Home Skillet

by Sandra Damien

  I shrugged. “You gotta go.”

  “You can’t actually be serious.” He looked down at his erection, which had flagged a little, understandably.

  “Yeah. Sorry, man. Something came up.”

  He scrambled to his feet and pulled his clothes on as fast as possible. He was dressed and halfway out the door in two minutes flat as I stood watching him awkwardly.

  “See ya Monday,” I offered.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Didn’t I know it?

  It’d been an hour since Jimmy had called, and I was getting more annoyed by the minute. I hated that I was this person—the guy who jumped up and tossed everything else aside the minute that one person phoned. But I was. I was so that guy.

  I knew something was way off as soon as I heard the flatness to his voice, the hollowness that was so unlike the exuberant and confident guy I’d known half my life. And though he was my friend, a part of me knew I shouldn’t have dropped everything for him just because he’d called. But I did. I always did, because I was hopelessly in love with him. Pathetically, completely in love with him.

  Even still, even with how much I wanted him, the fact that he hadn’t bothered with me in weeks pissed me off. But like an alcoholic who hated their addiction yet did nothing to change it, I sat on the edge of my black leather sofa, leg bouncing as I waited anxiously for him to make his way over from the city.

  I wondered what had spurred his spontaneous desire to make a trip out to Jersey at close to 1:00 a.m. The last time I’d seen him he’d seemed fine. Jimmy always seemed fine. He was the one person I knew who seemed to have it all together. His career had exploded—he was somewhat of a celebrity in the New York culinary world—he had a beautiful wife, a home with furniture that wasn’t thrifted.

  On paper, his life was perfect.

  But things aren’t always what they seem, and I wondered if the façade of perfection was finally beginning to crack under the strain of it all.

  The sound of his knock on the hollow metal door startled me. I stood and crossed the room, and when I pulled the door open, Jimmy was there, dripping wet. My stomach lurched, the same way it did every time Jimmy graced my doorway. It was the childhood crush that could not be shaken, no matter how much I wanted to move on.

  He’d been here a thousand times before, and every time felt like we were eighteen again. Years later, I still hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that in his arms was where I belonged.

  I reminded myself that he was married, that he chose to hide behind a life with Jenna rather than be with me. Jaw clenched, I tucked away the irritability that always simmered to the surface when I thought about our ancient history and moved back to let him in.

  “What the hell happened?”

  His shoes made squishing sounds on the linoleum floor as he stepped inside. He bent to pull them off, almost losing his balance as he untied the first one. When he straightened, he hung his jacket on the hook near the door, but even his clothes underneath were soaked through.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” He wrenched his hands through his hair, gripping it hard. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. We had a fucking deal for Christ’s sake.”

  I shut the door and shuffled past him as he continued muttering, grabbing the only towel left in the linen closet and handing it to him. He took it from me but made no move to dry off. He just stood there, staring straight forward, his shoulders tense. There was a fire in his eyes I hadn’t seen before, the anger so consuming it made him look like someone else entirely.

  I took the towel back from him and draped it over his shoulders. “I don’t think I’m following. You want to back it up to the beginning and fill me in on what you’re talking about?”

  He exhaled heavily, seeming to deflate as the air left his lungs. “It’s all over, Benny. Me and Jenna are done.”

  “What’s over? Your marriage?”

  “The marriage. The restaurant. Everything.”

  I think my chin might have hit the floor. That restaurant was Jimmy’s great love, and even I knew I would never have been able to compete with it. “Can she do that?”

  “She thinks she can. I’m not going to go quietly, though. She wants to sell the restaurant, to give up everything we’ve worked so fucking hard for.” He speared his fingers through his hair again, and it stuck up wildly. “I’m not going just going to roll over and let her take it.”

  I was reeling, so I could only imagine how Jimmy felt.

  “I gave up everything to make that place a success. I put everything into the Carvery—every last cent I earned. And for what? Five years of marriage to just kiss it all the fuck goodbye?” He shook his head, and rainwater tracked like angry tears down the side of his face.

  I bit my tongue so hard it almost bled. It wasn’t a marriage. It never had been. For years, I’d stood by and watched him play house with a woman he’d never fucked and never would. Six years he’d pretended to be the doting partner to someone he wasn’t in love with, keeping up the façade of the perfect partnership—the husband-and-wife team who had it all, the marriage and the business.

  And now that was apparently over. I didn’t quite know how to digest that.

  “Isn’t there some kind of settlement if you split? I don’t understand how she can just make that kind of decision without your permission.”

  “She put the money up for the initial investment, so she basically owns three quarters of the company. We had an agreement that I’d pay into it for ten years. By then, I would have owned half and we’d reevaluate our contract at that point.” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Well, joke’s on me. All my money’s tied up in the business, and until we can sort out what the hell’s going on, I’m fucking broke and homeless.”

  This time his laugh was harsh.

  “There’s no chance you guys are just hitting a rough patch?” I didn’t want to be too hopeful for him, rubbing salt in his very open wound, but I had to ask.

  “She met someone else, so I’d say not just a rough patch,” he said bitterly.

  “Shit, dude. I don’t even know what to say.” I pushed myself to standing, needing to do something to distance myself from the animosity rolling off him in waves. “Stay here. I’ll get you something to drink.”

  I heard his subdued “thanks” over my shoulder as I walked into the kitchen. I poured us both half glasses of straight vodka, paused, then tipped the bottle to add a bit more. He could use it, and frankly, so could I.

  I carried the glasses back into the living room and handed Jimmy’s to him, watching as he knocked it back in one gulp. Wordlessly, I handed him mine, and he downed that one too.

  Three more trips to the kitchen and I found myself with an empty bottle of Smirnoff and a heavy buzz. After the first round, I’d been keeping up with Jimmy as his spite turned to lamenting, and things were starting to take on a less-than-focused haze.

  “What am I gonna do, Ben?” he slurred, gesturing with the empty glass still in his hand. I didn’t know what to tell him. What advice did I have for a guy who’d just lost everything? Once upon a time I’d let the one person who meant anything to me walk away, and here I was, years later, pouring alcohol down his throat as emotions warred inside me.

  When it came to Jimmy, my feelings could only be described as really fucking complicated. So what could I possibly tell him that would improve the situation?

  Not a goddamn thing.

  I let him ramble on, the alcohol lubricating the transition from one topic to the next until I wasn’t sure where we’d even started. It became increasingly obvious that Jimmy needed help. It was help I could give, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  I stared at the man who was supposed to be my best friend, and for better or for worse, as fucking stupid as it was, I loved the bastard. I couldn’t not help.

  I sighed. “You need a place to crash? Just until you get back on your feet,” I added hastily.

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” he said
, swiping a hand over his bleary eyes. “I’ll just get a hotel room, somewhere in the city.”

  “Dude. You can’t stay at a hotel, while jobless, for god knows how long, in Manhattan. You’ll be bankrupt before things ever get resolved.”

  He waved me off and stood on unsteady legs. “I’ll work it out.”

  “The hotels with cockroaches are three hundred a night.” Okay, so I was exaggerating, but without a job there was no way he could afford a hotel room for an extended period of time.

  He still looked skeptical. “I can’t commute all the way in to New York from here.”

  I didn’t want to bring it to his attention that without a job he had no reason to commute.

  “I don’t know if I could handle that, even temporarily. I mean… Jersey.” He said it the same way he would have said anal leakage. “There’s a reason I left, man.”

  “I think what you meant to say was ‘Thank you so much for your generosity, Ben. You’re my best friend. What would I ever do without you?’”

  I shot him a look that was probably more sulk than scorn. Yeah, so, Jersey wasn’t the most glamorous place in the world, and there were less than a handful of high-end restaurants in town, but it wasn’t all that bad. Close enough to New York that I could visit whenever I wanted, and cheap enough that I didn’t have to suck dick on the corner to pay my landlord, Jersey was the perfect compromise between big city and suburban living. It may have been the armpit of the Tri-State area, but it was home. And once upon a time it’d been Jimmy’s home too.

  “You’re right,” Jimmy said, his eyes going a little softer. “And I’m not sure I wanna find out. I appreciate you letting me crash. It’ll be temporary—only be until I can work something out with Jenna or figure my shit out.”

  “Sure, yeah, of course,” I said.

  Through the fog of the vodka, the ramifications of what I’d just offered became clear. Jimmy. Living with me in my apartment. Memories of the time we’d spent together while he’d been in culinary school came flooding into my alcohol-soaked brain, and I could feel my cock start to harden.

  I buried the thoughts and willed my body to settle down. Getting wood over Jimmy staying with me probably wasn’t exactly the warm hospitality he had in mind.

  Chapter Three

  Jimmy

  “Oh James, what would possess you to sign a noncompete?”

  Vera Lindley, my mentor from the Culinary Institute, and owner and executive chef of three of the most highly acclaimed restaurants in the city, pierced me with shrewd blue eyes from across the table.

  I shifted on the tiny wicker chair, feeling uncomfortable as hell at the quaint Euro-style bar tucked away in a corner of Greenwich Village. Even though NYC had been my home for the better part of the last ten years, my “fall from grace” as the media had so lovingly speculated made me feel like an intruder here, like I’d snuck in to visit the mistress who had torn my marriage apart. Apt considering I’d stood in front of the Carvery like a damn creeper, watching it continue on, business as usual, without me, feeling like someone was twisting a knife in my gut.

  “I don’t know,” I grumbled. “Didn’t think I’d ever be in this position. And because I’m an idiot.”

  “Your words,” she said drily, casting her eye again over the contract Jenna and I had drafted. We’d been young, just finishing up culinary school when we’d come up with the idea of joining forces to bolster each other’s careers. “The wording is pretty explicit. In the event your partnership severs, for whatever reason, you’ll be unable to work for any direct competitors for the remainder of the contract period, or you’re to pay a portion of your earnings for damages. Seems you’ve got the short end of the stick here.”

  “I mentioned I’m an idiot, right?” I sighed. “So that’s it, then. I can’t work in the city for another five years.”

  “Oh come now, that’s a bit drastic, isn’t it? There are plenty of other fine restaurants in Manhattan.”

  “Not of the same caliber as the Carvery, and not any I’m allowed to work at anyway,” I added. It was true that the noncompete clause made things a little more challenging. But if I couldn’t work in the upper echelon of the culinary world, what was the point at all? The thought of working at anything less gave me hives.

  I’d called Vera up as soon as was reasonable the morning after I’d arrived back in Jersey, my head still pounding from all the alcohol Ben and I had imbibed the night before. She’d agreed to meet with me, if only to offer a friendly shoulder to bitch on, though I was hoping she’d discover some loophole to allow me to work with her at one of her establishments.

  Unfortunately she didn’t have time in her schedule until later in the week, and so I’d holed myself up in Ben’s apartment to avoid the media shitstorm, trying to regroup and come up with some sort of game plan. While I’d originally intended to search the classifieds for a new job, I’d mostly spent the time scouring the newspaper, reading up on the latest speculation surrounding my sudden disappearance from the culinary scene and over what had caused the demise of my marriage. I rolled my eyes at the rumors—where did they come up with this garbage?

  The fact was James Carver’s fall from grace was the hot topic of the minute—at least in our small section of the universe—and in a matter of a few days, I’d been all but stripped of my livelihood, my reputation, and my dignity. Maybe I’d jumped the gun on walking out on the Carvery, but the thought of continuing to work there when my days were numbered left a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “What do you have for me, Vera?” I pressed. “You know me. You know what I’m capable of. I’m one of the best chefs in New York. Tell me you’ve got some ideas.”

  She paused, taking a long sip from her dry martini and regarding me from across the table. Vera Lindley was not one to be rushed.

  “Have you considered leaving the restaurant world?” she said finally.

  My mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words formed. Leave the restaurant world—for good? And for what? What was out there that I could love as much as I loved being a chef? I couldn’t even fathom it. Not after four years of at one of the top-rated culinary schools in America and showing everyone that a Jersey boy could do it just as good as everyone else.

  And especially not after everything I’d given up to get to this point.

  Eventually I settled on “You have to be joking.”

  She leaned forward on her elbows, clasping her hands under her chin. “Remember when Ina sold the Barefoot Contessa? Everyone thought her career was over. Even I tried to advise her to rethink her decision, but she had just reached that point where she couldn’t do it anymore.” She took up her martini again, swirling the liquid in the glass. “Word on the grapevine is she’s coming out of the woodwork with a cookbook next year.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting I turn to publishing? I can’t think of anything more soul-crushing than sitting behind a desk writing all day.”

  “The Manhattan restaurant scene is getting tired,” she said on a sigh. “All stacked vegetables and far too much parsley garnish. So overdone. Someone needs to inject some life back into the industry.”

  “And you think that person could be me?” I gripped the back of my neck, feeling the tension stiffening the muscles there. “I’m broke, Vera. I’ve been paying most of my earnings back into the business. Jenna and I had planned to renegotiate the terms after ten years. Maybe she would’ve sold me her share, or maybe we’d franchise—I don’t know. But I’ve only got enough to last me a couple of months, at least until all this contractual shit is sorted. And there’s only so long I can stay on my buddy’s couch.”

  I grimaced. Ben didn’t seem to be super pumped about me crashing his digs. There was a strain in our friendship that hadn’t been there before, or maybe it was because this was the longest we’d spent any time together in years. Whatever it was, it was yet another thing to add to my towering pile of burdens. Finding work was at the top of my priority list, and then I’
d be able to get out of his hair. Two birds, one stone.

  Vera sipped her drink thoughtfully, tapping her fingernails on the mosaic-topped table. “In the short-term, I can make some calls, but no guarantees on anything, James. Pickings are slim in this city, especially when you essentially shot yourself in the foot with that contract and then walked out on the Carvery.” She shook her head, her displeasure of my life choices evident. “Unless you want to work the dish pit at the Olive Garden, you might be out of luck.”

  She was magnifying the situation. I knew that, but she did have a point. The community of restauranteurs in the city was a small one. Everyone knew everyone else, and news of my graceless departure from the Carvery would have spread like wildfire by now, not to mention being barred by contract from working for any of them. I needed to lower my expectations or come up with an alternate plan.

  Vera tutted sympathetically. “I do think you should consider branching out, though. You’ve certainly got the talent and expertise to contribute to this field in extraordinary ways. And I’m always looking for new projects or a different kind of business to invest in.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, smiling tightly, though I had no idea what else I could possibly do that would fuel my passion as much as cooking did. “And thanks. I mean it. I appreciate you coming out tonight.”

  When Vera waved off my attempt to settle the bill, I stood and kissed her powdery cheek, the familiar scent of lilacs and rosewater wrapping me in nostalgia.

  “You call me when the right opportunity presents itself, and you’ll have my support.”

  Her words circled through my mind after I left the bar and headed uptown, the hustle and bustle of the city doing little to drown the noise in my head. If Vera Lindley had nothing for me, then I was well and truly fucked.

  I strolled the city streets for a while, not quite ready to make the trek back to Jersey. Eventually I found myself in the Upper West Side, looking up at the brownstone Jenna and I had bought the first year the restaurant had been in the black. We’d chosen it because we liked the look of the curling exterior ironwork and the burst of colorful flowers spilling from the window boxes. I fingered my key in my pocket, contemplating going inside and what I would say to Jenna if she was home.