River came. He actually came. After three weeks of silence, after I told him we needed to end things before they got too serious, before I could get hurt the way I always get hurt—he still showed up to support me.
What does that mean? Why would he do that?
“Earth to Kiera.” Kiki waves a hand in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere. I’m here.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. “You ready for round two?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The break ends, and we head back inside. I’m still looking for River, but I don’t see him anywhere. Maybe he left. Maybe he got bored and now he’s?—
I reach my station and glance at the audience.
He’s back. Front row, same seat, looking at me with that steady, unwavering focus that makes my heart stutter.
He didn’t leave. He’s still here.
“Welcome back!” the announcer’s voice booms. “Are you ready for round two?”
The audience cheers, and I grip the edge of my prep counter to steady myself.
“For the main course, our competitors will be working with...” The production assistant wheels out another covered tray. “Miso paste!”
My stomach flips, but not with panic. Miso paste. I’ve done Asian cooking with River. Made gochujang chicken, worked with Korean flavors, experimented with bold, complex tastes. I can do this.
I glance at River, and he’s nodding at me, his expression confident. Like he knows I’ve got this. Like he never doubted it for a second.
“You have two hours to create a main course featuring miso paste. Your time starts... now!”
I rush to the ingredient station and grab what I need: duck breasts, miso paste, mirin, sake, brown sugar, ginger, garlic. Mymind is already working through the recipe—miso-glazed duck with sticky rice and quick-pickled vegetables.
The duck goes into a hot pan, skin-side down, the fat rendering and crisping beautifully. While it cooks, I whisk together the miso glaze—miso paste, mirin, sake, brown sugar, minced ginger and garlic. The mixture is thick and glossy, sweet and savory and complex.
I brush the glaze onto the duck and slide the pan into the oven to finish cooking. Except when I open the oven door five minutes later, it’s stone cold inside.
Panic floods through me. The oven. My oven is broken.
I stare at the control panel, at the temperature display that’s showing zero instead of the 375 degrees I set it to. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not during the competition. The duck needs to finish in the oven. It needs those final minutes of heat to bring it to perfect medium-rare.
A couple people come to my station to look at the oven, but it’s soon apparent they don’t know why it’s not working either.
My heart is racing. My hands are shaking. The cameras are probably zooming in on my panic right now, capturing every second of this disaster for the judges and the audience and?—
I look up at the audience, my vision blurring with tears I refuse to let fall.
And I see River.
He’s leaning forward in his seat, his expression calm and steady. He’s not panicking. He’s not looking at me with pity or concern. He’s looking at me with confidence. With faith.
And suddenly I hear his voice in my head from that afternoon in my apartment, when he was telling me about Captain Joe and the sear-and-tent technique.
The best fishermen know when to trust the heat they’ve already built.
The heat I’ve already built.
I look down at the duck, at the perfectly seared exterior, at the way the miso glaze has caramelized on the edges. I’ve already built heat. Significant heat. And if I tent it properly, let it rest, the residual heat from that hard sear will continue cooking it via carryover.
