by M. J. O'Shea
He rolled his stiff body out of his warm cozy bed and tiptoed into the bathroom. The tiles were like tiny stinging blocks of ice under his feet. His apartment was historical and had a ton of character, but it might as well have been the great outdoors for how well it kept the frigid air out.
I should seriously ask for slippers for Christmas.
Murphy had been putting every extra dollar he had into his new food truck for the last year and a half. It had taken six months for him to be in the black and now he was finally making a pretty decent profit. It was still a daily gamble. One he was willing to take if it didn’t mean he was stuck in some diva chef’s kitchen all day getting insults shouted at him.
When he got out of the shower, his roommate was sleepily eating a bagel with cream cheese and scratching his belly. He’d put a shirt and sweats on, since it was December and all, but that was probably a huge compromise to his personal values of wearing as little clothing as possible at all times. Murph had seen more than his fair share of his roommate’s downstairs action. Usually he didn’t really care, but it was nice to at least have coffee first.
“Late night?” Murph asked.
Scooter – an unfortunate childhood nickname that had never really disappeared – had managed to land a job at the Garden at The Four Seasons. He’d stayed in their shared apartment in Cobble Hill because he liked Brooklyn better. At least so far. Murph was worried that someday he’d decide to move to Manhattan permanently.
“God. So late. A few of us went out for drinks after work. I’d be so screwed if I wasn’t off today.” Scooter was a little greenish underneath his warm olive skin. Looked like the tequilas hadn’t quite left his system.
Murph chuckled. “Why are you up?”
“Told Mia I’d take her out for brunch.” Scooter wriggled his eyebrows. “And then some.”
Going out for meals and critiquing them to the last morsel was one of Scooter and Mia’s weird couple things. It usually ended in bed. Which… was not something Murph wanted to spend a lot of time dissecting. He figured it was what happened when two chefs spent way too much time together. Everyone had their quirks.
“I won’t be home until at least eight,” Murph told him with a wink. “Just in case you were wondering.”
“Want to come out tonight? It’s Friday. We all miss you.”
“Sure.” He’d been so focused on making That’s a Wrap successful that he’d been neglecting his friends.
“And feel free to bring me home one of those fajita wraps. And a pesto chicken.”
“Any other requests?” Murph grinned.
Scooter lived in the world of five - star hotel cuisine and yet he couldn’t get enough of Murph’s food truck wraps. He requested a couple at least twice a week and had the kind of running tab that probably wasn’t ever going to get paid. He brought Murph food too, though, so he supposed they were even.
“Nah, I think that’s it,” Scooter said. “Unless you have something new you want me to taste.”
“Not today. You’ll be the first to know.”
Murph looked at his watch. He had about twenty minutes to make the short bike over to the Brooklyn Commissary where his truck stayed every night. At least he’d get to stop for coffee. Not a chance he’d have time to make it at home.
The kitchens at the Commissary were bustling by the time he got there. Food truck vendors of just about every kind imaginable were prepping for the day – chopping, baking, sautéing, mixing – just about anything they could do to cut down on serving time later. It was loud in the kitchens, but a cheerful chaotic kind of loud. No insults, no angry shouting, only busy people in a rush to get a quick start on their day.
Murph had a lot of work to do but after more than a year, he had his routine down. By the time he’d gotten his food prepped and his truck loaded, he was wide awake and ready for the long day ahead of him. He shared his locations for the day to the That’s a Wrap social media accounts that were rapidly growing. It wasn’t hard to get a long line most of the time. If he happened to decide to go to one particular SoHo neighborhood yet again, well, who was going to stop him?
He might have a bit of a chef crush. Or a regular crush. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like his royal chefiness Baldwin Powell had ever noticed his existence. Maybe someday. Then again, maybe not.
It had been dark for hours by the time he got home. He’d scheduled his truck for a wash over the weekend. Other than the night out that he’d promised Scooter, Murph was probably going to spend most of it doing accounting. Maybe throw in a visit with his parents if their schedules lined up.
Scooter and his girlfriend, Mia, were dressed and waiting for him when he dragged his tired butt in the door at nearly eight. He had Scooter’s wraps in hand and an excuse ready to go but Scooter knew him too well.
“Get in the shower, bro. We’ll eat these while you’re getting ready.”
“I—”
“Shower. Now. I’m buying tonight and you’re not talking your way out of it.”
Scooter made emphatic shooing motions with his hand. He definitely wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Murph stumbled into a quick but welcome shower, then put on some of his few clothes that didn’t smell like grilled meat and seasoned rice.
By the time they got to the pub, Murph was glad he’d said yes to going out. The table was full of their restaurant friends and they all talked a mile a minute about food. He supposed they all loved it enough to never get sick of it – he sure did.
“How’s your truck doing, Murph?” One of their friends, George, asked. “I still have dreams about that fajita steak one with the lime rice you brought me last month. The sauce.” George groaned.
“It’s going pretty good, finally. Making a nice profit. I want to develop some new wraps. Maybe hire someone this summer.”
“New wraps,” Scooter said with a happy sigh. “Before anyone asks, I get first dibs on tasting.” He slapped his hand on the table.
Murph rolled his eyes. “You taste them at least twice a week.”
“I saw on your twitter you were in SoHo again today. Good business in the area?” George asked. He was genuinely curious. He had no idea about the can of … torture he’d just opened.
Murphy blushed and refused to look at Scooter – Scooter who let out a rooster cackle of a laugh.
“Oh my God, are you truck stalking that chef again?” Scooter asked. He rolled his eyes. “Why are you so into him? He doesn’t even talk to you.”
“I have loyal customers in that neighborhood,” Murph protested. He did, and they were a huge reason why he kept going back. But they weren’t the reason he went there the first time. If he’d had a silly fantasy or two about a certain chef stopping by his truck and falling in love with his food and then him… sue him. Everyone has to entertain themselves somehow.
“Right. Loyal customers.” Scooter gave the rest of their friends a conspiratorial look. “He’s in love with Baldwin Powell. Waits every day to see him leave his apartment.”
“Stop,” Murph said. He elbowed Scooter in the side.
It was too late.
“Ravenna, right?” Caryn –with hot pink hair and a balsamic reduction that would bring a grown man to his knees – looked up from her mojito. “He’s a genius. I hear he’s kind of a pain in the ass, but his staff seems to love him.”
“I heard he got canned,” Mia said.
“What?”
“Rumor is Casey from Del Vecchio took his place.”
“That guy’s an ass,” George said.
“Yeah, but a talented one,” Mia answered. “He might suck, but he makes incredible food.”
“Shit.” No wonder Murphy hadn’t seen him in a few days. “That’s rough.”
“It’s the industry,” Scooter said. Everyone nodded sympathetically. It was something they all feared. One bad review, one fickle owner or pissed off executive chef and they were out on their asses.
If he hadn’t said it a million times, Murph was glad not to be in th
at game. If he sank or swam, it was completely up to him.
Baldwin – no Pete because let’s be real, chefs who get fired for being boring of all things are definitely Pete, not Baldwin – sat in his tasteful, expensive loft and stared at the wall. He wasn’t tempted to turn on his TV, the one he’d spent far too much money on and hardly ever used. He wasn’t interested in his custom kitchen with an entire array of beautiful cookware good enough to please the pickiest of chefs. When he looked over there, he cringed. He’d been so happy the day the contractors finally vacuumed up the last bit of dust and declared his dream kitchen complete. Too bad Ravenna had taken up all his time and he rarely got to use it.
Not anymore…
Find your passion. Right. Every time he thought of the condescending faux-fatherly look on Tony’s face, Baldwin died a little inside. Dickhead.
How was he supposed to move on? Show his face at a restaurant? Show his face in public at all? The little old lady who walked her Pomeranian every day at the same time as he usually left for Ravenna? Yeah. She would know. Her, and the postman, and the guy who picked up his laundry once a week. Baldwin felt like he couldn’t look anybody in the face. Maybe ever again. The term shut-in had to exist for a reason. People did that, right?
So he wallowed – ignored calls from his mom in Vermont, spent days in his robe and an old pair of basketball shorts, watched a lot of Netflix although even Sherlock couldn’t quite pull him out of his funk.
He turned down invites to restaurant openings – had a rather satisfying moment shredding the fucking announcement from Ravenna on thick cardstock with bronze metallic ink. Jake goddamn Casey. New executive chef. Couldn’t they at least have the decency to remove him from the restaurant’s mailing list instead of driving that steaming hot poker into his throat? He julienned the damn thing with a five-hundred dollar knife.
Baldwin was a half moment away from setting the shreds on fire in his garbage when he realized that would melt the plastic liner, and not even the satisfaction of screaming ‘Fuck you, Jake Casey!’ while watching the remnants of his career burst into flames was worth the stench of burning plastic that would linger in his loft for days.
On day seven – after the third phone call from his sister who must’ve been worried as hell because they rarely spoke more than about once a week – Baldwin finally forced himself into a long, hot shower. Then he put on a pair of jeans and a sweater he thought that Trey had probably bought him. Trey had been right in a way. If the sweater was from him, Baldwin didn’t care about their deceased relationship enough to be upset about it. Or even remember. Just as he was toweling his hair dry, his phone rang.
Mom.
Jeanie must’ve passed along the fact that he wasn’t answering her calls, either. He debated not answering his mom’s call yet again, but despite the past few days, he wasn’t that kind of kid. Even when he was busy, he at least tried to return her call on the same night. He wasn’t busy. That much was excruciatingly clear.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Baby, Jeanie said something happened with your job.”
He wanted to know how his sister happened to find out so quickly. It’s not like she kept her finger on the pulse of the Manhattan restaurant scene from Montpelier of all places.
“Yeah. I got let go.”
“From Ravenna? You made that place.”
At least Baldwin could count on one person to be at his back. Always. “It’s okay, Ma. I’ll find something else eventually.”
Seeing as though it was the first time he’d gotten dressed since he’d been fired, that wasn’t exactly the most promising start. Neither was the lack of restaurant owners breaking down his door to offer him a new position.
“Why don’t you come home for a while?” She said. “It’s almost Christmas anyway.”
“M—"
“I’d like to see my son for once on the holidays, you know,” She reminded him pointedly.
Since Ravenna ran such a popular holiday dinner, it had been years since he’d been home for Christmas. At least five, but possibly longer. Montpelier had always been beautiful during the season, with the lights and the garlands, and he’d always missed it in a hazy nostalgic sort of way. It probably wouldn’t hurt to make it back since he wasn’t doing a damn thing with his life anyway.
Baldwin sighed. “Yeah, I’ll come home.”
After he said it, he found the idea more and more appealing. A little bit of time home would do him good. He had to do something, and that idea was better than most.
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