Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Madison
Liam hovers over my left shoulder as I move the pan-fried chicken onto a plate and dump chopped zucchini into the same pan I used for the chicken.
I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, attempting to move a strand of hair that freed itself from my ponytail.
When Liam leans even closer to peer into the pan, I jab him with a sharp elbow to the side.
Hamlet meows dramatically at Liam’s feet, acting as the guard dog version of a cat while also maintaining his disdainful cat caricature.
I give Hamlet an evil glare before glancing up at Liam. “Are you going to hang around watching me every time I cook dinner?” I ask, forcing annoyance into my tone. Because, really, his proximity is flustering me in an entirely different way than annoyance.
Especially when he’s dressed in jeans and a maroon T-shirt that fits perfectly across his chest and biceps.
This casual look is far different than the suits or athleisure I’ve seen him in thus far.
It’s unfair that something as basic as a T-shirt and jeans would be stopping my lungs from fully inflating.
“I’m just trying to learn from your cooking process. This is almost like creating a standard operating procedure, but for food instead of a company,” he says, sounding genuinely intrigued.
I can’t help but smile at his comment as I scoop out a half cup of pasta water before draining the cooked rigatoni noodles in the sink. After dumping the cooked zucchini onto the same plate as the chicken, I add butter to the pan and crack lots of fresh pepper into it.
“Does this dish have a name? Or just . . . minimalist pasta?” Liam asks.
I shrug as I stir the pepper and butter around the pan. “Eh, I suppose it’s a version of cacio e pepe.”
“Caci-what?” Liam asks. I look over to see his furrowed brow.
“Cacio e pepe—it’s a simple, classic Italian pasta dish. Surely you’ve seen it on a menu at one of your many fancy business dinners,” I say.
Liam shakes his head. “Ah, nope. I’m not the schmoozer taking clients out to wine and dine their business. That’s a different department.”
“What are you, then?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes and looks up, as though lost in thought. “I’m the diagnostic specialist coming in and telling people what they don’t want to hear. Or maybe the emergency room doctor performing triage and the surgeon correcting what’s wrong all rolled into one.”
I give him a skeptical look. “All the expert doctors rolled into one, huh? So important.”
Liam’s lips twist into a wry smile. “I mean, doctors are notorious for having poor bedside manner, so I suppose the illustration fits.”
Turning back to the stove, I dump the pasta into the peppered butter, followed by grated Parmesan cheese and the reserved water.
“Bedside manner doesn’t always matter when you’re saving someone from certain death, though.
I’m sure the people you work with are grateful you come in and save their company from destruction. ”
He leans his back against the counter next to me as he says, “Yeah, as long as you’re not one of the limbs getting amputated. They generally don’t appreciate being told they’re getting cut off.”
My stomach lurches. “Is that going to happen here?” I ask tentatively, avoiding eye contact as I stir the chicken and zucchini into the pasta.
“That’s not my goal. Beau and I are actually trying to graft on a new limb, if possible. I think the execs are going to go for it,” Liam says.
“All right, we’ve taken the medical metaphor too far. Normal words explanation, please,” I demand. After turning off the stove, I hand a plate to Liam and scoop pasta onto my own plate.
“We’re hoping to expand production here, not cut it back.
More jobs, not less,” Liam says as he dishes up food.
He follows me to the table as he continues explaining, Hamlet at his heels.
“It’s not official yet, so don’t go around getting anyone’s hopes up, but we’re trying to get a second production line started for freeze-dried food.
I pitched the idea while I was in Houston.
The Pure Fur All exec team already has their work cut out for them trying to recover from their incompetency, though, so it’s not a guarantee they’ll go for the idea. ”
“Is that why you’re staying here longer?” I ask.
Liam makes an appreciative sound as he takes his first bite of pasta, and I absolutely let the indirect compliment go to my head.
He swallows before answering, “Yes. Well, partly yes. My extended presence was already on the table simply to fix what was broken at the plant and give Pure Fur All time to get their act together. But suggesting this idea would certainly make a longer stay even more necessary.”
“And how do you feel about that? I seem to remember someone being rather eager to get out of backwoods Arkansas,” I press. Hamlet meows from under the table.
Liam’s fork pauses midway to his mouth, just long enough for me to notice the hesitation. “Situations evolve,” he answers cryptically. We chew in silence, but I watch for any sign that he might offer up more information.
Unfortunately, the dictionary of metaphors would have a photo of Liam Park next to the “steel trap” entry. And I’m more disappointed by that than I should be.
“I don’t want to live on the farm because I don’t like the idea that making a mistake could literally derail your entire livelihood,” I say. Maybe he’ll be more honest about whatever past he’s running from if I open up first.
Liam looks at me quizzically. “What are you talking about?”
“At the store, you asked why I didn’t want to go back to my family farm. That’s why,” I say.
“Okay, but that statement requires a lot more explanation before it makes sense,” Liam says.
Taking a deep breath, I sigh out a long exhale.
“My older sister and I are flip-flopped as far as birth order stereotypes go. I’m the responsible one, not her.
Well, she’s much more responsible now as an adult and mother.
But in childhood, I was the one always picking up the slack and keeping everyone in line. ”
Liam pauses eating, setting down his fork and leaning in.
I continue explaining. “As kids, one of the responsibilities on the farm that we helped out with was watering the corn during the hot summer months. In the morning, you ride a four-wheeler out to the fields to tap open the ‘gates’ on the irrigation system with a hammer, but you have to remember to close them a few hours later. One time, when my dad was out of town at a farm equipment auction, my sister was assigned to the task. But she never remembered to go close the gates. The water ran for three days straight and rotted the roots of the corn. It ruined the entire field, not to mention creating an astronomical water bill.”
I can hear my dad’s voice yelling at my sister, clear as day.
Clear as if it were happening right now, not decades ago.
“My dad drilled into us that mistakes like that can cost a farmer everything. And, of course, in a small farming community, everyone talked about it for weeks afterward. It didn’t seem to bother my sister that much, but I was mortified that people were talking about her failure.
As the more responsible child, I became the one tasked with the irrigation job, and my dad constantly reminded me of the importance of not messing it up. ”
Spearing a piece of zucchini with my fork, I say, “I don’t like making mistakes, ever. But I don’t want an entire livelihood riding on my ability to not mess up.”
Liam leans back in his chair, watching me. I’m suddenly very self-conscious of my chewing. Finally, he says, “That’s intense. No wonder you don’t want to go back.”
Swallowing, I add, “Don’t get me wrong. My family is great.
I love my parents and my siblings. I don’t hold it against my dad in the slightest—farming is an extremely stressful profession.
There’s so much beyond your control, and profit margins are slim.
My parents raised us in a loving environment, and I always enjoy seeing them when I go back to visit.
It’s not like they traumatized me or anything.
It’s simply the explanation for why farm life isn’t for me. ”
Liam takes another bite, and I wait for him to offer up his own “why I hate small towns” explanation.
I wait. And wait. We eat in silence until Liam asks, “How’s Madison Joy Editorial going? Everything running smoothly with your clients so far?”
All right then, no reciprocal sharing happening tonight.
Stabbing a large bite of pasta with my fork, I use the lengthy chewing process to give myself time to decide how to answer his new question. Just last night, I’d painted a rose-colored version to my parents when they called to voice their concerns again.
Don’t worry! I’ve had three clients so far who gave glowing reviews! Things are poised to take off! I’m making more than I’m spending on bills!
I did not mention that my bills are extremely small because I moved in rent-free with my former temporary neighbor. I also didn’t mention that after my current client, my editing schedule is as wide open as Nebraska farmland.
Which version do I tell Liam?
“It’s . . . crawling, I guess, as much as I wish it were running,” I confess.
“The clients I’ve worked with so far have been wonderful.
They’ve written positive testimonials that I’ve posted on social media and the website, but I’m still waiting for a burst of momentum.
I don’t know why I thought that I could suddenly have a thriving independent business on my hands when the real-world job I had didn’t think I was good enough. Delusions, I suppose.”