The more flour he dispenses, the harder my heart pounds.
I try to keep them at bay, but there’s a breech in the walls. The memories rush inside.
My elbow knocking the sauce ladle. The arc of red across the line, the ruined plate. Chef Davis’s face in mine, voice like a knife. “That sauce took two hours. Your stupid, clumsy hands ruined it in five seconds.” And then: “When will you ever prove to me you’re worth keeping on here? My guess? Never.”
The whole kitchen listened.
No one said anything.
I lurch forward, grabbing his wrist as his hand dips inside the bag of flour again. “Stop. You can’t do that!” My voice is hard. Devoid of any playfulness.
“Why?” His tone is a mirror of my own.
I scan the ruined kitchen, and my breath trembles like I’m balancing on a shaky tree limb. “Just—! You can’t!”
James inches closer, voice softening. “Becausewhy,Madison?”
“Because . . .” I’m blinking quickly, tears clogging up my eyes. “Because! I’ll get in trouble!” My answer cracks through the air, ringing like a strike of lightning in the dark.
I want to curl up in a ball and hide. Scurry into a hole where no one can find me. This shame was my shadow in New York, and it’s found me again.
“Who is going to get you in trouble?” He phrases this like a question, but in his eyes I see that he already knows the answer.
It rises in front of me.
“No one,” I whisper, barely audible. “I won’t be in trouble with anyone. There’s no one in here but us.”
“Exactly. This is your kitchen.” He sets the bag of flour aside and moves in close to me, brushing a smudge of flour off my cheek. “It’s yours, Madison.No one else’s. There’re no rules yet for how you can behave in your own kitchen—because you’re the one to setthem. And that prick, whoever he is, has no power in this kitchen. Never will.” His voice is impossibly tender, like his thumb running against my jaw. “Tonight, make a mess if you want. Have a hell of a good time. You’ve earned it.”
New York taught me that imperfection equals pain. That it’s a flaw to be chiseled away, one brutal critique at a time.
It’s hard to remember that imperfection once meant joy. Creativity.
It was the spark behind late-night recipe experiments, fueled by cheap wine and lit with my sisters’ laughter.
Imperfection used to be my friend. Maybe it’s time to take it by the hand again.
I find the bag of open flour sitting on the counter and dip my hand inside. The fluffy powder is soft against my palm as I scoop it out and toss it into the air.
We’re in a snow globe, and James’s smile is something I’ll never forget.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Madison
“No, you’re rolling those way too small! No one wants a small cookie.”
James laughs as I take the ball of dough from his hand and add more to it, rolling it into a suitable size. “One night of cooking in this kitchen and you’re a maniac.” He wipes his hands on a dish towel, then picks up the wine bottle we’ve been drinking from, bringing it right to his mouth.
We’ve been in here for hours now, days. Who knows? I expected James to get bored and leave by the fourth dish, but I underestimated him. He’s stuck with me, washing, dicing, and plating our way through the menu. It helps we’ve been sampling (devouring) everything as soon as it comes out of the oven or off the stove, burning our mouths and laughing. He took it upon himself to wash the dishes between each meal while I look ahead, prepping for the next one.
After the first round of dinner options, James stepped out andreturned with a bottle of wine. He forgot the glasses though, so we’ve been drinking straight from the bottle.
Now we’re onto the dessert courses. Keeping with the hometown memories theme of the restaurant, I want this cookie to pay homage to my grandma, who made the best damn chocolate chip cookies in the world. Rarely a school day went by that she didn’t have them waiting on the table for us when we got home. They’ll be served with a heaping scoop of homemade bourbon vanilla ice cream.
I roll out three more cookies and put the tray in the oven.
“I’m debating making these cookies in mini skillets instead.”
