Unlike the kitchen door that dumped you into stainless steel and abrasive busyness, the front French doors had a kind of magic that was rare and precious. Small square panes of mottled glass outlined in black paint were like the amuse-bouche, teasing and endearing all at once.
Once inside, you were immediately transported to a different world where waiters silently bustled back and forth in all black, contrasting vividly with the stark white linens and the softer white interior brick. Accents of green wrapped around the windows and dotted the tables in the small centerpieces. The lighting was rich and warm, continuing to appeal to the diner’s softer sense.
The hostess greeted us from behind a large podium she could barely see over. “Hey, Kaya.” She smiled.
“Hey, Erin.” She was a nice college-aged girl, studying to be a sports broadcaster. I only barely knew her, but she was a hard worker and didn’t start drama—hard to come by in the restaurant industry. I stepped up to her stand and wrapped my fingers around the edge of it. I dropped my voice some so my parents couldn’t hear me ask, “Someone called my mom to confirm reservations earlier?”
She scanned her reservations list. “What name would it be under?”
“Swift, I think? Or Dana.”
“Oh, here you are. Yep, it looks like Chef Shaw added you at the last minute.” She met my gaze. “Lucky. I’ve been trying to get my parents a res here for months.”
I smiled at her, but it wobbled. “This is the first time they’ve been in and I’ve been working here for years. Keep trying. You’ll get a reservation eventually.”
Like when you sleep with Wyatt. Or almost sleep with him—he’s super accommodating after some third base action.
She sighed, and I could already tell this was only a temporary gig for her. She wasn’t going to wait around years to squeeze in a reservation. We’d be lucky if she lasted the summer. “How many are in your party? All the reservation says is give you the best table. But I don’t know how many to set it for.”
If she didn’t know the particulars of our reservation then who had confirmed it earlier with my mom? Wyatt? Leaning forward, I scanned her paper from an upside-down angle, which meant I couldn’t read it at all. “It says that?”
She turned the list around for me and sure enough, in Wyatt’s slender, scratchy handwriting, it said, “Swift— best table.”
My stomach did a teeny somersault. I read it three more times to be sure I wasn’t somehow hallucinating, or my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me, forcing me to see what I wanted to see.
Wait. Did I want to see that?
I closed my eyes and I was back on the cold steel counter in the kitchen, Wyatt’s head between my legs, my sense of reality and common sense exploding into a million particles of light and fire.
God, what the hell, Wyatt? What were you doing to me?
“I can seat you when you’re ready,” Erin said softly, her eyes narrowed with concern.
Shifting my shoulders, I forced my brain to focus and stepped toward her. My parents followed as we made our way past blissed-out diners on the verge of food comas. I soaked in every second of this rare vantage point.
I didn’t hear from customers or reviewers or critics. As the mere sous chef, my name wasn’t attached to anything in the restaurant. Blogs didn’t rave about my talents with protein or sauce expertise. Yelp reviews didn’t recommend this restaurant because of what I could do with risotto or the genius way I served Brussel sprouts. All the accolades went to Wyatt. And Killian before him.
Still, I knew the plates on these tables were a team effort. And not thanks to me. There was an entire staff hanging out back of house, working, sweating, slaving away to create the most perfect dining experience possible.
These separate elements came together to create a full menu that was nothing short of a work of art. Each recipe was carefully crafted and endlessly finessed. And everything was a living, breathing organism that was constantly changed and tweaked and studied to make sure it was always the best version of itself. That the diners were always getting our most perfect end-result.
Those rabbit legs? They had to be braised for two hours prior to service to make the meat fall-off-the-bone tender and then pan-seared in duck fat at exactly four hundred degrees to lock in the juices. They had to be flipped exactly halfway through the sear to ensure a nice crispy texture on the entire outside.
That filet could only be flipped once, right near the end to make sure the grill marks were uniform on both sides. Flipping it too early would overcook it. Flipping it too late wouldn’t give both sides a chance to finish. And I made sure all my beef rested before I ever plated it.
We had only recently decided to add soft-boiled quail eggs to the asparagus. And the microgreens to add a fresh, springy taste to a tried and true favorite. Wyatt had perfected those two elements when he took over for Killian. The additions had blown the previous dish out of the water. The yolky eggs added richness to something familiar, and the microgreens added brightness and a burst of flavor to a dish that had been done and redone for years. The asparagus felt completely new now and so much better than before. Our diners flipped out over it.
Erin led us to a table in the center of the dining room, with a perfect view of the kitchen and the rest of the restaurant. It was the best table and I wondered how many other reservations she had to fight off to save it for us.
She handed out our menus and assured us that Kim would be over shortly to take our orders.
My dad leaned across the table and mouthed, “Wow!” It was all I needed to relax in my seat and finally let go of my fear. I didn’t even know what I was afraid of. Only that I was afraid. Wyatt and I had once been friends. And we’d once been enemies. I didn’t know what we were now.
Us.
Our.
We.
Him and I.
Together.
These words bounced around in my head, waiting for a solid definition. My brain wanted to give them boundaries and boxes and take away the fluttering in my chest that felt like so much more than a crush, lust, or anything I was ready for.
Our waitress, Kim, appeared. She was one of the pillars of Lilou. She’d worked here as long as any of us and could handle whatever the restaurant threw at her. She smiled at me, and I introduced her to my parents before ordering drinks for the table.
Darius, the bartender, and I were good enough friends that I knew his specialties and the favorites that Ezra had made him remove recently to fit in with the prohibition-era trend sweeping the country. Ezra wanted a list filled with new takes on gin fizzes and Old Fashioneds, Moscow Mules and French 75s. Darius was working on infusing jalapeno into tequila. He’d dip the glass in a cinnamon-cayenne-salt blend to make a spicy, sweet, delicious paloma that would blow minds and start beverage revolutions.
I ordered one for my dad, and a lemon, rhubarb gin thing for my mom.
For myself? Dirty martini. Also gin—preferably Irish Gunpowder if he had it. Extra dirty. Extra blue cheese stuffed green olives—like the good Lord intended.
What can I say? I liked a cold beer as much as the next girl, but in heels like these? I needed a drink James Bond would be proud of.
As soon as the drinks were dropped off at the table, I ordered appetizers from memory. I wanted my parents to get the most well-rounded experience possible. I also wanted them to have the meal of their life. I wanted them to see what I did and be impressed by it.
Knowing their taste, I ordered the smoked trout toast with avocado cream, the asparagus I’d just finished mentally raving about and the hand-rolled pistachio and saffron crème gnocchi.
I felt like standing up and mic dropping, but we hadn’t even gotten to second plates yet. I decided to hold back until they asked me to roll them out of the restaurant.
Kim smiled at the order and disappeared to put it into the computer.
“That’s so much food,” my mom complained. “Was that all just appetizers?”
“You don’t have to eat
everything,” I assured her. “I want you to try as much as possible. It will be worth it, I promise.” I shrugged, feeling like I needed to add, “Besides, it’s my treat.”
My dad’s brow furrowed immediately. “Oh, we can’t let you pay for—”
I waved him off. “It’s not a big deal. I want you to have the full Lilou experience.”
My mom’s shrewd eyes scanned over the menu again. “Maybe we can split something for the big meal.”
“Mom,” I groaned. “Please accept that I’m a big deal here. I’m not living paycheck to paycheck anymore.”
My parents stared at me, trying to pull hard facts from my ambiguous statement. Dad’s curiosity won out. “You’re really top of the food chain here?”
I smiled. I was. It wasn’t first place, but it was a damn good place to start. “I am. The one and only sous chef. I’m second in command in the kitchen.”
“Is it stressful, honey?”
They already knew my title and position, but until this moment, I didn’t think they understood exactly what that meant. It was a word without a definition until they’d seen it in a real-life setting. And they knew that I worked a lot and they probably could have assumed that my job was stressful. But I had never verbally admitted that part to them. I wanted them to get the message of how much I loved this career, this position. If you’d have asked them before tonight what my life was like? They would have come back with some version of rainbows and butterflies.
“So stressful,” I agreed. “But worth it. This is what I love. And I’m lucky I get to do it in one of the best kitchens on the planet. I don’t take that for granted.” Or I wouldn’t any longer. Starting now.
Thinking back to my ungrateful attitude over the past ten months, I wanted to hide my face in shame. I had taken my success for granted. I’d disregarded Wyatt’s trust in me and let my entitled attitude nearly ruin one of the best experiences in my life.
Dad looked at my mom. “We asked her to leave this for the diner.”
My mom sniffed the air, untouched by guilt or remorse. “I want her close to home. I’m not trying to take her dreams away from her.”
But that was exactly what she was asking me to give up. My dreams. My aspirations. My future. “There’s nothing for me in Hamilton, Mom. I belong here.”
Kim approached with two waiters from the kitchen carrying our appetizers, forcing us to drop the conversation until the first plates were set before us. My dad’s eyes widened in awe at the intricacy of each dish while my mom glared at each component as if it were personally responsible for keeping me away from her.
I started plating for them, letting the argument hang in the air for a few minutes. My parents were cultured, but they weren’t foodies. Besides, this food was fussy and took some explanation for even well-versed fanatics.
“Is this what you make?” my dad asked after he’d devoured his trout toast.
“Um, sometimes. It depends on the night and who else is working. I’m mainly responsible for proteins, by choice. But I’m the one that suggested pistachio for the gnocchi.”
“How’d you come up with that?” my dad asked, scraping his fork against the plate for any straggling crumbs.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s one of those things. I knew it would fit with the flavor profile and I felt the dish was missing an important crunch component.”
“It is impressive,” my mom conceded.
Kim came back to check on us and I put in the rest of our order. Our crispy pork belly served over creamy polenta with glazed carrots for my mom. The steak and frites for my dad—Kobe filet served with hand cut duck fat fries and charred broccoli. And I ordered the sweet pea tortellini for me. The tortellini was my favorite dish on the whole menu and one Wyatt made himself. I quickly added the swordfish curry—at least Wyatt’s take on curry—over lentils and root vegetables to share.
“Kaya, that’s too much,” my mom chastised for the second time after Kim had walked way again.
I smiled patiently at her. “You don’t have to eat it all. But I promise you’ll thank me later.”
Her eyes dropped to my midsection. “I thought maybe you’d given up yoga, but now I understand.”
Used to her passive aggressive cruelty, I changed the subject without acknowledging her dig. “How’s Claire? Is she excited for summer?”
My mom’s entire face lit up at the mention of my younger sister. “She loves her class this year, but she’s looking forward to the break. She works so hard, you know? Those kids give her a run for her money.”
I restrained an eyeroll. My poor sister that had to work normal hours every week and got summers and major holidays off. Not to mention all those paid teacher work days.
Guilt immediately kicked me low in the gut. That wasn’t fair to teachers. I knew they worked hard—harder than most. And my sister loved her students, pouring every bit of herself into their little lives.
But the scales were skewed at my house. Claire was revered for how hard she worked, while I was pitied because I had no social life. Maybe it was that Claire had achieved better life balance and I was jealous of her summer breaks. I mean who wouldn’t be? Or maybe it was my parents’ refusal to pay attention to what I did while Claire was worshiped, but either way, I knew my resentment for Claire was unhealthy. Borderline insane. Claire was wonderful. And we genuinely got along. I had a frustrating amount of misplaced resentment for my parents.
“She’s planning to visit you for a few weeks,” my dad added.
“Huh?”
“Claire,” he said slower. “She misses you. She told us she’s going to spend a few weeks with you this summer.”
“She hasn’t said anything to me,” I told them.
They shrugged. They didn’t care what I thought. If Claire wanted to spend time with me she would. I didn’t get a say.
“Our air conditioner needed new filters last week,” my mom said, changing the subject in a weird direction.
I didn’t know what to say to that or why she was telling me about her air conditioner, so I nodded and mumbled, “Oh yeah?”
“I had to run into town to buy them. Your father wrote down what I needed, but you know what his handwriting is like. I got to the store and couldn’t for the life of me figure out what he’d asked for. I got him to send me a picture of it though.” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, demonstrating her exasperation. “Although I still couldn’t find what he needed.”
At her pause, I tried to sound sympathetic. “That must have been frustrating for you, Mom.”
She looked at me and reached out to squeeze my hand as if my sympathy meant the world to her. I nibbled on my lip ring to hide my smile. I pictured her harping on my dad all week about his negligence while he ignored her to watch golf.
“It was,” she said. “Thank you for acknowledging my feelings, Kaya.”
I smiled at her again.
“Anyway, while I was wandering around the hardware store, you’ll never guess who I ran into.”
Oh, man, I had a guess and I wanted to keep it to myself but—
She lifted her hands in excitement and exclaimed, “Nolan! Can you believe it, Kaya? He was right there. Right when I needed him the most.”
Swallowing back the sarcastic way I wanted to ask her why air conditioning filters were the things she needed most in the world, I said, “It’s not that hard to believe. I mean, he does live a block away from the hardware store.”
My mother’s smile pinched. “He was so kind,” she added. “He found me exactly what I was looking for.”
“Oh, thank God. I was so worried about the air conditioner.”
“Kaya…” my dad warned.
My mom ignored me, her tone turning smug with juicy news. “He asked about you, Kaya Camille.”
It was my turn to glare at the overhead lighting. “Of course, he did. I’m the only thing you two have in common. He was grasping for straws trying to make conversation with you.”
“That’s what I
said,” my dad grunted. He took an angry sip of his cocktail and I appreciated him more than I ever had in my life.
He had only barely tolerated Nolan. My mother on the other hand… was his biggest fan. President of the Nolan Carstark fan club. She’d probably make t-shirts if Dad let her.
Mom leaned forward, her eyes alight with the information bomb she was about to drop. “He wants to know when you’re coming back to town. He said he misses you.”
I held my mother’s sharp gaze, resisting the eye roll I desperately wanted to unleash because I needed her to take me seriously. “Mom, I know two things about Nolan. And this might be disappointing, but I feel like you need to hear them anyway. One, he doesn’t miss me. Maybe in the generic sense of the word because we share a collection of good, youthful memories together. But he doesn’t miss me. Not really. And I know this because the only time I ever hear from Nolan is after he’s three sheets to the wind and had meaningless sex with a random female whose name he can’t remember. That’s when he tells me he wishes I would move home and marry him. When he needs a name to remember to assuage his guilt.”
“He’s said he wants to marry you? He’s said those words exactly?” My mother’s selective hearing was astounding. Like, legitimately something medical science should study.
“Two.” I held up correlating fingers, choosing not to respond to her temporary psychosis. “Even if I did leave my job here, pack up my life and move back to Hamilton, he would only break my heart again. He’s the same kid I graduated with nine years ago. He wants nothing to do with commitment or a wife that has opinions or a mind of her own. And he’d just drag out our engagement for another hundred years because, no matter what he’s led you to believe, he isn’t ready to settle down.”
Her eyes narrowed, her mouth flatlining. “He said he misses you, Kaya, that means something.”
I shook my head. “He doesn’t. He misses a girlfriend that loved him. He misses not feeling guilty every time he gets laid. He misses having someone there to tell him he’s amazing and help him match his ties to his shirts. He doesn’t miss me.” I let out a slow breath and tried my best to shield my fragile heart from the next truth she needed to hear. “He’s a narcissist, Mom. He loves himself. He doesn’t love me. He’s never loved me.”