Then she's gone and I'm standing there with a half-plated salad and a chest full of feelings I don't know how to name.
Maya steps up moments after the door swings shut behind Ivy, her timing so impeccable I wonder if she'd been lurking just out of sight in the prep area, waiting for exactly this moment.
"You're hopeless," she says, and there's an entire dissertation of affection and exasperation packed into those two words.
"I'm focused," I counter, turning back to the station where my half-finished salad sits in accusation. The microgreens are already starting to wilt slightly at the edges where I've handled them too much.
"You're staring at the door like a lovesick puppy who just watched his owner leave for work." Maya leans against the counter, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in that particular configuration that says she's not buying whatever I'm selling.
"I'm strategizing," I insist, reaching for the tweezers to adjust a radish slice that's absolutely fine where it is. "Tomorrow's demo. Mental preparation. Visualization techniques."
"Sure. That's what we're calling it now." She picks up one of Ivy's discarded herb stems, twirling it between her fingers. "Strategizing. Not mooning over the botanist who just spent two hours making your plating actually functional."
The frisée arrives at ten-oh-seven. Beautiful, fresh, slightly irregular like the farmer promised. I sort through the heads while the temps watch.
"See this?" I hold up a particularly ruffly specimen. "This is what real food looks like. Not uniform. Not perfect. But honest."
Derek nods like I've shared profound wisdom.
We spend the rest of the day drilling. Timing runs. Practice plating. Emergency protocols for when things go wrong because things always go wrong.
By six we're as ready as we'll ever be.
"Go home," I tell the temps. "Sleep. Hydrate. Show up tomorrow ready to execute."
They leave. Maya collapses at her laptop.
"I need to confirm transport logistics," she says. "And double-check the equipment rental. And make sure the Foundation has our final headcount."
"After you eat."
"I'll eat later."
"Maya."
She looks up from her screen, eyes slightly unfocused from staring at spreadsheets for too long. "What?"
"Eat now or I'll physically drag you to the table and force-feed you like you're a stubborn toddler who won't touch their vegetables."
She opens her mouth to argue, then seems to think better of it when she catches the expression on my face. She eats. Imake her a quick pasta with the mushrooms we're not using tomorrow, the ones that didn't quite make the visual cut for the demo but taste absolutely perfect. Garlic, butter, herbs from the garden beds out back. Simple, restorative, the kind of food that reminds you why you got into this business in the first place.
"This is good," she admits between bites, her voice carrying that note of reluctant surprise that always makes me grin.
"I know."
We eat in comfortable silence, the kind that comes from years of working side by side through kitchen chaos and slow Tuesday nights alike. The kitchen's clean, prepped, ready. Every surface wiped down, every ingredient portioned and labeled in Dawn's aggressively neat handwriting. Tomorrow we'll load everything into the rental van and drive to the Foundation building. Set up in their kitchen, someone else's kitchen, which always feels slightly wrong, like wearing borrowed shoes. Plate forty entrées, sixty apps, thirty desserts.
Execute or fail.
No pressure whatsoever.
My phone chimes against the stainless steel counter, the vibration louder than it should be in the quiet space. Text from the Foundation coordinator.
Small change. One of the board members has a shellfish allergy we weren't aware of. Can you substitute the shrimp app?
I show Maya, angling the screen so she can read it without having to move from her spot.
"When were they planning to mention this?" she asks, fork pausing halfway to her mouth. "Like, at any point before the night before the actual event?"
