Chapter 22 #2
“Come on,” Tobias says, gesturing toward the door. “I’m buying. What sounds good? Tacos? Barbecue?”
I let them lead me outside, but I can’t stop scanning the crowd for River’s familiar frame, his messy hair, that gray t-shirt. He was just here. Where did he—
“Kiera?” Kiki’s voice pulls me back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I force myself to focus. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“Tacos or barbecue?”
“Tacos are fine.”
We join the line at a food truck painted bright yellow with “Taco Paradise” written in cheerful letters across the side. The smell of grilled meat and spices fills the air, and my stomach reminds me I was too nervous to eat breakfast this morning.
Tobias orders for all of us, and we find a spot at one of the picnic tables set up in the parking lot. I eat mechanically, tasting nothing, my mind still back in the auditorium.
River came. He actually came. After three weeks of silence, after I told him we needed to end things before they got too serious, before I could get hurt the way I always get hurt—he still showed up to support me.
What does that mean? Why would he do that?
“Earth to Kiera.” Kiki waves a hand in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere. I’m here.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. “You ready for round two?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The break ends, and we head back inside. I’m still looking for River, but I don’t see him anywhere. Maybe he left. Maybe he got bored and now he’s—
I reach my station and glance at the audience.
He’s back. Front row, same seat, looking at me with that steady, unwavering focus that makes my heart stutter.
He didn’t leave. He’s still here.
“Welcome back!” the announcer’s voice booms. “Are you ready for round two?”
The audience cheers, and I grip the edge of my prep counter to steady myself.
“For the main course, our competitors will be working with...” The production assistant wheels out another covered tray. “Miso paste!”
My stomach flips, but not with panic. Miso paste. I’ve done Asian cooking with River. Made gochujang chicken, worked with Korean flavors, experimented with bold, complex tastes. I can do this.
I glance at River, and he’s nodding at me, his expression confident. Like he knows I’ve got this. Like he never doubted it for a second.
“You have two hours to create a main course featuring miso paste. Your time starts... now!”
I rush to the ingredient station and grab what I need: duck breasts, miso paste, mirin, sake, brown sugar, ginger, garlic. My mind is already working through the recipe—miso-glazed duck with sticky rice and quick-pickled vegetables.
The duck goes into a hot pan, skin-side down, the fat rendering and crisping beautifully. While it cooks, I whisk together the miso glaze—miso paste, mirin, sake, brown sugar, minced ginger and garlic. The mixture is thick and glossy, sweet and savory and complex.
I brush the glaze onto the duck and slide the pan into the oven to finish cooking. Except when I open the oven door five minutes later, it’s stone cold inside.
Panic floods through me. The oven. My oven is broken.
I stare at the control panel, at the temperature display that’s showing zero instead of the 375 degrees I set it to. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not during the competition. The duck needs to finish in the oven. It needs those final minutes of heat to bring it to perfect medium-rare.
A couple people come to my station to look at the oven, but it’s soon apparent they don’t know why it’s not working either.
My heart is racing. My hands are shaking. The cameras are probably zooming in on my panic right now, capturing every second of this disaster for the judges and the audience and—
I look up at the audience, my vision blurring with tears I refuse to let fall.
And I see River.
He’s leaning forward in his seat, his expression calm and steady. He’s not panicking. He’s not looking at me with pity or concern. He’s looking at me with confidence. With faith.
And suddenly I hear his voice in my head from that afternoon in my apartment, when he was telling me about Captain Joe and the sear-and-tent technique.
The best fishermen know when to trust the heat they’ve already built.
The heat I’ve already built.
I look down at the duck, at the perfectly seared exterior, at the way the miso glaze has caramelized on the edges. I’ve already built heat. Significant heat. And if I tent it properly, let it rest, the residual heat from that hard sear will continue cooking it via carryover.
My hands stop shaking.
I pull the duck from the oven and set the pan on top of the stove. I grab aluminum foil and tent the duck tightly, creating a sealed environment that will hold the heat. Then I move it to the warmest part of my station, near the burners where I’m cooking the rice.
Trust the heat. Trust the process. Trust myself.
I plate everything with careful precision once the resting time is done. Sticky rice molded into a neat mound. Quick-pickled vegetables arranged artfully. And the duck—sliced to reveal the interior—perfectly pink, perfectly cooked, the miso glaze glistening under the lights.
“Time!”
I step back from my station, my heart still racing but not from panic anymore. From hope. From the realization that I just adapted under pressure, solved a problem, trusted my instincts and my training.
The judges make their rounds again. When they reach my station, Chef Kim cuts into the duck and examines the interior closely.
“Perfect medium-rare,” he says, and I could cry with relief. “The miso glaze is excellent—sweet, savory, well-balanced. And the duck is tender.”
Chef Dubois nods. “Good flavor profile. The pickled vegetables provide nice contrast.”
Chef Wells makes notes on her clipboard. “Impressive problem-solving with the oven failure. Showed real composure under pressure.”
They liked it. Even with the oven breaking, even with the crisis, they liked it.
I look out at the audience and find River. He’s on his feet, clapping, his smile so bright and genuine it makes my eyes burn with unshed tears.
He’s proud of me. I can see it written all over his face.
“Another thirty-minute break!” the announcer calls.
Kiki and Tobias rush over again, both of them talking over each other about how amazing the duck looked, how they can’t believe I pulled it off with a broken oven, how the judges seemed so impressed.
We head outside for the second break, and I eat a barbecue sandwich that Tobias insists I need for energy. The whole time, I’m scanning the crowd for River.
But I don’t see him anywhere.
When we head back inside for the final round, he’s in his seat again. Front row. Waiting.
My skin tingles. He keeps disappearing during the breaks, but he’s always back when it matters. Always there when I need to see him.
A man approaches my station. “We fixed your oven during the break. We’re so sorry for the inconvenience, but you really came through. I’m rooting for you.”
“Thank you.” I’m touched. He leaves, and I turn back to look at River sitting in the audience. Seeing him is grounding somehow.
“Welcome to our final round!” The announcer’s voice is electric with excitement. “For dessert, our competitors will be working with...” The cloth gets whipped off. “Black pepper!”
My brain short-circuits.
Black pepper. For dessert.
I stare at the small jar of black peppercorns sitting on the display table, my mind completely blank. How do you make dessert with black pepper?
Panic claws up my throat. This is it. This is where I fail. This is where all my practice and preparation fall apart, not because of some exotic ingredient, but because of simple black pepper.
I look out at the audience again, at River. He’s leaning forward, his eyes locked on mine. And he mouths those three words again: You’ve got this.
The panic recedes. Not all the way, but enough that I can breathe. Enough that I can think.
River believed in me from the beginning. He gave me mystery ingredients and challenged me to adapt, to think creatively, to trust myself. He told me I was going to win this competition. He said I was smart and talented and capable of anything.
And he’s here. After everything. After I pushed him away because I was scared. He’s here, supporting me, believing in me, even when I couldn’t believe in myself.
My feelings rise up so fast and so fierce they nearly knock me over.
River was there for me. He held me when I cried. He defended me to his mother. He helped me move into my apartment. He played Barbies with Skyler when I needed to help my sister. He gave me a job and paid me generously and never once made me feel like I was just “the help.”
He showed up for me in every way that mattered.
And I sent him away because I was terrified of getting hurt again. Because I convinced myself that caring about him was dangerous, that letting him in would only lead to more pain.
But looking at him now, seeing the faith in his eyes, the steady confidence in his expression—I realize I made a terrible mistake.