Twice Baked

by Andrew Grey

  “Thanks.” I took off the clothes protectors and threw them away before heading to wardrobe and then on to find the rest of the cast. “So, what exactly is the challenge?” I asked as I looked around the area already set up for cooking. Then I got it. “Reflector ovens,” I said, remembering my Boy Scout training. And danged if they didn’t look exactly like the one I had made as a kid, with reflective aluminum concentrating the heat of the sun.

  “Precisely,” Rachel said. “But each chef has to make one hot and one cold dish, so they are going to have to manage both resources out here.” That was going to be difficult at best, but something cold was going to taste amazing in this heat, as long as it truly was cold. “They’ll have a limited pantry and will have to win their protein. Plenty of strategy and creativity.” She dabbed her face with a tissue and leaned back in her chair to catch the breeze off one of the fans that was blowing the misted air. Mostly those things did very little to ease the discomfort level, so I did my best not to move, even when Meyer sat next to me.

  “Any more notes?” he whispered, and I shook my head before explaining about the rumor that was going around. “I heard something like that as well.”

  I didn’t know where it started, but it wasn’t good at all. I knew I wasn’t involved with anyone other than Meyer, and I was sure that the reverse was true. Rachel hardly seemed like the type to have something going on with anyone on the show. She was too professional.

  “So what gives?”

  I shrugged. “You know how rumors get started. Someone says something, and suddenly it’s all blown out of proportion. I think this is just talk and will blow over.” Movement, even talking, just made me hotter, so I sat still. “This whole thing is just stupid.”

  “Okay. The chefs will be arriving soon, so everyone needs to be in their places for when they get here.”

  One of the production assistants hurried out toward an enclosure with a cooler and set it on the table. Meyer and I stood just in the shade off to the side so we could see what was going on. Rachel was supposed to meet them and explain the challenge, but she was looking more and more like a wet rag.

  “Are you okay?” I called for some water and handed her a sweating bottle that seemed to dry in my hand. I passed it to her, and she drank most of it. “Does that help?”

  “Oh God, yes,” she whispered.

  I got her a chair and let her sit. “You need to take it easy in this heat,” I explained, and she nodded.

  “I’m trying, but the shit follows me wherever I go. I had asked them to bring my trailer because it has air-conditioning, but they said we were only going to be here for the day and it was too much to bring along.” She swore under her breath. “Next time I’m going to have my agent put it in my contract.” She flashed a smile and drank some more water. “That’s better.” She drained the last of the bottle and stood slowly. “Here they come. It’s time to go to work.” She stepped out into the sun, with cameras following her to meet the chefs as they arrived.

  I got out of the way, returning to my small area, where a chair and table had been set up. I sat down, picking up the production schedule warily, but the canary-yellow paper was as it should be. Still, I looked around to see if I was being watched, read through the updated schedule, and set it aside, taking a few quiet moments before I was needed.

  Rachel sat down in the other chair, fanning herself, seemingly thankful that Meyer and their guest judge, who had written a cookbook on using these type of reflector ovens, were going around to talk to each of the chefs. I was a little redundant at the moment and wondered if I was even needed out here at all. But apparently a table was being set up under a tent for judging, about fifty feet away so it appeared to be out in the desert all by itself. I wandered over to check it out and wished I hadn’t, the sun beating down on me. By the time I returned, so had Meyer and the guest judge. He introduced himself as Gerald Hines and wilted into a different seat as we all tried to stay out of the heat.

  “I’m worried one of the chefs is going to pass out.”

  “They have plenty of water and only an hour to cook, so they won’t be out there too long, but it is the challenge, to use the sun to prepare the meal—nothing electric or powered, just themselves and nature. I have used these ovens in front of a fire when I was a Scout and thought it would be a very eco-friendly way of preparing food, especially out here in the intense sun.” Gerald was clearly excited about the idea, even if the heat deflated him a little.

  “I used them when I was a kid, once or twice. They were a curiosity then, but I can see the practicality out here.” I turned to watch the chefs as best I could. “How do you think they’re doing?”

  “I think the cold portion of the cook-off is going to be the real challenge. They only have ice, and it isn’t going to last very long in this heat.”

  One of the runners came by and handed out yet another updated schedule. I reviewed it and set it on the table, committing it to memory. I was going to be needed at the table in about half an hour.

  “Do you cook in the desert a lot?” I asked Gerald.

  “I have, but not for a contest like this.”

  We grew quiet as the time wound down. Rachel led us to the table, where the four of us sat under a flowing white canopy that kept away much of the direct sun. The chefs brought over their dishes, and we sampled each of them. It wasn’t until I was done and the chargers that we had used under the settings—as well as to help weight the tablecloth—were lifted that I saw the page under it. I grabbed the piece of paper and slipped it into my pocket. No one seemed to notice, and I did my best not to make a big deal out of it.

  The four judges all agreed to meet back in LA to discuss what we had eaten, and the crew was already packing up to get the hell out of the heat.

  “Do you, Gerald, or Rachel need a ride?” I asked.

  Meyer apparently had ridden out with Ethan and was grateful for the lift back to the city. Rachel and Gerald had rides, so Meyer and I got in the back of the car, the air-conditioning blasting on full.

  “Thank God. I swear I’m wet in places I have never sweated before.” He leaned back, and I waited until we were on the road toward LA before pulling the paper from my pocket. “What’s that?”

  “It was under my charger.” I opened what was definitely another of those notes. This one said much the same thing as the first, but there was one very important difference: it was addressed to Rachel.

  “What the hell?” I showed it to Meyer. “Do you think the other one was supposed to go to her and instead it got put in my trailer?” This was looking like a comedy of errors.

  Meyer shook his head and showed me his letter. Damn, it said nearly the same thing. “What do you make of this? It was among my production notes.”

  “Someone is trying to stir up drama.” That was the only reasonable explanation I could come up with. “A member of the crew must have gotten the idea to have a little fun and see what they could shake up.” And I’d just remembered who had been setting up the table for us. I didn’t want to think that Justin was behind this, but I had seen him there making sure that everything was all set up. So he could have put the note under the plate, thinking it was Rachel’s. I kept my suspicion to myself because I didn’t want to hurt an innocent person, but I was going to have to keep a close eye out.

  “But why?” Meyer asked.

  “Attention,” Felix said, and I had to agree with him. “Everyone in this town wants their fifteen minutes of fame, and if they can stir up trouble and uncover secrets….” He let the rest sink in unsaid.

  “Ethan needs to be aware of this,” Meyer said.

  “I agree, but what if he’s getting them too? He’s been edgy and snappy as hell for days. I’m willing to bet that we’re all getting them in one form or another, and the asshole behind all of this is just sitting back to see who reacts. Hell, maybe they’re following some of us to see what they can dig up.” I shook my head. “This really isn’t normal.”

  “Nope.
I’ve done a number of shows, and usually everyone gets along pretty well. We all have a common goal, so working together is pretty seamless. But shit like this makes the entire process a struggle.” Meyer grinned as though he’d just come up with something brilliant. “What if that’s the plan? What if strife and confusion is what they’re going for, to disrupt the show and maybe get it canceled?”

  Now that was something I hadn’t thought of. “I kind of doubt that. This is the eighth season, and it has a great following. I know that as the seasons go on, interest can wane, but that doesn’t seem to be the case as far as I can tell. A lot of people still watch, and as long as the show is kept interesting and fresh, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Except if there are enough rumors and scandal, there will be people picketing the network. Two seasons ago, one of the judges was touched by all that sex abuse going on. He didn’t have anything to do with it, but someone on one of his previous shows on the network did. There were letter-writing campaigns and pickets to get him removed from the show because somehow he should have known and stopped it. I don’t know if he could or couldn’t have,” Meyer explained. “The association was enough to taint him… well, that and a few vocal people who had it in for him and used this as an excuse.” He shook his head. “I don’t think abuse is right in any form, but giving someone grief because they worked in a kitchen where the chef was accused of it is something completely different. Still, Hollywood is weird at the moment, and there has been plenty of self-reflection and a fear of scandal that’s bone-deep.” Meyer leaned back.

  “Okay, but what do we do?”

  Meyer humphed a second. “There’s nothing we can do, except try to figure out who is stirring the pot and then try to find a way to stir things back the other way.”

  What I really wanted to ask was what effect this had on us. Meyer had surprised me so far, but I really wasn’t expecting that to continue. As the pressure mounted for everything and everyone to look and be as aboveboard and rumor-free as possible, I expected that I would become one of the casualties. Which sucked.

  “Do you want Felix to drop you at the studio? Is that where you left your car?”

  “Yes,” Meyer answered, and I tapped my foot nervously, hoping for some other indication of what Meyer intended to do, but he sat quietly. I sighed, figuring I wasn’t going to get anything more.

  At the studio, we dropped off Meyer before Felix drove me to the apartment. I went up, showered immediately, fed Rosco, and changed his litter. Then I sat on the sofa with Rosco on my lap, stroking his fur. He seemed to know I needed company and was more than willing to provide it. He purred just before the knock on the door, and I got up to see who it was.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” I told Meyer, who kissed me as soon as the door was closed.

  “I didn’t want to talk about things in the car.” He cupped my cheeks and kissed me again. “I think you and I need to talk.”

  I knew what that could mean, and it was rarely good. There were so many times in my life when that exact phrase had been used as a prelude to bad news that I couldn’t help tensing, even though I wanted to keep cool. If Meyer wanted to take a step back, then I would deal with it.

  “Okay.” I held my breath as I sat back down, then released it when Rosco climbed onto my lap, purring and rubbing against me. “I know,” I whispered, and stroked his back. Rosco was always comforting, and that was a joy.

  “I just think that you and I need to talk to each other. It was something we were shit at in the past. I thought you understood me and figured you wanted the same things I did, and it turned out we were both wrong, and you got hurt.” Meyer sat down next to me. “I don’t want that to happen again.”

  That was most definitely a switch. “I don’t particularly relish getting hurt either, but I don’t really see a way out of it. The fact is that I’m not going to stay here after the show is done. Rosco and I will get on a plane and go home. You will have your life and your restaurants here. The other thing is that you’re figuring out who you are and what you want. Believe me, there is a whole different world out there for you to experience now that you’ve opened the closet door.”

  “I’m well aware of that world outside, thank you very much,” Meyer quipped. “What I’m saying is that I’m older, hopefully wiser, and a helluva lot less stupid. I can’t have everything my own way… and that was what I wanted before. I always thought that I could keep part of myself quiet and that it was nobody’s business who I spent my time with.”

  I knew the boxes a mind could build to wall off anything unpleasant or what someone didn’t want to face.

  “I know now that attitude cost me you, and it cost me part of my soul. I want it back. I want you back. I want to be whole and….” He paused. “Most of all, I think I want what you want and what you’ve had all along.”

  This entire conversation was the last thing I ever expected to hear from Meyer. I wanted to believe it and put faith in it, but the hurt kept me at bay. “Meyer, I can’t go back to being a secret—for anyone. That nearly killed me. I had you in part of my life, and the world in another. It tore me apart, and I can’t do that again.” There was no way that I could split myself in two once more, because this time I wasn’t going to be able to put myself back together, at least not nearly as easily.

  “You deserve more than to be anyone’s secret. Luke, you deserve to be the center of someone’s world.”

  Shit, this really sounded like Meyer was leading up to a breakup. Not that we were exactly together, but that’s certainly what it felt like.

  I set Rosco on the sofa cushion beside me and got up to go into the kitchen. I got a beer out of the refrigerator, holding it in my hand. “There’s no need for you to go into the rest. I get it and it’s fine.” I huffed as my defenses, the ones I had done a good job of building after the last time I’d gotten that same kind of speech from Meyer, started slipping back into place. “This is something I’ve heard before.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Meyer asked snippily.

  “Oh, come on. I know the ‘let them down easy’ speech when I hear it. What’s next? ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?” I rolled my eyes and opened the beer. “Don’t think I didn’t know this was coming. I have. Things are getting heated up, and there are people on the set just itching to gather a bunch of secrets. And you have a big one that I’m a threat to expose. I know that. It’s only natural that you would want to back away and try to retrench. I get it… I do.” I stood in the doorway. “I do understand.” And damn it all, I knew I should have stayed away from him. But even now, his eyes threatened to draw me closer when I had to be strong.

  “I think you have the wrong idea,” Meyer said as he calmly leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other.

  “I do?” I lowered my head, flashing my best skeptical expression.

  “Yeah, you do.” Meyer held out his hand, and I slowly came over. Rosco lifted his head as though checking to make sure I was okay before closing his eyes again.

  “Then what is it you want?” Obviously I was crap at figuring things when it came to him.

  “Honestly, I’m still figuring things out. I’ve come to accept some things about myself that are difficult. You know about my family. I was brought up in a small town where everyone acted the same and believed the exact same things. The ones who didn’t left because they didn’t fit in. I’ve tried to fit in… I desperately tried.”

  “And you didn’t. That’s why you’re here, hosting a television show, running your restaurants, and making a huge name for yourself, and they’re still sitting on their asses in that small town, doing exactly nothing.” I felt my temper rising. “You already did the hard stuff. You got out and made something of yourself. Do you really think your customers are going to care if the person in your life is a man or a woman, as long as you deliver the same stellar food you always have?” I shook my head. “It all comes back to how you want to live your life.”

 
; “I’m figuring that out.” Meyer leaned forward slightly. “I should have done this years ago. Then we could have had all this time together and had a chance to be happy.”

  “It wouldn’t have worked.” I wasn’t sure things were going to work between us now, but I was willing to try. “It’s easy to blame the failure of things back then on you not being out. But that wasn’t all of it. Neither of us was ready for a full-blown, real relationship. You were still keeping parts of yourself a secret, but so was I in a way. I allowed you to treat me as a secret and was content to be this quiet part of your life. I needed to learn to stand up for myself and be the person I was.”

  Meyer tilted his head slightly in that adorable way he had when he didn’t understand something. “I always thought of you as this confident, self-assured person.”

  “Nope.” I chuckled. “People like that don’t have relationships like ours. It wasn’t until I started the blog that I came to realize the source of my self-consciousness.”

  “You mean the food thing?” Meyer asked, repositioning to the sofa.

  “Yeah. I was picked on because of the things I didn’t like that everyone else did. Mom knew I hated bananas, but she bought them every week, and most of the time they were the only fruit in the house because if I got hungry enough, I’d eat them.” I was also coming to realize that my mom and dad had a very skewed view of parenthood. “I was picked on because I didn’t eat certain foods. I remember when I went to college and could eat, or not eat, anything I wanted… you would think it would be a relief, but it wasn’t. I kept expecting to be belittled, and never talked about food. I choked things down because the other guys ate them.”

  “Hey. It’s okay. You will never have to eat anything you don’t want to… well, except maybe in the upcoming challenges, but you can make that ick face all you want.” Meyer smiled. “If you don’t like it, just say so.”