by JD Hawkins
“So,” I ask, mock-seriously, “are you the kind of girl who kisses on a first date?”
“I don’t know. Depends on the guy,” she teases, leaning in.
We kiss slow and gentle, as if we’ve got all the time in the world, the Pacific stretching out beyond us making it feel somehow more private, more intimate. I can almost taste her happiness, taste her inhibitions fading in the beauty of these surroundings.
We pull back, and she grins again. Before I can say anything, she notices something beyond my shoulder, back at the beach.
“Drinks!” she says, pointing at the waiter putting them down at our loungers, and we break apart, swimming our way back to the cabana. Willow tosses me a towel and we dry off a little before sitting down, the table between us. We raise our glasses, clink them together, and drink.
“Oh,” Willow sighs happily. “It’s so nice out here. This is bliss.”
She settles back on the lounger, and I drag mine closer to hers before doing the same.
After a while of staring at the Santa Monica pier on the horizon, I look at her, eyes closed as she faces the sun. Golden skin drying, her breasts moving imperceptibly with her peaceful breathing.
“You think you’ll stay here?” I ask.
“In Los Angeles?”
“Yeah. Are you not feeling pull of the Idaho cornfields yet?”
“Not at the moment. But some day, sure, I’ll probably move back. To be close to my family. Maybe when I’m older, retired. What about you?” She turns to look at me.
“Me? I’m not planning to go to Idaho at all, to be honest.”
Willow reaches out to slap my arm playfully.
“You know what I mean. Are you going to stay in L.A. forever? Retire here?”
“I don’t plan on retiring.”
Willow eyes me for a few seconds, nodding, seeming to draw some kind of conclusion about me.
“You think I’m a workaholic,” I say.
“Nope,” she grins. “I know you are. You never know, though. Sometimes people mellow out in their old age.” Then she winks, takes a slow sip of her drink, and closes her eyes as she tastes it.
I watch the muscles of her throat flex, my cock stirring in my shorts, and when she opens her eyes she notices my focus on her and tilts her head.
“So how did you get into cooking?” I ask her.
“Oh…I don’t know. I’ve loved it as long as I can remember. I think it was my grandma who started it…” she says, looking dreamily into the distance. “She had this little herb garden, little pots around the kitchen. Basil and oregano, rosemary and thyme, mint and sage. The smells were almost magical. I’d watch her cook, and I thought it was incredible how she would just pluck a couple of leaves, give them a little rinse, tear them into a pot, and make something that tasted wonderful. She gave me a couple of plants and I started making stuff with them. For a year I put mint on everything—even French fries.”
We both laugh a little, though I don’t take my eyes away from how alluring she looks when she’s lost in thought.
“How about you?” she asks, looking genuinely curious.
I take a moment to think back, sipping my whiskey as I sift through old memories. “It was when I was about twelve or so, at a juvenile detention center—”
Her eyes go wide. “Are you fucking with me? You went to juvie? You are a bad boy.”
I laugh and shrug. “I was there a couple of times actually. I was young enough that it didn’t go on my record though. Anyway, they used to get these guys in—teach the kids a trade, get them onto a healthy path. Carpenters, welders, that kinda thing. One day this chef comes in. He gets us cooking these Spanish omelets. Of course, most of the kids fucked up, or didn’t care enough to really try, but that was when I first learned I could do this.”
“Wait a second,” Willow says, leaning forward, intrigued now, “is that why Martin asked me to cook an omelet for the interview process?”
I smile at her.
“Yeah. See, most people—doesn’t matter if they’re a dad cooking breakfast or a seasoned chef who’s been around the block—they think omelets are simple. You whip the eggs, throw them in a pan, add the filling and you’re done. But there’s so much more to it. You can just whip the eggs, or you can separate the yolks from the whites and whip them separately, and if you do that then do you use all the yolks or half? Do you add cottage cheese or a splash of pancake batter?”
She nods, following along as I go over every aspect.
“And then, do they wait for the eggs to warm up a little, or just whip them cold right out of the fridge? Do they use butter or olive oil in the pan? What kinda ratio? How melted is the butter? Don’t melt it all and you’re really gonna taste it. How do they manage the pan? Temperature, texture. When do they fold? When do they take it out? You know, the most common mistake is people taking it out too late because they—”
“Don’t know that the eggs continue to cook on the plate,” Willow interrupts, smiling satisfyingly.
I laugh a little.
“Right. And an omelet’s so simple you can taste every mistake, every skill.”
“Smart.”
“That guy was the first one to compliment me on anything other than my left hook, so I realized I could actually do this, and do it well. I had some innate skill and the motivation to take it further. Once I got out I worked in kitchens any way I could, taking odd jobs at any restaurant that would take me until I finally rustled up enough money to go to France and study under Guillhaume. And that’s where I met Jason.”
Even saying the name feels like a jab to the ribs, and the waiter shows up just in time, bringing the whole whiskey bottle and a fresh pitcher of mojitos for Willow.
“Who’s Jason?” Willow asks, once the man is gone.
“He was my best friend—pretty much my only friend at the time. We finished the course in Paris and then came back to L.A. together. Like everyone who makes it through the program, we wanted to start our own place right away, but we didn’t have the money. Somehow, Jason took care of that. He was smooth, good with people. He was on first name terms with everyone from the food truck vendors to the fancy chefs downtown. At the time I was still was too dark and brooding to take an interest in all that business stuff. Just a twenty-one year old with too many tattoos, an uncontrollable temper and an unhealthy obsession with making the best food I could.”
Willow shifts uncomfortably, her eyes unable to meet mine, probably trying to give me space because I’m opening up.
“So we get the money, get the location, and before long we’re in business. Or, I should say, I was in business. I was doing all the work, developing the menu, running the kitchen, managing a full staff, but I hardly saw Jason. He was too busy partying, getting into drugs, faking his way into every Hollywood party he could find. He took his share of the profits, of course—and then some. I found out later that he’d been skimming off our supplies and selling them to other restaurants. The real kicker came when someone told me he hadn’t been paying the loan sharks back like he said he had. These weren’t mom and pop investors, you know? They took their money whether you gave it willingly or not.”
Her brows knit together in concern. “What happened?”
I pour out some more whiskey, and lift it as I consider the memory, sipping slowly.
“Jason comes in soon after I heard the news, gives me this long speech about how he knew he’d been fucking things up, and that he’d finally realized he needed to get his shit together. Full confession, heartfelt apology, the works. He told me I’d been working too hard, and to take the weekend off. After that, we’d figure out what to do and make it work.” I take another slow sip. “And I trusted him.”
Willow looks at me, a sympathetic expression on her face. “I’m guessing that didn’t turn out well.”
“I came back on Tuesday, drove straight to the restaurant first thing, and the place…it’d been burned to the fucking ground.” I gesture with my hands at the scene, as
vivid as the sea in front of me. “Just fucking blackened rubble and ash and dirt. Jason had put his name on the insurance policy, of course, and my name on the loans. He took the insurance money, and I never saw him again. I went to bed and woke up on Wednesday morning, twenty-four years old, with nothing but a pile of burnt bricks to my name, and nearly a million dollars in debt.”
Willow shakes her head, her delicate features gone pale. “Holy shit…that’s awful.”
“Not really, in the end,” I say, taking a sip. “For the lessons I learned that day, it was worth it.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, sitting upright now and leaning toward me intently. “How could anything be worth that?”
“You think I trusted anyone but myself after that day? You think I ever let a contractor quote me for something I didn’t already know the price of? That I’d ever let my accountant put a tax bill or receipt through that I didn’t spend as much time going over myself? I cleared that pile of bricks with my own two hands; laid half of them myself until I found a builder I trusted enough to help. Then I named what went in its place Knife, so I’d never forget the one Jason put in my back. I’ll never have another business partner again.”
Willow stares at me, her expression carefully blank, but her eyes wide with thought.
“Sheesh,” she says eventually. “The lemon thyme thing makes a lot more sense now.”
I let out a genuine laugh for the first time since I started telling the story.
“You know, you’re something. You’re the first person I let Martin hire for me. Usually I run candidates through all the hoops myself. But I’ve never in my life heard him rave about a new chef the way he raved about you. His instincts are excellent.” I take a breath, watching Willow take a long drink from her glass, enjoying the way the muscles in her throat move. “It’s not like it was the last time somebody stabbed me in the back. I’ve turned no-hopers into brilliant chefs, only to have them disappear without notice and pop up days later at some fancy place that promises them the world and ends up failing. I’ve had accountants that embezzled cash, waiters that stole food—and I’ve lost count of how many people have stolen recipes and suppliers once they’ve left. It’s best to treat everybody like they’ll eventually betray you in this business, because in my experience, they probably will.”
Willow squirms a little, rubbing the side of her neck as if she can’t get comfortable. I guess no one has ever given it to her this straight before. No wonder her restaurant collapsed. She’s brilliant, talented, ambitious—but in some ways, still a little naïve about the world.
“I don’t know,” she says with a contemplative sigh. “That sounds like an unhealthy way to live. Doing everything yourself. Not trusting anybody. Always looking over your shoulder, still holding on to all of that no matter how many years go by.”
I smile at her once more before lifting my legs back up on the lounger and lying back.
“It got me here, didn’t it?”
I draw some more of the whiskey and close my eyes, listening to the waves and feeling almost as if they could carry me away. Maybe this is what therapy feels like. As if some knot deep inside of you that you didn’t even know you were carrying is loosened. Then Willow’s words break the trance.
“Does it ever get lonely at the top?” she says.
I open my eyes and turn to see her sitting on the edge of her lounger, looking at me anxiously now as if worried.
I let out an easy chuckle. “How could I be lonely? I own a restaurant.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
I look at her, not quite understanding the question.
“How could I be lonely when I spend all my time around people, hundreds of people who turn up at the restaurant every week. And my staff. All the cooks I’ve worked with over the years. The parties, the events…I’m never alone. If anything I wish I had more time to myself—”
“That’s not what I meant,” Willow says, her tone more serious now. “That whole ‘not trusting anyone but yourself’ thing, it sounds kinda…sad. I don’t know how you can live like that. I can’t imagine living without any close friends, without someone you can open up to.”
“Why does that sound like an offer?”
“Maybe it is.” She laughs a little, almost nervously, then stands up.
Looking up at her, I say, “You need a break from my dark, painful past, I take it?”
She smiles. “I can handle it. But right now, it’s just too gorgeous out. Let’s swim.”
Willow holds out her hand, and I take it.
12
Willow
It took a month of very tactful cajoling, but I eventually give in and attend one of Asha’s gym-plus-boxing classes. As if my shifts at Knife weren’t exhausting enough. Still, Asha’s been right about pretty much everything she suggested up to this point, and the physical strains are the only thing keeping my mind off the emotional ones, so I give it my all.
I spend the first twenty minutes of her relentlessly high-energy class planning how to escape without anybody noticing, the next twenty minutes pitting mind against body as they both reach their limits, then the last twenty minutes on an adrenaline rush that’s almost spiritual. By the time I arrive home (without Asha, she had a few more classes to go) I’m walking on air. My mind clear, my body gratifyingly drained, and with a craving for sugar that goes down to my toes.
Since Asha’s not around to tell me why that’s a bad idea, I decide to go for it and make cinnamon buns from scratch, picking up confectioner’s sugar and cream cheese on the way home. Once I’m in the apartment, I take a quick shower and then get to work.
That’s when my sister Ellie calls, when my hands are deep in the mixing bowl, working the dough together. I answer the call with my elbow and quickly tell her to call me back on the videochat program on her laptop.
Ellie’s only older than me by five years, though in terms of figuring out what you want in life, she’s pretty much at the end game. After marrying her high school sweetheart in her mid-twenties, an IT consultant named Greg, she had two beautiful girls with eiderdown-soft hair and stock photo smiles and settled down in an incredible three-bedroom on the outskirts of Boise, to focus on her dream job of selling her handmade wedding dresses online. One of her first clients ended up being the style editor at Vogue, and after the magazine ran a short feature on her vintage-inspired designs, my sister’s business took off. Even her bathroom is perfect—it has an amazing view of the mountains.
Ellie’s more than just my wonderfully successful and incredibly humble sister, however; she’s my cheerleader, confidante, and—when times are particularly tough—therapist. She’s been calling me regularly to check in since I moved to L.A., expecting a full rundown of everything I’ve been up to. Considering how quickly things have been happening lately, she’ll probably have to start calling me daily.
“Hey,” I say, as her beaming face fills the screen, her huge living room extending off into the background.
“Hey you!” she squeals happily. I move back to the bowl and start working the dough again. “Oh gosh! That looks yummy! I miss your cooking, Willow.”
“It’s nothing. Just cinnamon buns.”
“Ughhh,” Ellie groans, making a drooly expression. “I love your cinnabons. Comfort food?”
“Earned guilty pleasure, more like. I just got back from one of Asha’s boxing classes.”
“Oh! How is she doing? And how was the class?”
“Great, and great.”
Ellie sighs deeply, and I glance at the screen to see her smiling proudly. “It’s all so awesome.”
The comment makes me laugh, though I don’t know why.
“What is?”
“You…there…doing all of that. Following your dreams.”
I finish kneading the dough and cover it to rise a little, then start whisking the cinnamon.
“It probably sounds more exciting than it really is. How’s Greg? And the girls?”
“They miss you. A lot. If you think I ask a lot of questions, you should talk to the girls. ‘Is Aunt Willow going to be in a movie?’ ‘Has she met Selena Gomez?’ Oh! And do you remember Carl, from the movie theater? He nearly had a heart attack when I told him you work with Cole Chambers. The poor boy almost asked me for my autograph.”
“I don’t know if you should be telling people that so quickly—especially since I was pretty close to not working for him just last week. Remember that?”
Ellie pauses before speaking, and when I glance at the screen again I can see she’s grinning mischievously at me.
“Who could forget the lemon thyme incident? And the fairytale romance afterward? Speaking of…” she says in heavily insinuating tones.
I laugh a little uneasily.
“It’s not a fairytale romance…”
“If you say so. How was the ‘real date’ with the big boss? Did you even go?”
“Yeah, I went…it was good.”
After another moment, Ellie says, “Grr! Come on! Is that it? God, I hope you didn’t tease him the way you’re teasing me. Where did you end up going? What did you talk about? How did you…end up?”
I shake my head as I finish with the icing and clean my hands, wiping them with a towel as I lean back on the dining table so Ellie can see me properly.
“Well, the place he took me to was this, like, private beach type area at a fancy hotel in Santa Monica—”
“Oh God, seriously? That sounds fantastic.”
“It was. I mean, it was beautiful. The ocean, the clean air, the ferris wheel at the pier in the distance. There was this little cabana we had all to ourselves, a waiter bringing us drinks—”
“I’m gonna leave Greg if you keep telling me things like this.”
“We swam a little…hung out…talked. You know.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I dunno…life. He told me about how he grew up, how he got interested in food.”
