Chapter 3
Olivia
Now
You’d think this man was using a butter knife the way he’s fighting for his life to carve our steak.
It’s a shredded mess, and he’s grinning like he’s going to impress me.
It’s our first date, so I might’ve been impressed had he asked me before he made the reservation.
I could’ve told him I worked at this restaurant years ago, and I would’ve chosen somewhere else.
Still, it might’ve been fine if he didn’t want to be “a gentleman and order for us.” I can’t tell if he doesn’t have the money for separate meals or if he thought sharing an eight-ounce would be sexy.
I’m starving, but when he lifts his fork into the air to offer me a bite, I shake my head and sip my wine, wishing away the bad taste in my mouth. Once he’s finished with our plate, he says, “You didn’t miss out on much. My mom makes better steak.”
“I bet she does,” I say with a small smile.
When I told him I was a private chef, he said, “My mom cooks for people too. Yeah, she sells plates on Fridays,” in a way that felt like he was disregarding what I actually do.
But had this date been on the right track, I might’ve said, “Let’s ditch this spot, and I’ll sit in the car while you pick up a plate of her food for us instead. ”
He calls the waiter over and orders dessert while I text Denise under the table.
SOS. Call me and say you’re having an emergency. Get me out of here.
You’re so picky.
The way he sawed into the steak was giving serial killer. And he just ordered dessert for the both of us without asking what I wanted.
What did he order?
The cheesecake, girl.
At Bethola’s? Oh hell no. It’s the size of my pinky and tastes sour.
I can’t believe you told me to shave my pussy for this.
He’s sexy, so I was hoping that you’d finally get some tonight. You’re probably drier than a desert down there. I’ll call you in a few minutes.
When I click out of the conversation, I look up to see that he’s on his phone too.
Smiling at a video. Denise was right; he is a good-looking man.
Clean-shaven, knows what colors to wear to compliment his taupe skin.
He seemed promising, especially after I had to report a stranger on Hinge who was demanding that I walk barefoot all day so he could suck my dirty toes.
And to be fair to my date, I should’ve canceled to digest the big news.
I’ve been on edge since I talked to Carmello yesterday.
My therapist insisted I was being avoidant, and I can’t stand it when she’s right.
While waiting for Denise’s call, I down the rest of my drink in one tilt and scroll to Carmello’s text message from earlier. It’s jarring to see his name on my screen, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to open it, but my thumb hovers over it now.
“Excuse me,” someone says, and I jump slightly before staring up at the man who came to our table.
He’s smiling in a shy, starstruck way that tells me where this is going.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re Olivia Jones, right?
” When I nod, he continues. “You probably don’t remember me.
I was hired as a prep chef weeks before you left for a different restaurant.
But you were a badass in the kitchen, and I learned so much from you in that short time.
The boss man was absolutely crushed to lose you. ”
My date makes a small, choked sound, and I wonder if our steak went down the wrong pipe.
I stick my hand out, give the chef a strong shake and some compliments on the meal.
He tells me he’s interested in becoming a private chef like I am now, and while the conversation is flowing, I can feel the burn of my date’s stare.
The chef must feel it too because he glances toward my date and says, “I’m sorry if I’ve been rude.
Just excited. But I’ll let you two get back to your evening. The meal is on us tonight.”
“It was truly not an interruption,” I say.
When he leaves, I finally meet my date’s eyes. For a moment, I think he might look intimidated, but then he smirks. “You didn’t say you were a big deal like that.” He’s now looking at me like I’m the dessert, and I don’t think I can wait for Denise to call. “We should’ve ordered more wine.”
I tilt my head and give him a sorry smile. “I’m sure they’d cover it if you want to stay and have another glass or two, but it’s time for me to get going.”
***
When I was twelve, my parents took a picture of me in front of the Welcome to Virginia sign and asked, What beauty do you think you’ll find in this state?
I said jellyfish, thinking about our short-term rental by the beach.
But asking me this was their way to keep me excited as we hopped from state to state.
I’d already been in two elementary schools that year, and I wasn’t unhappy about it.
Two years prior, the house I had lived in since birth burned down in a tragic wildfire, propelling the trajectory of my parents taking their environmental advocacy very seriously.
Luckily, we’d been able to evacuate quickly and no one was seriously injured, besides a burn to my hand.
Now we don’t have anything tying us here, my mom said when we stared at the rubble that was once our home.
But I wasn’t familiar with the term nomad until one of my new teachers called us that with judgy eyes.
Still, I thought it was special that my parents wanted me to see the world with them while they fought for it.
So I simply shrugged, knowing in a few months I’d probably never see him again.
Little did I know how much this constantly shifting lifestyle would shape every relationship I ever had.
It’s what I’m thinking about while sitting on my couch and staring at a photo of my parents in Madrid, kissing by a giant water fountain.
Looks like you’re not the most popular Jones anymore, sweetheart, my dad wrote when he tagged me in an article about the two of them working with citizens to protect the pyramids in Egypt from being climbed illegally.
They’re proud of me and my popularity in the culinary industry, but while they travel for human rights, I travel to cook. We’ll accept it, as long as you’re happy, they’ve said.
Four years ago, I was hired as a head chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Houston.
It was my dream job in theory, but it was demanding on my body and I found the environment stifling for my personality too.
I was busy in ways that weren’t fulfilling, longing for interaction with customers and staff members that was hard to come by.
But I’d only been there for eight months and was trying to stick it out.
After spending the six previous years cooking in different restaurants all over the U.S.
, I knew I was close to a time when my talent wouldn’t win out over my questionable résumé, longevity being one of the indicators of a good work ethic and all that.
So, when a wealthy regular at the restaurant asked if I was interested in being his private chef, I jumped at the opportunity.
He’d pay way more than I was making, we’d travel overseas for his job in finance so I’d get to see more of the world, and it’d be gentler on my body.
As a woman with endometriosis, the latter would be greatly appreciated.
In addition, the work would come in spurts and I’d get to keep a home base in Houston.
I’d met Denise at the restaurant here, and even though I’d made friends with people around the world, she felt like my first close friend in a long time.
My client base has grown since then and my life has been filled with unexpected adventures.
It never feels like I live the same day twice.
I used to say to my parents, How could I not be happy?
But the confirmation is harder to give now.
Each time I turn the key to my loft and find it empty, my ex-husband Michael’s words ring in my head.
You’re never going to have a real home. You don’t want one.
When he first said it, I resented him, thinking the truth was I just didn’t want a home with him.
But now I know the truth is a little grayer than I thought.
When I filed for divorce, my mom asked if there was anything I’d miss about him, and I realized I wasn’t around enough and hardly knew him.
He was never the man for me, but I am thinking of him as I look at the heart of Houston through my floor-to-ceiling windows.
Maybe it’s because my couch is stiff, and I’m not here enough to break it in.
Maybe it’s because Denise pulled me only into the outer edge of her friend group, but I haven’t nurtured any of those relationships enough to become part of the center.
And I’m realizing that in my absence, Denise has made a life with the people she has here and should prioritize.
When I’m in town, she can’t just drop everything to come watch a movie with me, and she shouldn’t have to.
But when we had brunch a couple of months ago, she asked me a question that felt like a close friend might already know the answer to: Is there anyone you’re smitten with?
Since then, I’ve had the urge to pull her closer, but I’m not sure the feeling is mutual.
She never did end up calling to bail me out of my date.
And now I’m thinking of two things simultaneously: I tried to cure this loneliness by settling down with anyone who seemed promising, and I’ve only felt “smitten” once in my life.
Carmello Rodriguez’s face flashes through my mind, and I have to tell myself that he’s not twenty anymore. How I imagine him is not how he looks now.