Page 33 of The Billionaire & the Virgin Chef
Emily
At my part-timejob this week, it’s been hard tofocus.
Straightening out my back, I tilt my head from side to side, working out the tenseness in my sore muscles. I love being a chef. I adore everything about this career. Everything but one. Neck pain. Someone needs to come up with a forward neck rest or something. Anyone working in the food preparation industry must be hoping for the same thing, a way to minimize soreness as we keep looking down at food bowls, to chop ingredients, to knead, mix and stir all manner offood.
But all that internal ranting is just a distraction. There’s another reason I can’t keep my thoughts fromstraying.
By the end of my shift, after all the wait staff and most of the cooks have wrapped up the night, I’m flustered. Did I wipe down and sterilize my prep station? Unsure if I did, I start over, then remove the dozen Cornish hens from Blair’s sub-zerofridge.
Joy is on mymind.
The anniversary of her disappearance is around the corner and the closer it gets, the more unhinged and anxious Ifeel.
Where are you,sister?
This year, I hoped it’d be a little easier. Different somehow. But it’s worse. Guilt is killing me, drowning me little by little, choking the passion out of me bit by bit. Things have no fucking right to be going thiswell.
My life should be inshambles.
My bank account shouldn’t be in the black by tens of thousands ofdollars.
My business, this fantastic part-time job, even having Dylan in mylife.
Their presence all mock the gravity of myloss.
They mock hermemory.
I have no one to share this paradox with. It’s the reason I smile and show my bubbly side. The couple of times it has come up with friends, the pity and sympathy reflecting in their eyes are hard to witness. It’s not much different with my best friend, Dahlia. She comes from a place of pure friendship and love. She means well. Her heart is so kind, but seeing my pain spread to her causes me to shutdown.
And Dylan. I’ve been seeing him for months. We’re so close now, and know each other intimately in every sense of the word. Fixing things is his specialty. He wants to take my pain away, to resolve the situation, to turn things around so it’ll be over and I’ll have closure one way or another. But even his eyes fill with sadness when mine glaze over with overwhelmingsorrow.
The last thing I want is to be the one to suck the life out of aroom.
I tuck it away, tamp it down, push it so far from the light of day that when this time of year comes around, the dam bursts its confines and takes over every part ofme.
It won’t be pleasant thisyear.
I’ve been spending a lot of time at Dylan’s place. Maybe my best course of action is to leave it all behind for a day or two. A drive to the suburb where I grew up, perhaps, or a quiet stay in a hotelsomewhere.
My hands move from memory as I marinate the hens in Blair’s signature rub. They’re set to be on the menu every Sunday for brunch, and Blair likes the marinate to naturally infuse into themeat.
I wrap them to protect their skin while in the freezer and give my station another thorough cleaning before packing up and leaving for thenight.
Dylan is in the habit of picking me up after my shift. Tonight’s nodifferent.
“How did the daygo?”
“Great,” I tell him, keeping my tone even as I fasten myseatbelt.
“You’ve been working a lot the last fewweeks.”
“Have I? I guess I have. What they say about time flying definitelyapplies.”
“That’s a given for you. What do you think of skipping town for a fewdays?”
I look over at him. Can he read my mindnow?
“At any other time, the idea of just you and I sneaking away would be amazing. But... I’m not sure about thetiming.”
