“Thank you.” I’m grateful for the interruption. While the mile-high club has always been on my bucket list, mindless banter is the last thing that will take my mind off of the situation I just left.
Red and blue swirling lights.
The cold, unforgiving jail cell that smelled of piss and bad decisions.
The small courtroom and the sympathetic eyes of the judge as she passed her sentence.
It’s been the longest week of my life, and I can’t wait to get back to Seattle.
I take the plastic cup of ice and Bloody Mary mix first, set it down in front of me, then reach for the vodka shots. For the next few minutes, I sit in silence. I mix my drink, tip the cup against my lips, and let the spicy liquid glide down the back of my throat before sinking back into my seat with contentment.
Numbness is my goal. That’s the state I want to be in. Anything is better than reliving the past four days in my hometown of Dallas. It was where I grew up, physically and literally. It was where I met my best friend, who would, for some miraculous reason, take me under his wing and give me an opportunity I never deserved. And it was the home that never really felt like home to begin with.
I reach into my bag at my feet and pull out my camera to start flipping through the most recent photos, a habit when I’m lost in my thoughts. I tap through an entire series of pictures I took in the kitchen of a family friend who I stayed with in Dallas where I made an herb-roasted Cornish game hen with rice pilaf and pan jus.
Cooking is the number one love in my life, so much so that I need to photograph every detail of my finished meals in their most vulnerable form, with steam still billowing from the pan, plated, and in the midst of being decorated with fresh herbs and seasonings.
When I capture a photo, I need it to tell a story in a way that captures all the senses, as if the viewer can taste the meal on his tongue with just one look. I click through a few more photos, freezing on the money shot, the one I’ll edit, print, frame, and hang with the rest of my favorites in my cooking school’s kitchen back in Seattle.
“Did you take those?” the woman beside me asks.
I power off my camera and turn to her with a lift of my lids. My photos, for the most part, are private, like a journal, but I like to capture the food I create. “I did.” I respond to her slowly, hesitantly, unsure if I want her to dig deeper.
Her mouth parts like there’s something she wants to say about it, but instead she reaches for something safer. “Now I’m even more curious about you.” She narrows her eyes. “You obviously don’t want to tell me about where you came from. How about you tell me where you’re going instead?”
I laugh, a flicker of irritation sparking inside me—at myself, not the stranger sitting beside me. It’s gotten to the point that my discomfort about where I came from is so bad that I can’t even talk about it anymore. I wave my anxious thoughts away.
“I’m heading home to Seattle.” I toss her a look. “And you?”
Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Business. Maybe a little bit of pleasure too. We’ll have to see.” She eyes me curiously. “What is it you do?”
“I’m a chef.”
She leans back, an impressed look replacing her curious one. “That explains the photos.”
I’m not surprised by her reaction. Chicks dig a man who can cook. But I’ve found I only enjoy it when I’m at work, experimenting and teaching. When I’m at home alone, I stick with takeout and leftovers. In fact, I usually eat propped up in my man cave, watching sports. It’s simple. Simplicity dissolves when there are expectations. And women always come with expectations.
“That’s it?” she chides. “That’s all I get? What kind of chef are you? And for who?”
My eyebrows lift. “Why the interrogation? Maybe I didn’t say for a reason. Maybe I don’t want to tell you.”
She laughs, a full-on belly laugh revealing creases beside her eyes and a full set of pearly whites. “I happen to have an interest in your profession. I might dabble in the culinary field myself.”
“Is that so?” Her amusement triggers something in me. “Please don’t tell me you’re a food critic.”
There’s nothing that scares and excites me, in equal measure, more than a food critic poking around the cooking school where I teach.
She leans back with a challenge in her eyes. “And what is wrong with food critics? If it weren’t for those with exceptional palates and creative write-ups, some of the best mom-and-pop restaurants in the world would have gone out of business. It’s a competitive market, with restaurants on every busy corner. You want your food to stand out from the rest? Then you need someone like me on your side, shouting your unique offerings to the world. That is, unless you have none to show.”
My eyes go wide, suddenly forgetting everything I was trying to avoid on my long plane ride home. This conversation just got interesting. “You’re shitting me. You’re an actual food critic?”
She laughs and holds out her hand. Her diamond bracelet catches the weak overhead light. “Faye Montgomery. Pleased to meet you.”
Fuck, I think my heart just exploded all over my insides. “Faye Montgomery?” My eyes sweep over her body again, this time with an entirely new perspective. “As in, Five-Star Faye? I love that show.” I shake my head. “I didn’t recognize you.”
She shrugs, a satisfied smile playing on her face. “I’m not surprised. I don’t get much TV time. It’s about the food and who makes it. That’s what’s important. That’s what we showcase.” Leaning back, she folds her arms, which conveniently pushes up her chest. “So tell me about your restaurant.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, beautiful, but I don’t own a restaurant.”
Her eyes furrow in curiosity.
“My buddy and I own a cooking school. Well, he’s more like a silent partner. I teach, I certify, and I entertain.” I give her a wink, letting my pride for my business show. “We’re in a hot spot in downtown Seattle. Classes fill up months in advance. We’re accredited and growing our services. It’s been a huge success.”
Faye’s narrowed eyes show her skepticism. “Original recipes?”
It’s my turn to lean back and feel somewhat defensive. “All original. All food made from scratch. All ingredients picked up daily from the farmers market around the corner. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Interesting.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a black business card with gold writing. “You should call me.”
I raise my eyebrows, feeling a smirk pulling at my lips. “Call you?” I linger on the question, letting our flirtation brew just a little bit longer.
She rolls her eyes to bat me away. “Not that kind of call. Not yet anyway.” She doesn’t even blink through her forward comment. “I’d love to check out a class while I’m in town. Maybe your kitchen is a fit for the show.”
“You’re serious? You want to check out my food? I’ve seen your show. My place isn’t exactly the type of joint you review.”
She shrugs. “Maybe not. But we’re between seasons, and I’m looking for fresh ideas. I’m just interested in checking it out. If I hate it, I walk, and you’ll never see me again.”