Chapter One #2
I moved over to the fridge and yanked open the heavy steel door with a soft grunt.
As I stepped inside, tiny black spots filled my vision and I threw my hand out, bracing myself on the cold doorway as the bright fruits and veggies stared back at me.
Too much energy, not enough sugar. Without a second thought, I grabbed a small red apple, dropping it into my apron to snack on during my prep.
Last year, after I’d gotten myself established in this town, registered my vehicle, and signed up for health insurance, I’d made an extensive Catch-Up List. This list included several doctor appointments.
After what I’d gone through, I needed to make sure my health, both physical and mental, was maintained.
Despite Death and I having a handful of meetings during my life, I wasn’t ready to leave this world.
In fact, I fully intended to live a long and fulfilling life.
My therapist said that my mentality was one of the most impressive he’d ever seen, and I had my grandmother to thank for that.
She was the strongest woman I knew. When she finally allowed Death to take her, she was ninety-two years old but still a force of nature.
She’d seen the best and worst of times in this world, survived a multitude of wars and famine, and healed from countless heartbreaks, big and small.
Still, she managed to rise with the sun and stay up into the night talking to the moon and stars about the adventures she’d had that day.
Perhaps her spirit lived on in me.
I wasn’t going to let anyone—not even that bastard who’d taken two years of my precious life away—ruin my chance at finding peace.
The first hiccup I stumbled across on the Catch-Up List was my eyes.
My left retina had been torn. It was a tiny tear, far away from my optic nerve and macula, but it was enough for the ophthalmologist up north to suggest a laser procedure.
The second hiccup was when I was sent back to the ophthalmologist after the pathologist found abnormal blood sugar levels.
My A1C had been 10.3. Somewhere along the way, I’d developed type-two diabetes, but it was early.
After discussing the trauma I’d endured, my team of doctors suspected that I’d been insulin resistant my entire life and the stress had triggered the disease.
Every week, I had to get an insulin shot, which was fine, all things considered.
“Angel!”
I jumped, shaking off my thoughts. “Just a second,” I called as I grabbed the pie crusts I’d prepped yesterday, along with the cookie dough Margo had dropped off.
When I reemerged, Rachel was gone and the head chef, Felix Kolby, was in her place, staring down at the prep station with a furrowed brow.
Felix was where I wanted to be, career wise. At thirty-six years old, he’d cooked all over the world, had worked under some of the most brilliant chefs, and curated special menus every month alongside adding to Marg’s original one.
“Good morning, Chef,” I said in a huff as I set the stuff down at my station.
He turned to me, breaking from his stupor, and gave me a forced closed-mouthed smile. He adjusted his round tortoiseshell glasses and asked, “Cookies?”
“For the book signing at Rossy’s.”
“Ah, I see,” he drawled, his Boston accent coming out. “Big things happening this week.”
I did a double take. “Things? As in plural?”
He nodded and ran a hand over his shaved head. He’d told me once he used to wear his hair down to his shoulders, but that was before culinary school. “Yeah, the book signing, the health inspection, and the new indoor farmers’ market.”
Oh shoot, I’d forgotten about the indoor farmers’ market.
I needed to make another list.
“Felix!”
Both of our heads snapped up to find Marg waving her notebook in the air. “What’s the plan for the steak? I need to know,” she huffed. “I know you're still working on the main courses for Friday and Saturday, but what about the steak, Chef? The steak!”
“She doesn’t need to know; she’s just nosy,” he muttered to me, winking.
“I heard that!”
“Dammit all to hell, then, Chef Margie,” he replied, walking toward her, allowing me to get lost in my work.
When I finally came up for air, the pies were cooling and Margo had already stopped by to grab the cookies. Before she ran out the door, she tried and failed to pay Margie for the oven time. Then Margie dragged me to the bench in the corner of the kitchen for a blood sugar check and snack break.
Ten hours later, my sore feet carried me out into the parking lot as Felix went off on one of the waiters. It was a typical Tuesday evening. Though no matter how often Chef yelled, I hadn’t gotten used to it.
“You don’t get to be in charge of the food!”
“Is he always this intense?” Jace, another waiter, asked me, keeping my pace. He was new, and had just started working here about three weeks ago. His boyfriend was a fisherman. They met online, and Jace fell in love, took the leap, and moved here.
I shrugged. “He’s just Felix,” I answered, fishing for my keys, the sound of the sea sloshing against the docks. The seagulls had disappeared from the sky, tucked away somewhere warm and safe for the night. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much; he has yelled at me more times than I can count.”
When we were both standing at the hood of our cars, he turned and leaned against his. “You want a cig?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m all right. Thank you, though.”
He flicked his lighter, a fresh cigarette between his lips. I watched as it illuminated his face, highlighting his strong features. “Have you ever considered modeling?” I found myself asking.
He chuckled smoothly before he inhaled, letting the smoke sit inside him. When he blew it out a few seconds later, he gave me another chuckle. “Not ambitious enough for that, Angel.”
“Right. Well, I have to get going.”
I had to do my evening rituals, and according to the time, I was already five minutes behind my usual schedule.
“See you on Sunday.”
My footsteps halted, his words registering. “You leave tomorrow, yes?”
He nodded, looking up at the stars. “Gotta make an appearance at my brother’s wedding or he’ll kill me.”
“Is your boyfriend attending as well?” I asked, opening my passenger door and dumping my things in the seat.
“Yeah, he’s nervous as hell to meet my parents.”
I had the sudden urge to assure him everything would be okay, that his parents were going to love his boyfriend because he was a good person who loved their son.
However, then I thought about the possibility of me being wrong and Jace coming back to Astoria, blaming me for instilling false hope in him.
Therefore, I just gave him a kind smile and said, “Safe travels. I’ll see you when you get back.”
My oven timer dinged just as I was putting on my facial moisturizer.
“Shoot,” I muttered, my hands working faster against my cheeks.
I looked back into the foggy mirror, studying the woman with golden eyes and scars that were buried deep underneath my skin.
My skin still felt prickly about the near slip-up with Jace.
He was new to town, and the last thing I wanted to do was make him feel bad.
Truth be told, I hated making anyone feel bad.
My therapist said I have some issues establishing healthy boundaries—with other people and myself.
I reached for my under-eye cream and dotted my index and middle finger with it.
I applied it quicker than normal and bypassed my nightly lip scrub altogether.
Not bothering to turn off the bathroom light, I hurried through the house, my night gown scuttling behind me as I went.
I padded along the hundred-year-old hard wood floors, comforted by the creaking and popping as the smell of my dinner hit me.
As I reached the kitchen, I regrettably turned on the overhead light, dreading how it drenched my cozy space in a stale hospital-like glow. My stomach rumbled as I pulled out the full pan of roasted veggies, and as I set to blending them for my soup, the worries from earlier faded away.
The noise in my brain never stood a chance when I was in the kitchen, creating something wonderful.
My hands worked on autopilot, slicing the sourdough I’d made over the weekend.
I slapped a small amount of butter on a slice and toasted underneath the broiler to brown.
A faint but familiar smile stretched across my lips as I scooped out a serving of soup from the pot, a soft jazz melody floating in from my living room.
I dressed the dish as I would at work, giving myself a romantic presentation before migrating to my cream couch.
Steam from the soup traveled up to my face in delicate waves as I hit the resume button on my remote.
Mr. Darcy was greeting Elizabeth as I took my first bite, but the tension in my shoulders didn’t leave until I was finished with my meal, dishes on the coffee table by my magazines.