Page 113 of Ember

“What do you mean, supposed to?”

He sighed. “I’m a sous chef. Next step up is opening my own restaurant, designing a menu, and so on. And I have the experience for it. I just don’t want to.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a sous chef forever,” I said, coming to his defense. He was amused but also making fun of himself a little bit. I didn’t like it.

“My parents were so impressed with my career. Early on, running a Michelin-starred restaurant.”

“Less impressed now?”

“They worry I’m holding myself back.” He shook his head. “They love me, but you know. They want the best for me.”

“Tell me about it.” I rolled my eyes. “My parents keep asking when I’m going to make my own music and instead of making other people rich?”

“Exactly that, mi amor.” Alejandro picked up a long green leafy fruit. “They seem to think I have to be in charge of everything to be using my talents all the way.” He shrugged. “I love my job, but opening a restaurant is murder and I don’t want to sacrifice this just for the sake of my own name on the door.” He gestured between us.

“We would support you if that’s what you wanted,” I said.

“I know.” He grinned, showing a dimple. I briefly considered finding a small dark place to drag him off to. “But I don’t want to. I’ve already arranged my schedule to have more time off. I’d rather have a better work-life balance, now that I have something I’m coming home to.”

That was it. Ben and I had each other, but now it felt like we were going home to a family, not just the place we lived.

“So if you want to play guitar the rest of your life, then have at it.” Alejandro nodded at me, picking up some jicama.

“I don’t, though.” I sighed. “It was nice, the other night, making music just for the fun of it. I wish I could get there again.”

“You can,” Alejandro said. “I go through long periods of just making the same dish over and over. And then inspiration strikes, and I’m off again. It’s a tough process, and you have to be willing to make mistakes.” He gave me a look. “You’re too much of a perfectionist.”

“I know.” I rolled my eyes. Ben told me that twice a week or more. “I can’t help it.”

“You can. It’s just really hard.” He nodded at me. “I was in a perfectionism rut, and then Logan made me burn dishes on purpose.” He shuddered, a look of pure horror on his face.

“Burn dishes?”

“Yes. He’d ask me to make a steak dish and then stand there and make me watch as it burned. And then overcook the rice. And then overseason the veggies.” Alejandro shook his head. “Itfelt like the worse thing in the entire world. And then the bastard took a bite.”

My jaw dropped. I could relate too well. It would be like someone hearing my early trash attempts at writing songs.

“He said it wasn’t the worst dish he’d ever had, and guess what? It was fine to fail sometimes.” Alejandro added some cucumbers and then I added more mangoes, craving them for some reason.

“It does feel like the worst thing, failing.”

“But once you fail, you remember it’s going to happen; you can’t stop it. And putting pressure on yourself to be perfect is making yourself miserable.” Alejandro raked his hand through his hair. “Sometimes I still burn something on purpose. I’ll get really in my head about everything being just so, like when we had our big event and the pork was on the dry side. I was a wreck. So I cooked some eggs and burned the heck out of them and then slid them into the trash, sending a prayer to the kitchen gods. It was amusing and reminded me not to take myself so seriously.” He turned to me, giving me the full weight of his attention. “So I hereby give you permission to suck.”

Heat raced through me, and I looked him over. “So long as I have permission.”

He laughed, rubbing his hand on my shoulder. “Brat. I’ll fuck you later. I mean, you have permission to go home and write the worst song you possibly can think of.”

I made a face.

He laughed. “I know, easier said than done. Make it a game. Whatever feels ‘wrong,’ lean into it. Maybe you write a moody gothic ballad. Maybe you rhyme things terribly. Maybe you try your hand at Swedish death metal.”

I blinked. “Ember told me I could start over. Have a different name if I wanted.”

“Exactly. You’re not doing it for the follow-up album, or even to write a good song. You’re just trying to have fun. Amuse yourself because this is how your brain is wired.” He gestured around us. “Just like my brain is wired to like cooking.”

“Swedish death metal?” I arched an eyebrow. “I don’t have the electric guitar chops for that.”

“Even better,” Alejandro said brightly. “You’ll really suck at it, then.”

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