Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Despite last night’s unanswered message, I go to work tomorrow with a raging case of optimism. It has finally sunk into me that I, Rita Singh, have made it to the next round of the—still terribly named—contest of CUM.
How is this real? Entering just a few weeks ago with my Tandoori Mac ‘N’ Cheese had been a scrambled effort.
A way to stave off this sinking feeling of going nowhere.
As a stunted antidote to my despair, I had barely hoped—but not truly believed—there could be a way for me to be professionally recognized as a real chef.
That this opportunity might be the one to set me on a better path forward with my career.
But here I am, chosen to move on to the next round.
They liked my idea enough to want to see more.
For the next round, the judges are still finalizing the details, but all I know is that it’s timed. I’ve got to be ready for their follow-up email to come any day now, and I must be prepared to drop everything to compete. How exciting — nerve-wracking — exciting — nerve-wracking ?—
When I tell my best friends, they say they aren’t surprised because I’m super talented, and they know I’m going to make it all the way. Go celebrate , they insist. And get ready to bathe in all the glory when you win in the end.
No, I don’t think I can enjoy anything properly yet.
The stakes are too high. I’ve got to start studying and training for this contest even more seriously, because suddenly it feels so real to me.
If I win, I get the kind of prize money that lets me breathe.
No more existing just to afford my bills and pay for my dad’s rehab. No more taking whatever job I can get.
No, MealKits Masala is going to interview the top three chefs of the competition and potentially offer them a recipe development position. And you get advertised to their millions of subscribers.
This… finally …could be my way out.
The whole start of my morning, I mantra-talk myself. You’ll handle what is going to be next. You always do. You are a fighter. Strong. Not going to fall apart, no matter what. This won’t defeat you. You’re good. Solid. Talented.
When I get to work, I look around the kitchen and see?—
He’s not there.
That’s so unusual that it takes me a few minutes to revive myself and notice the note on the counter.
I’m not feeling well. I didn’t want you to catch it, so I went straight to the office.
It feels strange to make my own tea, but I do, and it’s still not as good as when he makes it for me. Damn his narrow and very specially applied culinary skill. Sipping my lesser-made drink, I try to enjoy the silence.
That doesn’t last long.
He is really sick, isn’t he? He’s not avoiding me because of last night, is he?
I can’t keep still, which is why I pull out my phone and message him.
ME
Usually when a person is sick, they take the day off.
He doesn’t respond as quickly as he’s done before, but when I get his message, it is very much a normal reply for him.
LUKE
I’m not regular people.
So cocky. That’s good. Nothing to worry about.
When I begin pulling out ingredients from the fridge, I also notice the smoothies and lunch I made for him to take today are still there. Does he know? I send him a picture of what he left behind with a question mark beside it.
LUKE
I forgot.
Again, that’s not like him. He doesn’t skip steps in his routine. The opposite, actually. He’s a walking to-do list of rigidity. Either he hates me now or he is actually unwell.
I meal prep the next set of smoothies, taking my time to prepare and include a spoonful of homemade peanut butter. As I blend the nuts, my brain kicks around theories.
We’d gotten caught in the rain last night.
Even for me, those few minutes of getting wet had me shivering in my flat when I got home.
So is that what happened to him? Was it the rain?
Is he sick because he caught a chill from it?
That could be it, especially if he walked back to the bar after he left me.
It’s not my fault, we walked. Though he did mention “cab” a few times. It’s not like I knew it would get him sick…
Not because of any guilt, I start making him soup for dinner.
Two kinds.
Selfishly, I also want to practice two recipes, in case the next meal kit challenge incorporates soup somehow.
A notebook is pulled out, and I’m scribbling ingredient pairings and going from there.
It’s hard to think of an entire dish all at once, but if you decide on one or two components, it’s easier to build out.
I do this while preparing the soups.
The rhythm of the day is full of exciting research and relaxing prep. It goes by so fast that I stay longer than the end of my shift. Only when the light streaming in through the window changes colors do I notice how late it’s gotten.
I’ve been in the kitchen for hours.
It’s okay , I tell myself. He said I could use the space for myself too. I’m not technically doing anything wrong.
Having a cup of tea, I allow myself to rest. Be grateful.
Smile. Because there’s no way I could do all this in my own kitchen.
One out of two burners doesn’t work, there is no counter space, the knives are dull, and with little ventilation, the fire alarm goes off frequently.
To have a space to do what I’ve done today, one he’s given me, feels so necessary.
Like a key factor in any progress I make. I’m so? —
Totally gushing about Luke Abbot.
Who hasn’t come home.
I send him another message.
ME
Still at the office?
He responds by the time I finish packing up.
LUKE
I’ll be here all night. No choice.
That sucks.
Going to the fridge, I open it up and look at the soup.
He probably hasn’t eaten properly today. The man is picky and typically hates ordering out which is why he hired me in the first place.
Should I ask him about it?
Or maybe?—
A crazy idea comes to me.
I could stop by his office and drop off the soup.
And—checking my purse—I do have some over-the-counter medicine if he needs it.
It won’t take long, and it’s also the least I can do after the great day I’ve had.
I’m so hopeful and dispute whatever complicated doubts I have about Luke, he is part of the reason why my fake-cheer persona is not faking it today.
Well, his kitchen is.