Miles
It’s barely past five in the evening, and I’ve just wrapped up a grueling, exhausting day at the studio.
The Food Network set was exactly what you’d expect—pristine, chaotic, and utterly draining.
We were taping a special segment on themed lunches and cocktails for the Belmont Stakes, which is just a day away.
The early days of June have a cool, crisp edge, with the breeze just starting to gain that warm, sticky summer quality.
But in the studio, under the glaring lights, it feels like I’m suffocating, my skin a bit too tight, my anxiety growing with each take.
The lunch I prepared for the segment was everything I had hoped it would be—elegant, light, sophisticated.
It was designed to showcase something fresh, something vibrant yet refined, just like the horse race itself.
A beet and goat cheese salad, the earthy sweetness of the beets balanced by the tang of the cheese, punctuated by the slight crunch of candied pecans.
It’s beautiful to look at—a rainbow of colors that almost look too perfect to eat.
And the dressing—oh, the dressing! A balsamic reduction, smooth and velvety, just enough to add depth without overpowering the delicate flavors of the salad.
I made sure the portion sizes were precise, and each plate was a work of art.
The cocktail I paired with it was a light, lemony sorbet concoction—gin, elderflower liqueur, and a hint of rosemary, stirred to perfection.
It was as refreshing as it was complex.
The set was a well-oiled machine. Stephanie, the host, was ever the professional, chattering about the race and asking me the typical questions she and the producers thought people wanted to hear.
“How did you come up with the idea for this drink, ?”
I could hear her voice, so bright and perky, a smile in her words.
She was a pleasant woman, but we weren’t friends.
We weren’t even close, really.
She was the kind of person who always had something to say, even when I just wanted to focus. But I didn’t mind. I smiled. I nodded. I answered. After all, this was my life. Perfect. Controlled. It had to be.
The kitchen was, as always, a place of order.
The countertop gleamed under the harsh studio lights, the stainless steel appliances reflecting back at me.
Every knife, every bowl, was in its precise place.
I worked fast, cutting and stirring with deliberate, practiced movements, ensuring everything looked as flawless as it would taste.
I hate the thought of leaving even a crumb out of place, so every surface was wiped down as soon as I was done with it. After all, the camera never stops rolling, even when the director calls “cut!”
The rest of the crew moved around me like ghosts, their footsteps soft against the cold tile floor, their voices low, unintelligible.
The lights were hot, the air heavy, but I kept my cool.
This was my element.
This was where I belonged.
But I could feel the anxiety starting to creep up.
The lights were getting hotter.
My palms were sweating. But never mind that; I shunned my inner saboteur and allowed my conscious gladiator of worth with his sword raised high to shine through, just as I always had.
Finally, it was done. The segment was over. A quick handshake with a smile, and I was out of there.
I stood in the studio’s parking lot for a moment, the cool June air hitting my face, feeling a slight chill as I exhaled deeply.
But the relief was fleeting.
The moment I climbed into my Audi, sleek and black, the leather seats cool against my legs, I knew I couldn’t stop.
There was still so much to do.
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard—just after six.
Owen would be home soon.
He was always on time.
Always.
And I had dinner to make.
Dinner wasn’t just any dinner at the Whitaker and Prescott residence.
It was going to be a five-star meal for my husband, Owen, who, as usual, was working late.
But I didn’t mind.
Cooking for him was the highlight of my day.
Tonight’s menu would be impeccable, of course.
I had planned it all out.
A tender and splendidly roasted lamb rack seasoned with fresh thyme and garlic, finished with a rich red wine reduction.
The potatoes would be mashed to creamy perfection, with just the right amount of butter and a hint of garlic and truffle oil.
A medley of roasted vegetables—carrots, parsnips, and fingerling potatoes—caramelized to a golden crisp and drizzled with balsamic glaze.
A side salad of arugula and shaved fennel with a citrus vinaigrette to add brightness.
And for dessert? A dark chocolate mousse, rich and velvety, topped with whipped cream and a delicate sprinkling of sea salt.
The whole meal was going to be exceptional. It would be an experience just like every other dinner I prepared.
I could already picture it: the exemplary table setting: a white linen tablecloth, crystal glassware, polished silverware, candles lit just enough to create that soft, intimate glow, everything in its place, every detail attended to.
This meal would be a moment to savor, a moment where Owen and I could forget about everything else and just…… be.
But then I checked my phone.
My stomach sank as I read Owen’s text.
Owen: I have an impromptu showing tonight. Won’t make it home for dinner. Just going to grab some fast food after the showing. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.
Fast food.
I nearly slammed the brakes on the car in frustration.
Fast food?!
Owen, my husband, my absolutely wonderful husband, suggesting that he would settle for that junk? I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. Did I have early onset macular degeneration, and my phone screen was deceiving me? I reread it again. Nope. No eye problems here. Of course not. I knew my Vitamin A, Lutein, and Beta-Carotene levels were high, and it would be a travesty if I had any poor eyesight conditions at this stage in my life. What I read was factual and exact.
My mind raced. Owen can’t seriously want that abysmal takeout food.
It’s unhealthy. It’s unsophisticated. It’s beneath him.
I thought about the sodium, the cholesterol, the grease. It was beyond anything I was willing to accept. For Owen—someone I loved and cherished more than anyone else in the world—to think that fast food was acceptable for dinner… I shuddered at the thought.
No.
He deserved better than that. I wouldn’t allow it.
I couldn’t just let this go. I had to show him what he was missing. He needed something far more refined than fast food. He deserved a meal made with care, with love, with the kind of impeccability I was known for.
I made a decision right there at that moment. I would cook. I would make his dinner—better than any fast food. I would pack it up for him, make sure it was top-notch, and surprise him at his showing. He would have a meal that would blow that odious fast food suggestion right out of his mind.
I raced home, my heart pounding in my chest. The anxiety—always present, always there—fueled me now. I grabbed the ingredients I had already set aside and began preparing dinner. As I worked, I felt my hands move with purpose, my mind sharp and focused. The lamb was seasoned just right. The potatoes were mashed and whipped with the optimal balance of butter, garlic, and truffle oil. The vegetables roasted until golden and crispy. The salad—bright and fresh, a contrast to the rich, hearty meal—was ready to be dressed with the citrus vinaigrette.
I was halfway through when I remembered something. Owen would probably be busy. He’d be with his client, engrossed in showing the house, and I didn’t want to just barge in and interrupt, potentially ruining a deal. So, I picked up my phone and dialed Alicia, Owen’s assistant, to get the details on the timing of it all.
“Alicia, it’s . I need to know where Owen’s showing is tonight. I have a surprise for him.”
Alicia’s voice on the other end was cheerful, as always. She didn’t question me, didn’t hesitate.
“Sure, ! He’s showing the house on Hawthorne Drive. 12794 is the house number. It’s that colonial-style home with the garden out front. I think it’s about 20 minutes away from the office. He should be there for another hour or so. But I doubt the showing will go that long.”
I thanked Alicia and hung up, feeling a small rush of relief. This was going to be amazing.
I quickly finished preparing the meal, packing it into beautiful glass containers—clear, with tight-fitting lids that sealed in the aroma and freshness. The containers were a work of art themselves, just the right size to hold a precisely balanced portion of each dish. They were the kind of containers you see in high-end kitchen stores, the kind that makes even leftovers seem gourmet.
Once everything was packed, I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. The drive was peaceful, almost serene. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. My life was perfect. I had everything I ever wanted: a successful career, a beautiful home, a husband who, despite the occasional misstep, was everything I could have dreamed of.
We were about to go to Rehoboth Beach for a weekend getaway soon at our beach home, just the two of us—time to relax, unwind, and enjoy the life we had built.
But that would have to wait for a few days.
I arrived at the address Alicia had given me—a gorgeous colonial-style home with a pristine garden that looked like it had been cared for by a landscape architect. The lawn was nicely manicured, the flowers in full bloom, and the driveway spotless. The hedges were trimmed just right, and the flowers—roses, hydrangeas, and lilies—created a picture of absolute bliss.
I parked in the driveway and, carrying the meal, walked up the path toward the front door. As I approached, I glanced through one of the front windows. I saw movement—Owen, I thought, still with his client.
But then, I saw something else. My stomach lurched as I watched Owen, naked, straddling another man on the couch. The stranger’s legs were in the air as Owen seemed to be thrusting himself into the other man’s body, whose face I couldn’t see beyond the armrest of the sofa that concealed him.
I froze.
The world seemed to stop.
I couldn’t breathe.
I felt my body go numb.
The glass container slipped from my hands, shattering on the sidewalk, the sound sharp and final.
Owen’s eyes met mine, and for a moment, we just stared at each other. I couldn’t process it. I couldn’t think.
I turned, my heart pounding, and I ran back to the car. I could hear Owen calling my name, his voice desperate, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t process what I had just seen.
I slammed the door behind me as I entered the driver’s side of my Audi, ignoring his frantic calls as I sped away from the house, away from the life I thought was immaculate. My hands were shaking as I gripped the steering wheel, and my mind was a mess of thoughts, of confusion, of pain.
The phone buzzed in my lap—texts, calls, all from Owen—but I couldn’t bring myself to answer.
What was there to say?
What was there to do?
I pulled into Le Ciel, my favorite French bistro in the heart of the city. It was a place of quiet elegance, the kind of restaurant where time seemed to slow the moment you stepped through the door. As I parked my Audi in the sleek, dimly lit lot, I took a moment to breathe. The world outside felt like a whirlwind, and yet here, in this sanctuary, everything was still. The soft glow of hanging lights outside beckoned me forward, as if the bistro was inviting me to forget the world’s chaos beyond its walls.
The door opened with a soft chime, and I was greeted by the scent of freshly baked bread, rich butter, and the unmistakable aroma of roasting garlic. The interior of Le Ciel was as I always remembered: intimate and warm, with dark wood paneling that contrasted beautifully with the soft golden lighting. The walls were adorned with vintage French posters and abstract art, their muted colors offering a calm contrast to the vibrancy of the kitchen. The sound of quiet conversations mingled with the clink of silverware on fine china, creating a symphony of subdued elegance. It was a world away from everything that had just shattered inside me.
“Good evening, Monsieur ,”
said Fran?ois, the ma?tre d’, his smile genuine, though he must have noticed something was off. He always knew. He could read me like a book.
“Bonsoir, Fran?ois,”
I replied, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside.
“A table for one tonight, please.”
“Of course. Follow me.”
He led me through the dimly lit dining room, past clusters of elegantly dressed patrons enjoying their own quiet evenings. The tables were set with crisp white linen, and each one was lit by a single candle that flickered gently, casting shadows that danced across the fine dinnerware. The soft hum of a jazz piano in the background created an atmosphere that seemed designed for moments like this—moments when the world outside felt too loud, too raw, and all you wanted was something to ground you.
Fran?ois seated me at my usual table, a small two-top by the window, where I could watch the occasional car drive by and lose myself in the soft glow of the streetlights. The view wasn’t much—just a quiet city street—but it was enough. It was the kind of place where you could escape, even if only for a few hours.
He handed me the menu, but I already knew what I was going to order. I didn’t need to look. Le Ciel was a haven for French sophistication, and I had my routine—just like I had everything else in my life.
“The waiter will be with you momentarily,”
he stated.
“Thank you,”
I said, offering him a weak smile as I lifted the menu and began perusing.
Fran?ois gave a nod, his eyes soft with understanding, before heading to the kitchen. The waiter who would be taking care of me tonight, a young man with carefully combed jet-black hair and a perfectly pressed uniform, approached the table. His eyes flicked to my face, and I saw the hesitation as if he could sense that something wasn’t quite right.
“Good evening, Monsieur. What can I get you to start?”
he asked, his voice polite but with a tinge of curiosity.
“Foie gras to start,”
I replied, my voice low, the words tasting heavy on my tongue.
“And then the coq au vin, with extra potatoes, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Monsieur,”
he said, his tone respectful.
“And would you like a wine pairing for the coq au vin?”
I nodded, my thoughts briefly drifting. "Yes, a bottle of Chateau La Vieille Garde, please. The 2012 vintage, if you have it.”
“Excellent choice, monsieur,”
the waiter said with a nod. He made a note on his pad and then left to retrieve my wine and place the order.
I sat there, staring out the window at the gently moving city lights. It was surreal, this moment of peace when everything outside felt so… shattering. My life—my perfect, polished life—had come to an abrupt halt. I had seen too much. Felt too much. And now, the only thing left to do was put it out of my mind, even if just for a little while, until reality came crashing down on me.
Soon, the wine arrived, a deep red that gleamed under the soft restaurant lighting. The waiter uncorked the bottle with a practiced hand, allowing the rich, earthy aroma to fill the air before pouring a generous amount into my glass. The first sip was exactly what I needed—smooth, velvety, with just enough tannin to ground me in the moment. I closed my eyes for a brief second, letting the warmth of the wine spread through me, soothing the tightness in my chest.
“This is exactly what I needed,”
I murmured to myself, savoring the taste. It was divine, just like everything used to be. But the joy of the moment quickly faded. The warmth in my chest had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the deep ache that now lived inside me. What had I built? What had I worked for? What did I do to lead my husband astray?
The foie gras arrived shortly after, its silky texture melting on my tongue. The rich, buttery flavor was paired with a delicate compote of figs and a drizzle of aged balsamic vinegar, the sweetness and acidity balancing perfectly with the richness of the dish. It was divine, of course. Everything here was. It had to be. My life had always been about perfection—about making sure every detail was in place and that nothing was out of order. But now, as I forked a piece of the foie gras into my mouth, the perfection seemed hollow. It didn’t matter how extravagant the meal was if the rest of the world felt like it was crumbling.
The waiter returned, pouring me another glass of wine and asking if everything was to my satisfaction. I nodded absently, not trusting myself to speak too much. My emotions were a mess, my thoughts swirling like the wine in my glass.
The coq au vin arrived with a flourish—tender chicken simmered in a rich, red wine sauce, the meat falling off the bone as if it had been braised for hours. The sauce was thick and velvety, the deep red hue enhanced by the slow cooking process that had reduced it to a concentrated, luxurious blend. Alongside the chicken was a medley of roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes that were buttery and silky, the kind of texture that felt like velvet against the tongue. A perfect bite.
I dug in, my mind momentarily distracted by the richness of the food, the warmth of the wine, and the luxury of the surroundings. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to pretend that everything was fine, that the life I had worked so hard to build hadn’t been shattered just hours before.
But it didn’t last.
As I finished the last bite of the coq au vin, the waiter returned to ask if I was ready for dessert.
“Crème br?lée,”
I said, the words almost automatic. I needed the sweetness. I needed the comfort of something familiar.
When the crème br?lée arrived, the sugar crust on top was perfectly caramelized, a golden brown that crackled gently under the pressure of my spoon. I tapped it lightly, watching the surface break apart with the satisfying crack that always made me smile. Beneath it was the smooth, velvety custard, rich and fragrant with vanilla. The bite was sweet but not too sweet, and the creaminess was just right. The coldness of the dessert contrasted elegantly with the warmth of the wine still in my glass.
I felt a twinge of something—maybe relief, maybe sorrow. But I couldn’t let myself go there.
Not yet.
Not here.
Not when everything was falling apart.
I drained the last of my wine, the red liquid dark and full-bodied. It felt like a momentary reprieve from the agony of the evening. For now, it was all I could do—nurse my wounds over this beautiful meal and this magnificent bottle of wine. I could escape the chaos for even just a little while.
But I couldn’t go home. Not yet. Owen would be following me soon, surely, with his excuses and his apologies. I wasn’t ready for that. Not tonight. I needed more time to digest this, away from it all.
The world outside was still out there, but for now, at least, I could find comfort in this. At least for a few hours, I could pretend everything was still the way it used to be.