea bass, Kiera describes the compound butter and admits she couldn’t identify the earthy, mineral undertone.
“Ah,” Chef Laurent says, clearly delighted. “This is my secret ingredient. Dulse.”
“Dulse?” Kiera repeats.
“A type of seaweed,” he explains. “Red algae. Very common in French coastal cooking, but not often used in compound butter. I toast it lightly, grind it to a powder, and mix it with the other ingredients. It adds this taste of the ocean, without being overpowering.”
“That’s genius,” Kiera breathes. “I never would have thought to use seaweed that way.”
For the desserts, Kiera gets almost everything right. The crème anglaise with the soufflé does have rose water, and the chocolate contains both cinnamon and a touch of espresso powder to deepen the flavor. The one thing she missed was a hint of Grand Marnier in the soufflé itself.
“You have a gift,” Chef Laurent says, looking genuinely impressed. “This competition you are preparing for—you will do very well, I think. You understand not just ingredients but how they work together, how they build upon each other. That is the mark of a true chef.”
Kiera’s cheeks flush pink, and she ducks her head. “Thank you. That means a lot, especially coming from someone with your talent.”
“Bonne chance,” he says, shaking her hand. “And please, come back anytime. I would love to cook for you again.”
After he leaves, Kiera turns to me, and there’s something in her expression—joy and gratitude mixed with something that looks almost like pain.
“You arranged that,” she says. “You called ahead and set this whole thing up.”
“I wanted to help you prepare.” I reach across the table and take her hand. “And I wanted you to hear from a professional chef that you’re talented. That you have what it takes.”
She looks down at our joined hands, and I see her throat work as she swallows. “Thank you,” she whispers. “This was... this was wonderful. The best learning experience I could have asked for.”
We pay the check and head out to my car. The night air is warm and salt-tinged, and the parking lot is lit by old-fashioned street lamps that cast everything in a golden glow.
Kiera stops beside the passenger door, and when she looks up at me, there’s something wistful in her expression. Something that makes my chest ache with anxiety.
“Are you okay?” I ask, because I can’t not ask. Not when she’s looking at me like I’m something she’s about to lose.
“I’m fine,” she says, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She climbs into the car before I can press further.
The drive back to my house is quiet. Kiera stares out the window at the darkness, and I can feel the walls going up again. Brick by brick, shutting me out.
When we arrive at my house, we settle onto the couch in the theater room like we have every night this week. But tonight feels different. Charged with something I can’t name but makes my skin prickle with unease.
I pull up the final two episodes of Legend of the Blue Sea, and Kiera curls up against my side. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, trying to memorize the feel of her against me.
The show unfolds on the screen—the mermaid and the human navigating their impossible love. In these final episodes, the mermaid is running out of time. Her ability to stay on land is fading, and she knows she’ll have to return to the ocean. She knows she’ll have to leave the man she loves.
There’s a scene where she watches him sleep, memorizing his face because she knows these moments are limited. A scene where she holds him close and tells him how much he means to her without explaining that it’s goodbye.
I feel Kiera’s breathing change beside me, becoming shallower. When I glance down, I see tears sliding down her cheeks.
My first instinct is to tease her about crying over a TV show. But something stops me. Something in the way she’s holding herself, the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s gripping my shirt like she’s afraid to let go.
The show continues, the two lovers separate, but then she comes back and they have a happy ending. It’s a good ending, satisfying and it shows the couple married and about to have a child.
The credits roll, and Kiera is fully crying now. Not quiet tears but real, shoulder-shaking sobs that make my heart crack.
I turn off the show and gently pull her closer, turning her to face me. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
She won’t look at me, her hands coming up to cover her face. “I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”
“You’re not ridiculous.” I brush her hair back from her face. “Talk to me, Kiera. Please.”
She takes a shaky breath and finally meets my eyes. “You’ve been wonderful,” she says, and her voice breaks on the word. “This whole time, working with you, it’s been a dream. Better than I ever imagined. You’ve been so patient and kind and supportive, and I—” She stops, pressing her lips together.
My stomach drops. I know what’s coming. I can feel it in the air between us, heavy and inevitable.
“But I can’t do this anymore,” she continues. “I have to quit. I have to break up with you.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “What? Why?”
“It’s for the best.” She pulls back, putting distance between us on the couch. “For both of us.”
“That’s not an answer.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. “Kiera, talk to me. What’s really going on? Did I do something wrong? Is it my mom? Is it—”
“It’s not you,” she interrupts. “You’ve been perfect. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
She stands up, pacing to the other side of the room, her arms wrapped around herself. “The competition is in three weeks, but the opening rounds start next week. I need to focus. I can’t be distracted by... by this.”
“By us, you mean.”
“Yes.” She won’t look at me. “I need to focus on my goals. On becoming independent. On proving I can make it on my own.”
I stand too, moving toward her. “You can do all of that and still be with me.”
“No, I can’t.” Her voice is harder now, defensive. “I lose focus when I’m with you. I start thinking about what it would be like to have a future with you instead of concentrating on my own future. And I can’t afford that. Not when everything I’ve worked for depends on winning this scholarship.”
“Kiera—”
“I’m not like you, River.” She finally looks at me, and her eyes are red-rimmed and fierce.
“You have money. You have options. If your documentary doesn’t work out, you can try something else.
But this competition is my one shot. My only shot.
And I can’t mess it up because I’m too busy falling for someone who’s going to leave eventually anyway. ”
The words sting. “You think I’m going to leave?”
“Everyone leaves.” She says it matter-of-factly, like it’s a universal truth. “My ex left. My parents left. And you will too, once you realize I’m not worth the trouble. So I’m just saving us both time by ending this now, before it gets harder.”
“That’s not fair.” I take another step toward her. “I’m not your parents. I’m not your ex. I’ve been here every day, Kiera. I’ve shown up, I’ve listened, I’ve supported you. What do I have to do to prove I’m not going anywhere?”
“You can’t prove it.” Her voice cracks. “Because nobody stays. Not for me. And I’d rather end this on my terms than wait around for you to figure out I’m not enough.”
“You are enough.” I’m pleading now, and I don’t care. “Kiera, you’re more than enough. You’re talented and—”
“Stop.” She holds up her hand. “Please stop. The decision is made. This is what I need. What we both need.”
“Don’t tell me what I need.” Frustration bleeds into my voice. “I need you. I need this. Whatever we’re building together—it matters to me. You matter to me.”
She shakes her head, and I watch the walls slam into place. Her expression shutters, becoming distant and cold. “I’m sorry, River. But this is over. I can’t come back.”
“Just like that? You’re just going to throw away everything we have because you’re scared?”
“I’m not scared.” But her voice wavers. “I’m being practical.”
“You’re running away,” I say, and I know it’s the wrong thing the moment it leaves my mouth. “Just like you did when you came to this island instead of going straight to Kiki. You’re so afraid of getting hurt that you’d rather be alone.”
Her face goes pale, then flushes with anger. “That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair.” I run both hands through my hair. “You’re making a decision that affects both of us without even giving me a chance to—”
“There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.” She grabs her bag from beside the couch. “I’m sorry, River. I really am. But this is what has to happen.”
She’s moving toward the door, and panic rises in my chest. “Kiera, wait. Please. Let’s just talk about this. We can figure it out together.”
“There’s nothing to figure out.” She’s almost out of the door now, not looking back.
“I’ll be busy with the beginning rounds next week.
After that, the competition. Then, if all goes well, I’ll be going to culinary school on the mainland.
Our paths were always going to diverge eventually. This way is just... cleaner.”
I follow her down the hall and through the living room to the front door. “So that’s it? You’re just going to walk away?”
She opens the door, and the warm night air rushes in. For a moment, she just stands there, silhouetted against the darkness outside.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, still not turning around. “For everything you’ve done for me. For the mystery ingredients and the challenges and the restaurant tonight. For believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. I’ll never forget it.”
“Kiera—”
“Goodbye, River.”
She walks out, and I stand in the doorway watching her get into her car. The engine starts. The headlights flick on. And then she’s backing out of my driveway. She puts her car into drive and I watch her taillights growing smaller and smaller until they disappear completely into the darkness.
I stand there long after she’s gone, my hand still on the doorframe, my heart feeling like it’s been put through a shredder.
She’s gone. Just like the mermaid in the show. Disappearing back into her own world, leaving me behind because she thinks it’s for the best.
But unlike the drama, there’s no happy ending. No promise that she’ll come back. No magical intervention to bridge the impossible distance between us.
There’s just the empty house behind me and the empty driveway in front of me and the hollow ache in my chest that whispers she’s never coming back.
I close the door and lean against it, sliding down to sit on the floor.
She’s right about one thing—she is like the mermaid. Choosing to leave the person she cares about to protect herself. Disappearing into the ocean rather than risk the pain of staying.
But what she doesn’t understand—what she can’t see through all those walls she’s rebuilt—is that I would have followed her. Would have done anything to make this work. Would have waited as long as it took for her to believe that some people do stay.
That I would have stayed.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. For half a second, hope flares—maybe it’s her, maybe she changed her mind, maybe—
But it’s just my mother, texting to tell me I can still go to Stanford, that it’s not too late.
I let my head fall back against the door and close my eyes.
Kiera’s gone. And I have no idea how to get her back.