8. The Only Date That Will Ever Matter
As Randy get to work in the kitchen, whispers start circulating among the customers, wondering if the five-star chef’s entrée is on the menu tonight. Whatever Randy is cooking up smells divine.
“Only for one fortunate lady,” Rita croons with a beaming smile, giving me a playfully flirtatious look.
For some reason, her comment sent me seeking refuge outside. I needed some fresh air and a moment to gather my thoughts, so I called Naomi. It’s such a comfort to know I have a friend who’s there for me anytime, anywhere. Naomi was at a dinner with Derek, but she still answered my call.
“I mean, this is not how I pictured things turning out,” I confessed, my voice revealing how worried I was.
“Why not, Gina?” Naomi prodded gently. “Maybe all this time, Randy’s been trying to figure out what you really want. So what is it that you want?”
My eyes drifted across the cars cruising down First Street and the birch trees dotting the parking lot. This small town, where I’ve spent so many years, always carried a quiet melancholy—until Randy burst into my life, stirring everything up. Honestly, before him, I was content to sideline thoughts of romance until I had finished culinary school and mapped out my future. But now, with him preparing dinner for me, my mind swirls with a whirlwind of what-ifs, like the tantalizing yet terrifying prospect of falling for him.
“I don’t know,” I finally conceded.
“Yes, you do,” Naomi insisted gently, her words nudging me to dig deeper for an answer. “You want to be loved. Isn’t that what we’re all searching for? To be loved?”
“I guess so,” I muttered, scuffing the toes of my shoes against the concrete.
“Then be open, relax, and let whatever happens happen,” she said.
Naomi’s parting advice lingered with me as I deliberately steered clear of the kitchen, where Randy was surprisingly still holed up. It was probably the first time he hadn’t emerged to tease or provoke me somehow. A few hours before closing, Rita suggested I head home to change into something more fitting for what she called my “first date” with Randy.
Curious, I asked Rita if she’d been in on Randy’s plan to make me dinner since our shift started. Her response was immediate and characteristically honest. “You know I can’t keep a secret to save my life.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “No, you really can’t.”
“But just a few minutes ago, he suggested that you might want to go home and change into something more suitable for the occasion. He wants this to feel like a real date for you,” Rita said, her eyebrows dancing with excitement at the prospect of Randy and I becoming a real couple.
The thought that Randy had considered this detail warmed me. And so, with a huge smile and the words, “Ten-four,” I headed home to get changed.
After a fashion show of my own, trying on no less than nine different outfits, I finally decided on a chic ensemble: a black pencil skirt that fell just below my knees, paired with a sleek black silk camisole. I topped it off with my version of a moto jacket—a nod to the kind of jacket Randy wore today.
When I walked into the Calypso, the transformation of the main dining room took my breath away. The lights were softly dimmed, casting a warm, inviting glow over the room. In the middle of the cleared floor space was a single round table elegantly set with a gold silk tablecloth and two chairs. The centerpiece was a tall, slim white candle, its flame dancing gently in the quiet room. I couldn’t help but pause to soak in the romantic setting.
Then, Rita approached me and gave me a warm and reassuring embrace. “Have a wonderful night,” she whispered and then winked at me with a twinkle in her eyes. Before departing, she added, “And it’s about time this happened.”
My eyebrows shot up as I thought, really? I guess I had been deluding myself. It seems everybody sensed the unmistakable chemistry between Randy and me after all.
Now, with the doors of Calypso Café securely closed, it’s just Randy and me, alone in the establishment. We’re seated across from each other, and he has already presented our first course of the night: a beautifully arranged carpaccio of beetroot with goat cheese, candied walnuts, and arugula, all drizzled with aged balsamic vinegar. The presentation is nothing short of artistic, a testament to Randy’s culinary expertise. And his face? Bathed in the candle’s soft glow, he looks even more handsome than usual, if that’s even possible.
So,” Randy begins, breaking the silence that had settled after our pleasantries and savoring our first bites, “what do you want to know about me?”
There’s one question that’s been burning in my mind ever since that first night, the night passion consumed us and we surrendered to it completely. I remember tracing the lines of his tattoo with my tongue, curiosity mingling with yearning.
“The tattoo on your arm,” I say. “What does it mean?”
Randy pauses, giving the question the weight it deserves. He slowly sets down his fork and glances at his forearm as if seeing the tattoo anew. “Before I came to this town and started working here, I lived in a sober living house in New York City,” he reveals, pausing momentarily to let the significance of his words sink in.
“I didn’t know that,” I admit, pressing a hand against my heart, which feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest. Randy, with his usual confident posture and imposing presence, suddenly appears in a different light. To me, he’s always seemed larger than life—almost as if he existed on a different plane from the rest of us. But now, even though he’s still so otherworldly, I feel as if I can reach out and touch him.
“Hardly anybody does,” he says quietly. “And now you do.”
I mirror his half-smile, an attempt to lighten the gravity of the confession.
The atmosphere feels heavier, laden with significance, as he gently runs his finger over his tattoo. “I was a raging drunk,” he confesses, “until I lost every last bit of dignity I had.”
As Randy’s finger lingers on his tattoo, it’s clear he’s navigating through a sea of memories. “The thing is,” he continues, a distant look clouding his eyes, “that wasn’t my first attempt to tackle my addiction. When you’re famous, even if you find yourself waking up in the gutter, there’s a part of you that still believes you’ve made it. You think you’re at the pinnacle of happiness and health. And I was on top of the world, Gina. I was a two-time James Beard award winner and a Michelin-starred chef.”
A heavy silence falls between us, during which I find a lump forming in my throat. The urge to kiss him, to pull him back from the precipice of his past sorrows, is overwhelming.
His voice barely above a whisper now. “Sometimes it felt surreal, like an out-of-body experience, when a room full of my peers would applaud me for a meal that inspired them. But their praise… it never healed me the way I hoped it would.”
Leaning forward, a pressing question forms on my lips, driven by a mix of curiosity and concern. “What led you down that path? Do you know?” The depths of his experience feel so foreign to me.
Randy meets my question with a thoughtful nod. “Yes, I finally understand.”
My silent attentiveness seems to open the door for him to delve deeper, which he gratefully does.
He shares a pivotal moment from his childhood. At the tender age of ten, he endured the unimaginable loss of his parents in a head-on collision on the interstate. They were returning home from a rare date night in Boston. Subsequently, at eleven, Randy found a new home with Steve’s family. His life took a turn as he adjusted to a parenting style vastly different from what he had known with his own parents.
“My uncle’s philosophy was that toughness equated to strength, that being hard was what made you a man. My dad couldn’t have been more different.”
This revelation sheds light on Steve’s own struggles, hinting at why he often seems so hard on himself. I remember something happened one day—though the details are fuzzy now—I think he forgot to place an order. He berated himself, saying, “I’m such a bonafide idiot.” I was taken aback by that. Instinctively, I responded, “You’re not an idiot, Steve. You just forgot.” But he looked at me as if my words couldn’t penetrate the negative narrative he had about himself. I want to share this memory with Randy, but I hesitate, not wanting to interrupt him.
Randy’s gaze shifts away, a shadow of pain crossing his features. “I was just a kid, suddenly without the world I knew. It was as if my uncle and aunt couldn’t recognize that. Who demands an eleven-year-old to ‘suck it up and be a man’? But that was my uncle’s way: you bear it all, silently, ‘like a man.’”
Noticing his use of past tense, I probe gently, “You keep saying ‘was’?” It’s a subtle question, but I know Randy will grasp the depth of what I’m asking.
“He passed away three years ago, esophagus cancer.”
I find myself softly responding, “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. Todd was a tough guy—that was his name, Todd. But I loved him, even if it was hard to live under the same roof. That’s why, at fifteen, I packed my bags, hopped on a train to New York City, and vowed never to come back. The problem was, I didn’t realize that running away doesn’t leave your demons behind.”
I’m suddenly unable to continue eating my salad. An overwhelming sense of anxiety and sorrow washes over me as if I’m feeling Randy’s emotions at eleven and again at fifteen. This wave of empathy brings tears to my eyes and to the edge of spilling over.
Frozen in place, I listen as Randy describes his initial days in New York City, scrambling for a way to survive. He managed to secure a spot in a hostel with the little money he had but knew he needed to find work quickly. His days were filled with visits to various restaurants, offering his services as a dishwasher. The stumbling block, however, was the need for identification.
“I couldn’t just show them my school ID—or at least, I thought I couldn’t at first. After a month or two, I realized my uncle wasn’t going to take any steps to bring me back home. To him, if I was man enough to run away, then I was man enough to fend for myself.”
Randy’s voice carries a hint of resilience as he continues. “I won’t sugarcoat it—things were tough. But Todd did give me access to some money from my parents’ trust. That helped, but I still needed to work.”
He shares with me that it was Chef Roy Leland who finally offered him a job in his kitchen.
“You mean the Chef Roy Leland, renowned for his elevated American cuisine?” I ask.
His expression lights up with pride as he confirms, “The one and only.”
Randy goes on to explain that Chef Leland agreed to hire him, but only during after-school hours. However, a few months into the job, Chef Leland noticed Randy wasn’t attending school during the day and confronted him with an ultimatum: be honest about his situation or lose the job. By that point, Randy had grown to love working in Chef Leland’s kitchen, a place where the head chef believed everyone on his team should have the skills to step in as junior chefs when necessary.
In Chef Leland’s kitchen, Randy quickly learned the art of using a knife, preparing sauces, and mastering seasonings. He discovered he had a natural talent for cooking. So instead of running scared, Randy took the courageous step of sharing his story with the acclaimed chef, explaining the circumstances that led him to New York City.
“Well, you have to finish high school,” the chef insisted.
With Chef Leland’s support, Randy enrolled in an online high school program, dedicating the early part of his day to his studies before heading to the restaurant by 4 p.m., often working until the early hours of the morning. Randy found that immersing himself in the culinary world not only provided a sense of purpose but also eased the emotional turmoil that had driven him to tears at night. Unfortunately, he also turned to alcohol as a temporary relief from his anguish.
“I worked in that restaurant for thirteen years. When Leland retired six years ago, his kitchen became mine. But eventually, my battle with alcohol cost me the most prestigious job I’d ever had. I’d lash out at my staff, miss entire nights in the kitchen, even forget essential ingredients, like salt.”
Hearing this version of Randy, so at odds with the man in front of me, I could only respond, “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”
“No. Not anymore,” he affirmed, lifting his arm to display his tattoo more prominently. “The sword symbolizes my fight against the demons that have tormented me. The clouds around the sword signify my emergence from the darkness, my ascent from the abyss.”
Overwhelmed by a surge of emotion, I instinctively lower my face, trying to shield from Randy the tears that have started cascading down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” I manage to say, the words barely a whisper. My apology is for more than just the moment—it’s for every time I mirrored his own harshness, for the complex mix of resentment and attraction I felt toward him, and for failing to see the truth. Despite his undeniable physical prowess and the kind of magnetism that could rival any big-time movie star, he is, at his core, profoundly human.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a comforting tone. The gentle touch of his finger under my chin encourages me to look up, and I can almost feel the warmth of his energy urging me to face him.
Brushing away the tears with the back of my hand, I muster a smile as I meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, really sorry.”
“There’s no need for apologies, Gina. Yes, my story has its sadness, but I like to believe I’m on the path to something better now.” The corners of his mouth lift into that irresistibly sexy smirk of his.
Gosh, he’s breathtaking. That look he gives me, where his entire face seems to light up, is captivating. Randy has that kind of appeal that I could happily wake up to day after day. Yet despite this undeniable attraction, there remains an elusive barrier between us, invisible but there.
“Yeah, well,” I start, feeling the need to shift the conversation, to find a new rhythm in this moment. “You’re an incredible chef. That dinner at Pier 37 on Friday night was great, sure, but the ravioli you made that afternoon? It was something else. It made me realize just how talented you are, and then, suddenly, there you were.”
Randy licks his lips, which is definitely the greatest show on earth. “Yeah, and there I was.”
“And then I ran away,” I add, trying to inject some lightness into the moment with a laugh.
I hoped Randy would join in on the laughter, but instead, he extends his arm across the table, his palm open, inviting me to place my hand in his. I accept, and before I know it, he gently pulls me out of my chair and closer to him, bridging the gap between us with a simple gesture. Turning his body to face me, I know exactly what to do as he hikes my skirt up, and I straddle his lap. Lowering myself on top of him, I feel his hardness pushing into my balmy softness. It’s like he’s already about to explode.
“Gina,” he whispers before his lips find the most sensitive side of my neck. “You look stunning tonight, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I whisper as his kissing makes my body shudder.
“And you drive me crazy,” he announces, still tasting my skin.
His careful, indulgent, and soft mouth sends my head afloat. I’m losing patience, and so is he, because what happens next happens so quickly. Randy and I go up in a flurry of hands, unbuttoning, unzipping, removing, and shifting until…
“Uh!” we both utter as our mouths find each other. And while he’s inside me, neither of us can get as close to each other as our hearts desire.
* * *