Page 142 of Only Mine
“If this is some kind of guilt trip?—”
“This isn’t about guilt.” Brenda cuts a perfect bite of duck and chews thoughtfully before swallowing. “She started sleeping through the night. Cooking actual meals instead of eating protein bars. Making friends outside of social media.”
Brenda pins me with her gaze.
“And I’ve read about you, too, Chef Daddy. I know the recluse you claim to be, yet you let her into your home, put your daughter in her care, and your restaurant’s ratings are up fifteen percent since she came into the picture.”
I narrow my eyes. “If you’ve researched me the way you say you have, you’d know I don’t give a shit about ratings. It’s why I’m in a town with a population below one thousand.”
“Yet your C’est Trois is humming again. Your staff saysyou were almost pleasant for the last few weeks there.” Brenda plays with her fork. “Funny coincidence, that timeline.”
“Then I’ll fire them all tomorrow.”
Brenda laughs. “You’re not actually the tyrant you claim to be. Look at them.”
I do. My team works in perfect synchronicity, even without my hovering. Eddie’s assisting the expo calling orders with confidence, the line cooks responding with their expert training (mine). But they’re fine without me. Better, maybe.
“She helped you, too,” Brenda says beside me. “That’s what no one’s talking about. Everyone’s so focused on how you affect her that they’re missing how she affects you.”
I’m too stubborn to reply, so I grunt a noncommital response instead.
“Right.” Brenda laughs under her breath. “It’s pure luck that you’re no longer pale with bags under your eyes and your restaurant is currently filled with people who came to see the man behind the viral hands.”
“That’s not why I cook,” I snap, unable to stop myself. “I don’t do this for views or likes or whatever the fuck else drives people to document their entire existence online.”
“No?” Brenda raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “You do it because you love it. And when was the last time youactuallyloved it, Chef, rather than going through the motions? Before or after Wrenley?”
Her question hits me like a pan to the face.
My resulting silence must be answer enough, because Brenda’s expression relaxes into something almost sympathetic.
“Look, I’m not here to play therapist. I’m here because I care about my client, and because, against my betterprofessional judgment, I think you two might actually be good for each other.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.” She dabs her napkin at the corner of her mouth. “But here’s what I know about Wrenley Morgan. She was falling apart before she came here. Completely unraveling. And then she met you and your daughter, and suddenly, she didn’t feel like she needed to cling to her platform so hard. She started living outside of it and finding true happiness. Now, that’s not necessarily good forme, but I love that girl, and I love that she found her place in this world. I wouldn’t even ask her to monetize it, which goes against all my principles. It would be hers alone. I understand that about her now.”
I’m listening to Brenda’s every word, but I’m staring through the small windows of the kitchen doors, where Eddie is expediting with surprising competence. “I have to protect Ivy.”
“From what, exactly? Being happy? Having someone who cares about her?” Brenda shrugs. “From what I’ve seen, Wrenley loves that little girl almost as much as she loves you.”
Brenda’s phone vibrates on the table, a string of notifications lighting up the screen. “Listen, I have to actually make my flight this time because I have plenty of other stubborn-ass clients to talk off cliffs.”
She rises, hooking her designer purse. “Wrenley’s not a risk, Saint. She’s a choice. And you’re allowed to choose her.”
With that, Brenda throws a wad of hundreds on the table and winks. “Keep the change. And the advice.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, preventing the annoyed growl from breathing fire through my nostrils, andwatch her leave until I start to feel stupid just sitting in the middle of my dining room, scowling.
Back in the kitchen, I work like a man possessed. The staff leaves me alone, either out of respect or fear. I send out the last orders myself, wipe down every surface, then keep going, starting with breaking down boxes, scrubbing out the walk-in, and reorganizing the dry goods until my hands are slick with sweat and the sting of lemon degreaser.
When it’s finally quiet, I stand in the middle of the kitchen and try to remember what it felt like to care about anything other than keeping my head above water.
The answer is, I can’t remember. It’s buried under years of making sure Ivy had a father who didn’t fall apart every time she scraped her knee or woke up screaming in the dark. I built my life like a bomb shelter, every wall reinforced, every entrance and exit accounted for.
I thought I was doing it for her, but the longer I stand in the silent kitchen, the more I wonder if I was ever protecting anyone but myself.
THIRTY-TWO
