by S. A. Wolfe
The musicians play throughout the meal, and when we finish the desserts and the cheese plate, Adam dismisses them. They pack all their instruments into the trunk of a fairly small car, and when they get in the car and drive away, it makes me think of circus clowns packed in a tiny car. Now it’s just the two of us.
Adam looks very handsome, even more so in the orange hues from the sunset. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I’m eager at the prospect of being alone with him here, unlike being alone with him when I’m working as his chef.
“More wine?” he asks, holding up an unopened bottle of claret.
I shake my head.
He stands and reaches his hand across the table to me. I take it and stand, too.
“Let’s stretch our legs and take a walk.”
Holding his hand, I step around the table closer to him. We both stop and look at each other, experiencing the final buildup from all those moments together in his kitchen, wondering if there could be more than talking. Adam doesn’t waste this chance.
With his free hand, he gently wraps it around the back of my neck and pulls me in for a kiss. His lips are firm but tender. I’m elated that he’s finally kissing me, but then something malfunctions. My brain must have missed a signal, because I’m waiting for my body to catch up with my racy thoughts. I respond to the kiss, trying to be an active participant, but nothing seems to come naturally. I must have fried my brain circuitry overthinking this for so long that now I’m ruining the kiss.
This is work! I’m thinking about each step like a checklist. Lips. Tongue. Grope. Touch. Lips. God, no, this can’t be happening.
He deepens the kiss, and I want to reciprocate, but I feel wooden, like this is one-sided. Adam is doing all the kissing, and I’m just standing there, moving my lips like a robot. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing, because he becomes a bit more aggressive, and it gets to the point where our kissing starts to feel like we’re attacking each other.
We stop. Thank God.
How could this not work with Adam? I feel stupid that I failed at kissing him, at seduction with this incredible man.
I look at the ground. I can’t meet his eyes.
“Oh,” Adam utters. “Shit.”
I look up at him, dreading this.
“You didn’t feel anything,” he says.
“It was a nice kiss.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say. If it doesn’t make you lose your mind, it’s not a kiss worth having.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t … We didn’t have those chemical things.” I motion with my arms in a circle like I’m imitating a blender.
“We didn’t have any chemistry with that kiss.” He sighs. He worked so hard to create the perfect date, and I’m the part that fizzled.
“I tried. We were trying so hard.”
Adam barks a laugh. “I’m sorry, but the way you said that was funny.”
I relax and smile, too. “I hear that a lot.”
“I’m really surprised. I assumed this would be easy and perfect with you.”
“I thought the same thing. We have this—something—between us.” I motion with my arms again like it’s an actual thing, and it makes him laugh more. “No, really, there was something between us whenever we saw each other.”
“There was. There is. But it’s not there now. Not after I kissed you. That kiss didn’t do anything for you, did it?”
“No,” I admit reluctantly. “I don’t think it was the biggest turn-on for you either.”
“Oh, I thought I was turned on until I realized the fire went out. I don’t understand what happened. We’ve been dancing around this for a while. Every time I was around you, there were these little fireworks, like we were building up to something big. What the hell happened?”
“I think I’m your safe choice, not what you really want.”
His smile turns into a frown. “How so?”
“You came to Hera and bought your own castle, and you’re looking for a woman who is more like Hera than Manhattan.”
He studies me.
“Think about it,” I say. “The type of woman you want … she’s independent and has her own goals, and she’s someone you’re so comfortable with that you enjoy her company. You thought that woman was me because I feed you. I remind you of something good and safe, and when we’re together, it feels natural and easy. We both mistook it for something more than friendship.”
“Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
“In theory, this should have worked. You’re perfect for me in so many ways. You’re smart and charming, and I could talk to you for hours. And you’re so handsome!”
He chuckles. “You don’t have to let me down easy.”
I shrug. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Guess I’m no substitute for Peyton. It was dumb of me to think I could swoop in and steal you.”
I’m surprised he even considered Peyton as competition.
I’m humbled by his honesty, and he’s right. I did think he’d be the guy to make me forget about Peyton.
“So Peyton is the lucky guy.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. I’ve seen what passes between you two. I thought I could break it.”
“I’m not with Peyton.”
Adam looks at me quizzically. “I’m used to dating any woman I’m interested in. That makes me sound like a complete jackass, but the truth is that a lot of women do fall for the superficial aspects of my life. My money, my high profile. I’ve always used that to my advantage in dating. I’m ready for something more, and when I met you, I knew you were different than the other women I’ve been with.”
“I am different than the women you date. I don’t come from the world of finance. I usually wear steel-toed work boots, not heels. And I’ve been told my English sucks. Don’t worry; you’re going to find the right woman, and you’re going to have all those … chemical … things.”
Adam gives another hearty laugh.
“Chemistry!” I shout over his laughing. “You’re going to have explosive chemistry with the right woman.”
“You think so? Will I find her in Hera? Because I’m tired of the New York social scene.”
“My crystal ball is broken. Obviously, look at me. You shouldn’t worry, though. She’s going to be the one who loves being in that big house with you. You’ll have those long talks and both forget about work because all you’ll care about is being with each other. You’ll both be madly in love in your very own modern castle. That’s how it’s supposed to work. That’s the real-life fairy tale.”
“This is good to know. I’ll be on the lookout for her.”
“Do you want Aleska to start bringing your meals to the house so it isn’t weird being around me?”
“No. That’s absurd. I still want to see you. We’re friends, right? I look forward to those nights when I get a great meal and good conversation with you.”
“Good. And when you meet Miss Right and she starts staying at your house, I’m going to have to double your fees since I’ll be cooking for two.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
• • •
Another night of misery. I only fall asleep these days after exhaustive crying. Tears soak my sheets as I bury my head in my pillow.
Peyton is in Los Angeles, but every reminder of him is all around me. I can taste and smell him in the air. My memory is playing tricks on me, hurting me so I feel the pain of separation from him.
“What can I do?” my mother asks from my bedroom doorway.
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. My face feels swollen and heavy, the tight puffiness that comes with too much crying. I can’t see through my soggy lashes. My mother is nothing but a blurry image.
“I was so wrong.” I fumble with the tissue box on my nightstand. The empty box falls to the floor.
“We often are.”
“I’ve been duplicitous, carrying on with Peyton an
d pursuing Adam at the same time, and now I’m paying the price.”
“No, honey, you’re not being punished. I should have said something when I saw what was happening between you and Peyton. You were both falling in love, and I don’t know why, but you seemed to be in denial about the whole thing. What can I do to help?”
“There’s nothing you can do. I let myself fall for Peyton. He’s just another man who’s all tied up in himself. I always find the man who is the most difficult in every way. There is something fundamentally wrong with me.”
“I don’t think we choose who we love. You didn’t love Marko. Not really. You thought it was more important to be with someone—even if that someone was wrong for you—rather than face life’s challenges on your own. You and I are alike in that way, but I’ve changed. So have you. We’re stronger. We’re better than before.”
“I don’t feel stronger or better. I feel awful. Like something in me has died.”
I have two hearts, and they both betrayed me before. The heart that keeps my blood pumping needed to be repaired, and I thought it would kill me. The heart that’s supposed to fill me with love led me to an impossible love, and it, too, feels like it will kill me.
I love Peyton. It’s not incremental based on a single scenario I’ve experienced with him. It’s an all-encompassing love. There’s not a part of him I don’t love. If only I could find a nugget of hatred or resentment to carry me through this heartache, this broken heart. But I can’t. There’s not an ounce of animosity. Just undying love.
Stupid, hideous love.
Peyton
AFTER LEAVING TETERBORO AIRPORT in New Jersey, we are soon entranced with the endless trays of food and cocktails pushed on us. Flying courtesy of Danny Bourdain involves a complete kitchen staff with a gourmet chef and servers anticipating your every need as you sink back into the plush surroundings that make you forget you’re on a personal jet.
When he isn’t drilling the pilots with questions, Finn is curled up in a king-size, leather seat, playing computer games and watching movies. The flight attendants dote on him with sweet and salty treats. It makes me uneasy. I don’t want him to get used to this.
Is this who I am? The man who wants all of these luxuries? I definitely don’t want my son to expect his life to be this easy.
Harmony sits in another seating area, reading biomedical research papers and other work-related documents. Occasionally, she glances my way with one of her pointed eye rolls when some decadent tray of caviar is passed around, or a bottle of 1986 Chateau Margaux is uncorked for us.
I sit with Merrick, Danny Bourdain’s second-in-command, the brains behind the whole business enterprise. Danny is the famous French-American chef and face of his chain of restaurants, and Merrick is the soft-spoken, behind-the-scenes CFO who likes organization and efficiency and who knows how to turn profits.
Many people compare me to Danny—either it’s our personalities, our ability to talk to everyone, or the attention I’m getting as a young restaurateur on the rise. But I would argue that I’m more like Merrick, except a little louder. Like him, I pay attention to detail, and I know every employee by name and their weaknesses and strengths in a restaurant. I want Danny’s success, but living large, owning homes in several countries, flying on personal jets, and dating a revolving door of women are things that don’t appeal to me.
When we land in Los Angeles, an SUV limo chauffeurs us to Danny’s main home in Malibu, where he’s waiting to make me an offer I can’t possibly refuse, as he put it. When someone as famous as Danny Bourdain goes out of their way to court you, it’s impossible not to be flattered, but the devil’s advocate on my shoulder remarks on all the decadent waste.
My personal devil must be talking to Talia on a regular basis, because I keep feeling a slight repulsion and disappointment at how much money is being spent to entertain me and to amuse the Bourdain-Torrance Enterprise executives.
At Danny’s lavish Malibu home, which was recently featured in Architectural Digest, Danny himself greets us at the car. He’s barefoot and dressed in loose-fitting, linen pants and a simple, cotton T-shirt. In his late fifties, with his wet hair slicked back, he looks like a very fit surfer. Then he tells us he actually spent the morning surfing with his kids. So maybe there is a part of his life I would like—having more time with my kid.
Danny’s three daughters, ranging in age from ten to seventeen, take Finn under their wing. They gear him up in a wetsuit and outfit him with a surfboard, after trying to determine which size to start him with, and then they march down to the beach, a mere fifteen steps from the deck off the back of the house. We’re assured Finn is in good hands. Danny’s children are all experienced swimmers and competitive surfers. Nevertheless, Harmony stands watch on the deck with a flute of some fresh fruit and alcohol-infused concoction someone from the household staff hands her.
Danny takes me and Merrick to his private library on the second floor that overlooks the Pacific with a 180-degree view. My son’s red wetsuit is visible in the distance. He’s clinging to a surfboard after falling off. I relax a bit and take in the comfortable surroundings of Danny’s personal room.
Unlike the rest of the house, which is modern minimalist that screams money, his library is wall-to-wall bookcases mixed in with expensive art and Danny’s awards. Worn leather couches and oversize armchairs, restaurant and wine magazines tossed everywhere, and a general ambience of lazy comfort.
Danny notices me slowly taking in all the accoutrements. Candid shots of his children and ex-wife are everywhere, too. I know his ex-wife lives down the street in her own ostentatious home, but she and Danny remain close and have family dinners with the kids at least twice a week.
It was clever to bring me to his home first rather than going straight to the hotel. Danny wants to give me a taste of what I could have. He’s showing me that, in any business, we project what we sell, the image or persona needed for the face of the company. The lifestyle and the appearances in the media don’t mean I can’t carve out my own private place where I can be myself and not the showman.
I wonder if I could have the same set-up with Harmony living nearby, or would she expect us all to live in the same house, convinced it’s best for Finn? Our conversations have gotten as far as agreeing we need to support each other’s careers, and we need to be more than civil for Finn’s sake. We are working on friendship, but we haven’t delved into the deeper logistics of living arrangements. It starts to complicate things, and although I’m entertaining the idea of having us all live in one big, platonic house for practical reasons, when do the lines get blurred? Can Harmony and I walk freely around the house in our underwear without confusing Finn? Is he going to think his parents are eventually going to get married? And what if we blow it, drink too much one evening, and decide a quick hop in the sack won’t hurt? Of course, I don’t want that to happen, but I’m also still reeling from losing Talia. Who knows what dumbass thing I will do, thinking it will distract me from missing her? I can easily imagine all the different ways I can screw this up.
“It’s a pretty great place to raise a family,” Merrick says before taking a swig of scotch.
I like that about him. He’s direct; no pretense. He has enough money for him and his future generations to retire today, but he likes working and likes wearing jeans and a basic, white dress shirt that says he probably shops online and doesn’t have a personal shopper in New York or Milan on standby. I think Merrick is whom I always wanted to be. I just didn’t know it until I met him in person.
• • •
After three days of touring all of Bourdain-Torrance’s Los Angeles restaurant operations and inspecting new land and building acquisitions I would oversee for development, I’m sold.
It’s light years away from Hera. The land, the air, the people are so different here. The separation is palpable, made worse because of Talia. If only that small-town woman had no effect on me. If only I had never gotten to know her. If only she didn’t
exist.
That little fucking devil lurking underneath my conscience tells me I’m too weak to be like Merrick or aspire to Danny Bourdain’s success as long as I pine for Talia. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Putting thousands of miles between us and restructuring my life with a more stressful career and a ready-made family isn’t lessening the mild torture I feel from missing her.
While I visit the restaurants and meet with other principals in the company, Harmony and Finn are given the white-glove treatment with a personal chauffeur and a realtor who works for the company. They tour a half-dozen homes for sale in various neighborhoods and in different price ranges, depending on proximity to the ocean or the sections Harmony selected from her online research. Everything is in the seven figures, but I’m not concerned since Merrick and Danny boosted my generous salary and annual bonus package with a housing bonus that would be paid up front.
They’re pretty much throwing money at me to make me say yes. I’m not sure how I got to be so lucky to be the chosen one, to be targeted and courted by Danny when there are plenty of other people out there like me who are just as driven and experienced, yet young enough to be pliable and molded into Danny’s protégé. I like to think I’m actually talented in this business, and I’ve paid my dues and worked my way up doing the grunt work. My own restaurants show my ability to manage a business and recognize talent and customers.
A sour feeling tells me it’s not at all what I think. An offhand whisper from Merrick one day—“like a son to Danny”—sticks with me. I know from years of following Danny’s career that his first child, a son, died at the age of twenty after battling bone cancer for three years. Maybe I’m his replacement son. Maybe I do represent the idealized version of Danny himself and who he thought his son would have grown up to be if he hadn’t been dealt a lousy hand of terminal illness. I don’t know whether to feel special for being taken in with open arms and given carte blanche to Danny’s world, or if I’m more than slightly concerned that I’m feeding into Danny’s illusions. The old me wouldn’t care about why. He’d grab the holy grail with both hands and embrace the opportunity. The me today has more questions. Not necessarily about Danny’s business offer, which is solid, but about myself.
