Chapter 11 #2
“Kit. I have no idea why you would think that’s what I would say to you right now, or that I wouldn’t be open to a suggestion.”
He seems almost disappointed in me, which makes me feel like a kid who’s about to cry in front of their teacher. “I wasn’t saying you should tell me to fuck off,” I mumble.
“If you want to try and lead us out of here, I’m a thousand percent ready to be your sous chef and follow instructions.”
“Even though I don’t know what I’m doing?” I ask nervously.
But he chuckles, the sound a beautiful, quiet balm. “I don’t think either of us knows what we’re doing when it comes to reversing out of a glorified dirt road littered with rocks while tree branches scratch their way across the car,” he points out. “So if you have an idea, I’m in. Let’s try it.”
I have to swallow to stop the shock from roaring back in.
I’m not used to patience and consideration.
Those are definitely not traits in a working kitchen.
It’s a strange sensation to have someone like Nico in my life—he’s a sharpshooter made to precisely pinpoint every crack in the wall I’ve built around myself.
But I can’t focus on that now.
“I think I should get out and direct you from behind the car,” I say.
“The issue we keep having is if you go even an inch to the left or right, the road is so narrow that it buttresses you up into a tree. So we’ve got to be precise about it.
I can call you so you can hear me, and I’ll direct as you go? ”
“Let’s try it,” he says with a nod.
His expression is encouraging, so that’s my cue to take a deep breath and exit the car. I get scraped on every limb, but I’m able to press myself against the car enough so I can squeeze past and then get behind it.
Looking at the car from this angle, it’s clear we definitely need to be careful. The “road” is only a few inches wider than the car on either side. And the roots of the trees really buttress up right to the edge, along with some of the larger rocks at points.
I take a deep breath and call Nico. He immediately answers. “How does it look from back there?”
“Do you really want to know?” I ask, and I’m bolstered by one of his loud laughs.
“Nope,” he says cheerfully. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll follow.”
I try to hold on to some of his confidence as we slowly make our way—we really have to focus on not making any mistakes that could get us stuck.
Just a touch to the left there. No, no, no .
. . there you go . . . straight . . . straight .
. . you’re tilting just a little bit . .
. whoops, you’re too close on the right . . .
And on and on. The sun is getting higher in the sky, and I’m heating up.
The dust that the car has kicked up is fully caking me.
The scratches from earlier burn a bit as I let them linger.
But we’re making progress. It’s crazy to think that going forward, this took us only a few minutes, but backing out is a whole other ball game.
Our encouragement and the rhythm keep things steady.
The situation does sort of remind me of being in the kitchen with another chef on a night when we’re slammed but we still feel like we’re a step ahead of drowning.
We’re simply one foot in front of the other, not looking behind me to see how much farther we have to go and only focusing on each small stretch as we’re doing it.
Slow. Steady. Patient with each other and ourselves. We’re both making the other better; as the person in charge at my restaurant, I’m not used to having an equal teammate like this. But it’s working.
After about half an hour, the road starts to open up again.
And finally, we get to a point where he can turn around.
Once the car is facing out, he puts it in park and hops out.
All that nervous energy I’ve been holding in with patience has to burst out, and I can’t help but run up to him and let out a cheer as he wraps me in a hug.
“You did so great,” I say, my face buried into his chest, disarmed by how good he smells and how much I like having his arms around me.
He doesn’t say anything back, just tilts down so his chin is resting on the top of my head.
I can feel him breathe me in too. We linger for a moment.
I’m dirty from head to toe, and he’s still cool from the blast of the air-conditioning, but we’re both basking in the same experience.
The adrenaline high from suspense is having its comedown.
I’m flooded with a sense of relief that I’m not sure is from getting out of a precarious situation or from allowing myself to hold on to this hug from Nico.
But eventually, as my pulse slowly abates, the fog of excitement starts to clear, and I know I need to take a step back. I’ve never been so reluctant to leave a platonic hug in my life. I wonder if he is too.
“Well . . .” I say, cringing when I see how much dust I’ve rubbed all over his shirt and how many scratches are now on his car. “I guess we should go your way to Saturnia?”
He chuckles one last time and gets in the car. I follow suit.
“I’d follow you a lot of places,” he says with a lopsided grin, “but from now on, Saturnia’s directions are mine, okay?”
I couldn’t agree more.