Page 58 of The Love You Fight For
“Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She glowers, but then her eyes flutter shut, and she hums inappreciation. When she swallows, she opens her eyes and hits me with a look of pure annoyance.
“How are you so good at this? This is amazing. Prime rib. Barbeque. Cupcakes. Now omelets? I can makeonethingwell: shrimp alfredo. That’s it.”
I hand her the fork so she can eat some more, then cut into my own omelet and take a bite, chewing and swallowing before answering.
“I went to culinary school for a while,” I confess. “Even had a job working in the kitchen at Rosa Mare. You know that fancy restaurant in Arlington?”
Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.
“Yeah, I know it. It’s almost impossible to get on their reservation list. There was a write-up about them in thePost“Food and Culture” section a few years ago and they blew up.”
I laugh.
“Yeah, I remember that write-up. The braised purple carrots they raved about? Those were mine.”
“You lie,” she says, and I shake my head.
“Nope. They credited everything to Chef Oliver, but that was my recipe. I did the steak the food critic ate that night, too.”
She blinks at me with her mouth agape, then shakes her head.
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what happened? Why aren’t you working in some five-star kitchen somewhere demanding everyone call you Chef? Why are youhere?”
I furrow my brow, wincing a bit at her words.
Why are you here?
Meaning,why aren’t you doing something better, something more? I laugh it off, but it stings.
“I used to want to run my own kitchen, own my own restaurant or something like that, but my home is here. My family is here. I didn’t want to live in D.C. or New York because then I’m not here if they need me, and there’s really not muchopportunity to further your culinary career in Franklin, so I let it go.”
Her eyes widen some more, and she lets out a shocked little laugh.
“You gave up your dream of being a chef and owning your own restaurant because you didn’t want to live far away from your family? You gave up working at a Michelin-star restaurant in Arlington to come back toFranklin, of all places?”
The confusion that laces her every word is so thick that it’s comical.
She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t know my family’s history, sure, but even if she did, I doubt she’d understand. How could she? I’ve seen her family. I know who she grew up with. If our situations were flipped, I’d probably be confused, too.
“When I was working in Arlington, my brother-in-law was in an accident. He had left the house to go on a run—he was training for a marathon at the time—and when he didn’t return when he was supposed to, my sister called the county sheriff’s department. They found him unconscious on Old Courthouse Highway. He’d been a victim of a hit and run and needed surgery, and they had to amputate both of his legs. Michael couldn’t work, obviously, and Tiffany was home with three small children, so I dropped everything and moved back. I took on two jobs to make sure they didn’t lose the house and that the kids had food on the table, and I don’t regret it. They needed me, so I came, and we got through it together. That’s how it should be, and it made me realize that I never want to be that far away from them again.”
I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. I don’t look at her. I can’t. I don’t want to know what I’ll find on her face if I do.
“They’re my true north, Sam,” I say, and then I end the conversation.
I wash my plate in the sink, then wash hers. I make sure everything is clean and put back where I found it, then I turn back to her.
“Ready to head out?” I check my watch. “It’s almost a four-hourdrive, so I’d like to get on the road. Macon and Lennon are going to meet us there.”
She tilts her head to the side and studies me, her expression giving nothing away.
“Lennon will be there?”
