Certainly not that.
Thorne's words had lodged in the back of my mind. It was so simplistic, and so clichéd, but I was beginning to suspect it was true. Find someone you're happy with, and you stop worrying about the rest.
It was half-right, anyway. If I could give up all my Michelin stars to make Jill love me, I would have done it.
For God's sake. How hard would Beckett laugh at me now?
"Chef?" came a quiet voice from my elbow.
"WHAT?" I whirled around, only to see Lydia standing there, her mouth drawn to a thin line.
"Your first interview is here," she said, her eyes hard as flint. Lydia had slipped into Survival Mode. I knew it well, and it was a sign that I was officially out of control. But at the moment, I didn't care.
Before I knew what was happening, I found myself seated across from someone with their resume in front of my face, and it looked impressive, and they looked impressive enough - not twitching or sweating profusely or chewing their lip or anything like that.
"You like cooking?" I demanded, staring them down, as if any professional chef with ten years of experience could possibly answer "no."
"Is that a trick question?" he asked, calmly.
"Yes," I said. "No. It doesn't matter. When can you start?"
He blinked.
"Today, I guess."
"Then I guess you'd better get into the kitchen." I snapped my fingers. "Chop chop."
Lydia was lurking by the doorway, of course, and rapped lightly on the wood with her knuckles.
"Maybe we'd better go over just a few practical things first, Chef," she said.
I waved my hand dismissively, and stormed out of the room.
***
"We need to talk."
Jill said this, without much conviction. I had a feeling Lydia was behind this.
"Fine," I said, gesturing towards the chair in the mess of an office that my erstwhile staff had left behind. "Sit."
She cleared her throat, and began what sounded remarkably like a prepared speech. "I'm very sorry for last night," she said. "It won't happen again."
I was trying to keep as stoic as possible, but no - I couldn't sit here and listen to her take responsibility for what I'd allowed to happen.
"Please," I said. "Don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong."
My voice came out much softer than I intended, and when she looked up at me, I swore that her eyes were starting to redden. Of all the indignities Jill had suffered at my hands, this was the absolute worst.
"I don't..." Her voice was starting to quiver. "I don't know what came over me. The drinking's no excuse. I never..."
"Jill, please," I practically begged, my arm instinctively stretching across the table as if I could reach her hand. "Please stop, please don't. The whole thing was a massive lapse in judgment on my part. I take full responsibility. I never should have put you in that position. I know sometimes it's...." I took a deep breath. "...difficult. Lines can get blurred. You have nothing to apologize for."
"Thank you," she said, managing a little smile. "For saying that."
Pull back, man. You're in too deep.
"I don't want you to think this will change anything," I said. "Just - you have a bright future ahead of you, and I want nothing more than to see you succeed. That's been true since the first day I met you."
Her cheeks went pink, and she smiled, hesitantly.
"I know it doesn't always seem like it," I said. "And I'm not trying to make excuses, but all I ever wanted was for you to be happy."
My hungover brain was just beginning to catch up to what I'd actually said, enough to begin to regret it - but I was immediately distracted by the look on her face. Once again, just like when I'd called her beautiful in the kitchen, before the charity dinner where I immediately fucked everything up again - once again, her reaction wasn't even close to appropriate for the situation. She should have been taken aback, weirded out, and quite frankly terrified of my bizarre behavior.
Instead, her smile only grew.
Her face was shining with admiration and gratitude and I was almost entirely sure that I wasn't just seeing things.
What if she doesn't, in fact, hate you?
What's your contingency plan for that?
"I..." She started, then paused, her eyes darting around the room as if to find the right words. "I'm not sure what to say, Max."
"Don't, then," I said, making a valiant effort to gather the shreds of my dignity around me. "Just get back to work."
I could still feel the warmth of her smile, long after she was gone.
***
The days in New York ran together, one leading into the next, until it was almost time for us to leave, and I didn't even realize what had happened. I took a moment, that last morning, to just stand in the kitchen and watch the staff - a mixture of new and old, fueled by the fear of my wrath and disappointment - go about their business. When I heard Tom repeating one of my orders to a server, I had to smile.
I'd done good work here. In spite of everything, the restaurant was going to be all right.
Jill and I were too busy to talk, most of the time, but I caught her watching me more than usual. It seemed like she was trying to...figure something out, or crack some kind of mystery. Could I possibly have feelings for this man?
I hoped she didn't. I really, really did.
I'd done enough damage in her life already. The last thing she needed was to love me.
Yet at the same time, the mere possibility of it made my chest constrict, almost painfully -
Please don't love me. But if you do, please don't tell me.
But if you do, please don't take no for an answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Flambé
Everyone knows flambé, but few people know the proper application of it. My recommendation: if you haven't been taught how, don't even try. You'll singe your eyebrows off.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Jill
***
I was back home in Boston, and I couldn't sleep.
Max was becoming a problem.
A mutual attraction was one thing. Harmless, really. People are attracted to each other all the time, and it doesn't always result in disaster. But then, feelings get involved.
Feelings. The absolute last thing I needed to be dealing with, right now.
I mean, actual feelings - not "I'd sure like him to touch me in all kinds of places" feelings, or "he makes me light-headed" feelings. Real actual feelings with implications that I hadn't experienced in so, so long.
Maybe not ever. Maybe not like this.
I had to stop this. I had to squash them, flatten them down, lock them up in a box in the deepest corner of my mind where they could starve out, and die the death they deserved. The little bastards.
I couldn't fall in love with Chef Maxwell Dylan.
But he said...
Yeah, he'd said a lot of things. They all did. They always said whatever they thought you wanted to hear, and maybe even believed it, at the time. But when the passion started to fade, none of it was worth a damn.
He'd even told me, once, that he couldn't make a relationship last more than a couple months. Was I insane for even thinking about the possibility of being with him? What the hell was wrong with me?
I knew the answer. Subconsciously, from the very first day I met him, I'd been building him up in my head as someone completely unlike Eric. And superficially, at least, I was right. Eric would never be caught dead yelling at someone. He was a nice guy. Calm, respectful, polite, thoughtful, good work ethic...
...and completely and utterly capable of destroying my life without a hint of remorse.
Whenever I told someone The Breakup Story, I always left out certain parts. I didn't tell them how I clung to his arm and begged him to stay. I let them believe I didn't hesitate, throwing him out on his ass just as soon as he told me that he loved somebody else. But that wasn
't how it happened.
Late at night, when I couldn't sleep, I'd still think back to how I behaved back then. I could see myself, I could remember the things that I said. The indignity. Shame would creep through my body like I'd been poisoned with it. I wanted to rewrite my own history, so that my righteous indignation burned with the fire of a thousand suns, and I never once told him I couldn't live without him. So that I never told him I could be anything he wanted me to be. So that I never asked him what I had to do, to make him love me again.
Nobody knew. Nobody knew, except him and me.
And long ago, I'd promised myself I would never let it happen again.
Never, ever again would I humiliate myself like that. Not for a man. Not for anyone.
Nobody could have that power over me, especially not the likes of Maxwell Dylan.
Suddenly furious, I shot up out of bed and punched my pillow several times. Heidi started, then lifted her head up and stared at me.
"I'm fine," I grumbled at her confused expression. "Go back to sleep."
She sighed, and laid her head back down.
I was wide awake. It was just like in the months after Eric left, when I'd drag myself through my days, exhausted, and then snap into full alertness as soon as my head hit the pillow. I'd stubbornly refused to take any time off work, even though dark spots swam in front of my eyes most of the time.
The quality of my cooking didn't suffer, as far as I could tell. But when a roll of industrial-sized aluminum foil started to tumble from a high shelf, I did the thing that you never, ever do in the kitchen - I reached out to grab it.
In a professional food setting, you don't catch anything. You just get out of the way. Too many things are scalding hot or fatally sharp, and while the food and equipment are easily replaceable, you might not be. I'd known this since I was a kid, yet somehow, in that moment, I forgot.
The whole thing landed cutting-side-down, right on my hands. Unlike the friendlier household version, this particular roll had a vicious line of jagged teeth, well equipped to slice right through to the bone. Combined with the velocity of the fall, well...
You can imagine.
I still have the scars on my palms, an everlasting monument to my stupidity. My boss at the time sent me a "get well" card, in which he semi-sarcastically thanked me for providing such a valuable lesson to the less-experienced staff members. And it was an important lesson for me, too. Because it's one thing to be told not to do something, and entirely different to actually do it, and look down and see the blood all over your hands because of your mistake.
You'll never, ever let yourself get hurt like that again.
***
Lydia had returned with us to Boston. It was somewhat of a relief to know she was around. In a way, she felt like a buffer between me and Max, even though she wasn't always physically in the restaurant. She handled a lot of the paperwork side of things, which did keep Max around the kitchen more - but I just put my blinders on and pretended he wasn't there.
It got easier and easier, with each passing day.
I'd become so adept at ignoring his presence that he had to clear his throat a few times, after dinner shift, to get my attention.
"Sorry," I said, looking up at him, without really seeing him. "What's up?"
"It's a bit complicated," he said. "Can you step into the office for a bit?"
I shrugged, hoping this was strictly business-related. Whenever Max started talking about me personally, I couldn't control my reactions. Hard as I tried, the glow that I felt when he paid me a compliment just couldn't be suppressed.
It was fucking annoying.
To my relief, Lydia was already in the office. So it was business. I told myself I wasn't even slightly disappointed by this.
"Well," she exhaled, looking up at me. "First off, I want to say that you absolutely shouldn't feel obligated to say 'yes' to this. Okay? Your first knee-jerk instinct is going to be either 'hell yes' or 'hell no,' but you can take your time deciding. The network will try to rush a decision, but they always do."
The network?
I clasped my hands in front of me. "Okay, so what is it?"
"They want to film a big special," Lydia said. "Reality show style, you know, but it's not a full season so it's a pretty small time commitment. They're filming in Los Angeles after the holidays. It's going to be a rapid elimination-style competition between restaurant owners, for a cash prize. Pretty simple, with Chef hosting -" she gestured at Max, as if she could be talking about anyone else "- and I guess they've got room for one more. They're hoping for someone to 'soften' the whole thing. And your name came up."
"Just 'came up,' huh?" I said, glancing at Max. He was looking at the floor.
"The compensation is pretty generous, and of course they'll cover your meals and travel." Lydia pushed a piece of paper across the desk, in my direction. "Again, take your time. All the information is in this contract. Just remember, once you've done something like this, you can never undo it. You'll be in reruns on every cooking channel until the end of time."
"Is it okay if I talk this over with Chef first?" I asked her, while Max continued to study his shoes.
"Absolutely," she said, getting up and heading for the door. "I'll be just down the hall if you need me."
Once the door clicked, I turned to him, clearing my throat. He finally looked up.
"So," I said. "What's this all about?"
He shrugged. Was his face actually pink? What was I seeing? "I thought it might be...fun for you," he said, without conviction.
"Who's going to run the restaurant?"
"Don't worry about that," he said. "I'll make arrangements."
"This is nuts," I said, waving the paper. "You could have mentioned something to me first."
"It all happened very quickly," he said, swallowing audibly between speaking. "They pitched me the idea, then they immediately started asking me about someone I might recommend...you know, someone I could get along with, someone I trust. They've given up on casting those roles themselves."
"I can't imagine why," I said, staring down at the contract. It was a pretty generous compensation, and even though I'd managed to pay down my debts with my Trattoria earnings, the idea of this payday still made me salivate a little. Maybe I could even move into a nicer place, with windows that actually kept the drafts out...
I'd heard rumors about how poorly reality TV actually pays, especially for first-timers, and I was certain that Max had lobbied for me. Which was nice, but...
I wished he would stop this kind of shit. I didn't want him making decisions for me. Deciding what was best for me, on my behalf. I'd had enough.
"The filming schedules can get a little hectic," he was saying. "But it's not so bad, and you'll still get some downtime in LA during one of the slowest tourist seasons."
"What are you, Fodor's?" I snapped, louder than I meant to.
Max's head jerked up.
His eyes had hardened, and I couldn't remember the last time I saw him looking at me like this. Even in New York, when he'd been snarling at everyone, he still avoided eye contact with me.
I shivered.
"Don't speak to me that way," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Please."
My throat tightened. "I don't get you," I said. "I really don't get you, Max. Do you want to be friends, or do you want to be my asshole boss? Your words, not mine."
Max took in a deep breath, and let it out through his nose. "I've allowed a certain level of familiarity between us, Jill," he said. "I think it's good for the restaurant if we can get along. But I can't tolerate that disrespectful tone anymore. If you want to do this job, then just say 'yes, thank you.' If you don't, then say 'no, thank you.' But I don't need you questioning my decisions."
I could feel my jaw muscles twitching, as I clenched my teeth.
"We had a good thing going, you know," I said, managing to keep my voice fairly steady. Red was creeping into the corners of my vision. "We really did. I almost forg
ave you for everything. I almost believed you, when you said that you wanted me to be happy. But all you want is for me to happy on your terms. That's all anyone ever wants."
I was chewing on my lip, a nervous tic that I hated in myself, but at the moment I didn't care. "You know, Chef, you were right about something. Everybody is selfish. I'm finally starting to figure that out."
He didn't say anything to that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dégorger
When dealing with meats or seafoods that have a particular strong taste, you may wish to dégorger, or extract some of the liquid from the meat using a saltwater mixture. This can also be used on exceedingly bitter vegetables, to make them more mild and palatable.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Max
***
"I don't understand, Beckett. I don't understand why she's so angry."
He steepled his fingers - God, but I could smack him across the face every time he did that.
"Coming to me for advice," he said. "Willingly. Well, well. The shoe's on the other foot now, isn't it?"
I squeezed my eyes shut, tightly, leaning my head in my hands. "That's not...that doesn't even make sense."
"How the tables have turned."
"Would you shut up?"
His eyes glittered with amusement. "All right, all right," he said, sitting up straight. "I find it hard to believe you can't figure this out yourself, but here we are. She feels disrespected. It's not about the reality show, obviously. It's about a pattern of you making decisions on her behalf. 'For her own good.' She hates it when people do that, as most everyone does, but she might have a particular reason for hating it. A lot of women do, because a lot of women have dealt with a lot of bastards like yourself."
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