The Allure of Dean Harper

by R.S. Grey

  …

  Lily had walked out of my life the week before and I’d gotten more work done in those seven days than I had in months. I’d worked late every night and I’d have continued on like that forever, but the James Beard Awards wasn’t an event to skip. Every top chef, restaurateur, food critic, and journalist was in attendance, crammed into small red velvet seats awaiting the moment when the awards ceremony gave way to the cocktail hour. We’d all stand around for an hour or two ass-kissing the hell out of anyone we could manage to snag a minute with, but hopefully I’d be wearing a James Beard medal around my neck as I did it.

  We’d already suffered through most of the awards, shit like Outstanding Baker and Outstanding Wine Program. I fidgeted in my seat and ignored the two guests seated beside me. According to the program, my award was next, and suddenly it was impossible to sit still.

  A beautiful woman with dark, exotic features stepped out onto the stage to announce the nominees. I vaguely recognized her from a cooking show, but there were too many to keep track of to know for sure. She stood behind the mic with a gold-leafed envelope clutched beneath her bright red nails.

  “The nominees for the James Beard Award for Outstanding Restaurateur are three individuals that each have a finger on the pulse of American cuisine. These three nominees have set high national standards in restaurant operations and entrepreneurship.”

  I straightened my bowtie and leaned forward in my seat. I knew the cameramen would flash my face across the giant screens flanking the stage, but I didn’t paste on a fake smile. I was too focused on the announcer’s words.

  “Our first nominee is Rob Villarreal. Rob has opened countless successful restaurants in the heart of Seattle. His restaurants are youthful and full of the spirit of the city.”

  Rob Villareal had invested in Starbucks early and used his money to open shitty restaurants. If he won, I’d never drink Starbucks again.

  “Our second nominee, Victor Keller, has established himself as the restaurant god of Las Vegas. He operates five restaurants along the Strip, one of which, La Viva, has placed in the top 50 restaurants in the world three years in a row.”

  Victor Keller was a hack. He had his nose so far up the ass of the restaurant world it was a wonder he hadn’t shown up at the awards with pink eye.

  “Our final nominee, Dean Harper is an up-and-coming restaurateur, making his mark in New York City one inventive restaurant at a time. In a climate where most restaurants rely on stifling traditions or flashy gimmicks, he focuses on fresh, innovative flavors and contemporary designs to set his restaurants apart from the competition.”

  My heart was beating out of my chest as she ripped open that envelope. I wanted to grip someone’s hand, but the Asian mom to my left was staring down at her program, and the man to my right was too busy checking his iPhone to notice my nerves.

  “And the winner of the James Beard Award for Outstanding Restaurateur goes to…” She smiled and paused to make eye contact with the audience. I was going to have a heart attack if she didn’t say the name soon. “Dean Harper! The youngest winner of the Outstanding Restaurateur award in history!”

  I blinked.

  And blinked again.

  I squeezed my hands into fists and sat frozen.

  The camera zoomed in on my face so that everyone in the opera house got an up-close view of my wide eyes. I was stunned and there was no one to push me up out of my seat or kiss my cheek as I made my way to the stage.

  I stood and slipped past the attendees in my row. A few of them clapped me on the shoulder, but no one offered actual words of encouragement. I walked up the stairs on the side of the stage and was met by a young man waiting to put the heavy silver medal around my neck. My hands shook and my brow beaded with sweat as the magnitude of the achievement set in. I was the youngest winner of the award. I am the youngest, most successful restaurateur in the United States. I swallowed down that lump of success. The award was everything I’d worked toward since leaving my family in Iowa. It was the pinnacle of success and as I bent down to let the young man slip the medal around my neck, I stared down at the black stage and focused on the one emotion overpowering all the others: regret.

  I cleared my throat and spoke into the mic, squinting at the glare of the lights beaming down on me.

  “This award is a recognition of culinary accomplishment, not speechmaking ability, so I’ll keep this short.”

  The crowd laughed good-naturedly.

  “I never thought I’d find great success in a market like New York City. I fought tooth and nail for the top chefs and the best people. In the end, I look back on those long nights and lost weekends and I can honestly say…”

  I paused and looked down at my medal, glowing in the opera house lights, and I felt my voice start to quake. I tried to clear my throat again. “I can honestly say…”

  It wasn’t worth it.

  None of it was worth it.

  I took a step back, met the crowd’s gaze, and left my sentence hanging. “Thank you.”

  The crowd didn’t clap right away; they were waiting for the second half of my sentence, but it never came. Eventually, after a long pause, the orchestra started playing and the opera house welled with light, happy music. I turned and let the presenter usher me backstage. She was busy congratulating me and gushing about how excited I must feel. I wanted to shake off the grip she had on my shoulder. I wanted her to leave me be so I could have one second to realize that where I should have felt absolute happiness, I only felt sorrow. It felt like I’d been punched in the stomach and the feeling wasn’t fading.

  The threat of tears forced me to the bathroom back stage. I played it off like I was overwhelmed with the award and no one bothered me. No one thought twice about the emotional man with his shiny-ass medal and his rapidly closing throat.

  I propped my hands on the bathroom counter and the medal clanged against the granite. None of it made sense. The out-of-control feeling I’d had the last night I was with Lily was supposed to have disappeared the moment I pushed her out of my life. The idea was simple: I’d felt like I was in the driver's seat before her, so once I pushed her away and she was gone, I’d regain that control.

  “Crazy feeling, isn’t it?”

  I looked up to see an older man in a fitted tuxedo washing his hands in the sink beside me. He also wore a James Beard medal around his neck and I recognized him as the winner of the Outstanding Chef award.

  “Yeah, crazy.”

  He smiled.

  “Family here tonight?” I asked.

  His brow furrowed for a moment and then he met my gaze in the mirror. “No. They stayed behind in England when I moved to the States for work a few years ago.”

  “Don’t you miss them?”

  “I’m sure you understand better than anyone,” he replied. “The culinary world is not a field for those who want a picket fence and two and a half kids. We work nights and weekends and our days are spent dreaming up the next great idea. There’s not time for much else.”

  He smiled as if he was proud of the man he was, the man who would leave his family to pursue his own selfish dreams. I’d thought I wanted to be a man like him, but my life wouldn’t be wasted in the back offices of a bustling restaurant.

  Not any more.

  When I walked out of the bathroom a few minutes later, I felt lighter than I had in years. I’d left the weight of the medal on the bathroom sink, and the weight of former dreams alongside it.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Lily

  I had too much pride to call Dean, but I loved him enough to con my way into his dumb awards ceremony. I leaned against the back wall, out of everyone’s way as the skinny bitch on stage read through the descriptions for the three nominees. I thought she smiled extra wide as she read off Dean’s accomplishments, but I was too far away to know for sure. With a flick of her wrist, she tore into the envelope and I held my breath. I wanted him to win. I hated him with every bone in my body, but I wanted him to
win.

  “Dean Harper! The youngest winner of the Outstanding Restaurateur award in history!”

  He was so shocked and so handsome and so alone as he took that stage. My heart sank as he gripped the medal in his hand. He should have been elated, but his voice sounded flat over the mic¸ like he was reading off a farewell speech at a funeral. I nibbled on my bottom lip. I didn’t want to be right about what I’d told Dean—that he was alone, that no one would be there to congratulate him or hold his hand. I’d yelled that at him during a moment of fury, but now my words were coming true. Dean had no one to congratulate him. No one that mattered.

  He offered the crowd a small, tight smile and then walked off stage after the shortest speech of the night. The pretty announcer trailed after him, trying to keep up with his quick pace. He disappeared behind the stage and I moved to follow after him. I was in a floor-length gown I’d borrowed from Jo, and I’d spared the time to do my hair and makeup. No one batted an eyelash at me as I swept the curtain aside and stepped into the depths of the opera house. The belly of the building was nothing compared to the ornate detailing in the auditorium. Backstage consisted of a narrow black hallway branching off to separate rooms every few feet. One sign pointed me in the direction of the stage and another directed me to a women’s changing room. I passed a few nondescript black doors and then I heard Dean’s voice over the sound of running water.

  Another voice seeped through the door, but I couldn’t make out the conversation. I pushed my ear to the door and tried in vain to hear through the thick wood. It was no use—unless, of course, they were actually saying “geri hrjt hempjrh ggfffnj.” In which case, I could hear them perfectly.

  A moment later, the water cut off and footsteps echoed on the other side of the door. The handle turned and the door swung out. I jumped, swiveled, and tried to flatten my body against the wall like a pancake, but the door came straight for me. I held my foot out and caught it just before it broke my face.

  Dean’s cologne hit me first, rolling a wave of nostalgia over me. The last night I’d slept with him, he’d pinned me to his bed with his face pressed to the crook of my neck. We were so close it was suffocating and I’d inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the scent of him until it overwhelmed me. Maybe if I’d known that would be my last night in his bed, I would have breathed in a little deeper, tried to fill my lungs until they burned.

  His profile slipped past me and I caught sight of his strong jaw, straight nose, and furrowed brows. He was a vision in his black tuxedo. His broad shoulders filled out the jacket and his black pants tapered down his long legs.

  He didn’t see me as he passed. He was already halfway down the hallway by the time the door fell closed with a heavy thud.

  It was a few minutes later, as I told myself I had to move, that I realized his chest had been bare.

  He’d left the medal in the bathroom.

  Why?

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  From: Dean Harper

  To: Lily Black, Julian Lefray, Zoe Davis

  Subject: Ivy & Wine

  Seems Hunter retired from the restaurant world for good. I put in an offer on the building where he was planning to open Ivy & Wine. The construction team is already halfway through building the restaurant we designed. Maybe we should send him a thank you basket?

  D. Harper

  From: Julian Lefray

  To: Lily Black, Dean Harper, Zoe Davis

  Subject: Re: Ivy & Wine

  Wow. Lily’s plan actually worked. And all it took was turning my girlfriend into an escort! ;)

  -J

  From: Zoe Davis

  To: Lily Black, Dean Harper, Julian Lefray

  Subject: Re: Re: Ivy & Wine

  I just went by the building!!!! Hunter actually ended up helping us a ton. That space will be finished in a few months. If we buckle down we could open early next year.

  Zoe

  From: Dean Harper

  To: Lily Black, Julian Lefray, Zoe Davis

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Ivy & Wine

  Is everyone available to meet this week? I have a list two miles long of shit we need to get done.

  D. Harper

  From: Lily Black

  To: Julian Lefray, Zoe Davis, Dean Harper

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Ivy & Wine

  Glad we got the space. I’m under the weather, so could someone take notes and email me what y’all discuss at the meeting? Thanks.

  -Lily Black

  …

  Lily

  “Pretending you’re sick so you don’t have to see Dean will only work for a few days,” Josephine said as she pushed off the back of the futon. I slammed my laptop closed and shot her a glare.

  “Jeez. Snoop much?”

  She shrugged and went back to the kitchen, where she was halfway finished making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Apparently my typing had distracted her from her lunch.

  “Julian says Dean is—”

  I held up my hand to silence her. “I don’t care what Julian says Dean is. I don’t care if Dean is dating Miley Cyrus or jumping off skyscrapers because he wants to win me back. I. Don’t. Care.”

  She smirked and eyed me over the jar of peanut butter. “I don’t think suicide is the best avenue for regaining your affection. It’s kind of counterproductive, don’t you think?”

  I groaned and slid down so I could shove my head beneath the pillows. “Please stop talking about Dean! Do I need to remind you about the Dean Jar again?”

  She laughed and I knew she was glancing over at the giant empty cheese puff container I’d labeled “DEAN JAR” a few days ago. It worked like a swear jar:

  $1: Referring to the likeness of Dean in a way.

  $2: Discussing Dean in this apartment.

  $5: Making me watch a TV show with an actor who looks remotely like Dean. Examples include: Men with blond hair. Men who wear suits. Men who live in New York City. Men who are lovable in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way.

  $1,000,000: Saying shit like “Let me set you up with someone.” I don’t want to date. I want to stab someone. If you set me up with a man, I will stab him. His blood will be on your hands.

  I was planning on using the money raised to buy a swimming pool full of ice cream.

  “I see you added a new one to the list today,” she said, walking around the futon and pushing my legs aside so that she could sit down.

  $0.50: Using words that start with the letter “D”.

  “Yes and you’ve already broken it quite a few times,” I groaned, reaching for her purse. “It’s not that hard, Jo.”

  “You don’t think you’re asking a little too much of me?”

  “Jo, I don’t expect you to understand. You’re basically living out a Lifetime movie with Julian. You live in a magical fairy world where real problems don’t exist.”

  “That’s not true. Just this morning, a bug flew up my nose as I was walking to work.”

  “Did you just make that up?”

  “Want a bite of my sandwich?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Yeah.”

  “Should I just shove it under the pillow and assume you’ll find it?”

  “Yeah.”

  I chewed on a bite of the sandwich she slipped under the pillow for me. It was soft and simple and reminded me of my childhood. After slipping me another bite, Jo spoke up. “Are you still wearing his medal?”

  The futon’s cushion pressed the cold medal against my chest. It was heavy and unwieldy and I wore it every day, like an albatross. I’d nabbed it from the opera house bathroom with the intention of giving it back to him—surely, he hadn’t meant to leave it behind—but then I’d slipped it around my neck and the weight had felt good. The medal represented everything Dean had struggled for in life and when I wore it, I pretended that included me.

  “I’m not not wearing his medal, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Lil, we need to set you up with someone already, just to get you focused o
n someone new.”

  “YES!” I cried.

  “Really? You want me to find someone?”

  “Of course not, but I can finally afford my pool!”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Dean

  Julian and I were halfway through a Saturday morning bike ride when his phone rang. He waved me over to the side of the road. We hopped up onto the sidewalk and I pulled out my water bottle, guzzling down half of it while he spoke on the phone.

  “Yeah, I can be there in a second,” he said. “I’m actually biking right by your place now.”

  He flashed me an apologetic smile, but I shrugged him off. If it weren’t for Julian, I’d have been working my way through a pile of building plans.

  “We need to pause the ride?” I asked as he hung up.

  He nodded. “Josephine wants me to come take a look at their dishwasher before she calls in a maintenance request.”

  I smirked. “You ever fix a dishwasher before?”

  He laughed and hopped back onto his bike. “Never. My plan is to bang on it a few times and then tell her to call in the request.”

  I shook my head and pulled out onto the road after him. He stood and pedaled fast to set our pace and I raced after him, appreciating the lack of weekday traffic. By the time we reached Josephine’s apartment complex, my legs were on fire.

  I locked my bike up beside Julian’s and thought of Lily. It was a maddening game, trying to convince myself that she and I were over. I knew I’d ruined it. It’d taken so long to peel back her stubborn, annoying, controlling layers so that I could catch even a single glimpse of her vulnerable side, and in that same night, I’d taken whatever measly amount of trust I’d earned and tossed it out the window.