I nod quickly, blinking back hot tears. Chef moves down the line to taste Ali’s salad, humming in approval as he takes a bite.
The rest of the day passes in a blur, and when classes end, I can hardly get out the door fast enough.
“Hey, Lexi, wait up!” Ali hurries toward me, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor. Even after a blistering day over a stovetop, she looks fresh in a tie-dye hoodie and ripped jeans, her dark ringlets brushing her shoulder blades. She links her arm through mine as we push through the kitchen doors into the hallway.
“Listen, don’t worry about the soup thing, okay? So it was a bit bland. Big deal! Trust me, Jean-Pierre does not need any more sodium. He’s basically a pillar of salt as it is.” When I’m unable to hold back a snort, she grins and tosses an arm around my shoulders.
“There, that’s more like it.” She beams. “Now, on to more important things: Will you make it to happy hour this afternoon?”
I groan. It’s finally Friday, and there’s nothing I’d enjoy more than ending the week with Food Network and Chinese takeout. But it’s not so much an invitation as a demand. If I know Ali, she’ll lovingly hound me until I give in. It’s the price I pay for keeping the company of extroverts. “Sure,” I reply, hoping my smile covers the flatness of my voice. “I just need to run home and change.”
“Great!” she chirps. “Chloe’s meeting us, too. I’ll text you the deets.”
THE AFTERNOON AIR ISunseasonably warm for March, and after shoving through the school’s double doors I slip off my denim jacket, tucking it under the strap of my tote.
Despite the sunny skies, the Financial District skyscrapers cast long, gloomy shadows across the sidewalk, mirroring my mood. I sigh as my mind runs back through the day. Ali’s right—one lackluster dish isn’tthatbig a deal. Not in isolation, at least. It’s just thateverything seems harder in the classroom than it does at home. In my own kitchen the process feels smooth, natural. But at school, under the pressures of time and demands for perfection, I never seem to get it right. There’s something about the performative aspect of being in class, of doing what I love most under the critical eye of instructors, that rattles me. It’s probably why I love prep so much. It’s the only time of day when I feel in control, instead of bulldozed by the stress of endless, fast-paced demands.
I wish I could blame my struggles on being the youngest, but at twenty-three, I’m one of the oldest students in my class. Almost everyone else is eighteen or nineteen, straight out of high school. And while my parents didn’t force me to get a college education first, it was clear from the dozens of college admission pamphlets left on my nightstand and the SAT prep course they enrolled me in that they viewed it as an essential step. Ultimately, I agreed, and accepted a spot at NYU. Unfortunately, four years of beer pong and British literature did little to improve my culinary savvy. At this rate, it will be a miracle if I even land a decent externship, let alone a position in a credible restaurant.
I sigh as I head down the cement stairs to wait for the 4 train, lost in thought. I used to enjoy cooking. No, not just enjoy—relish, delight in, enthuse over. Nothing filled me with joy quite like popping into Eli’s Market on my way home from school and letting the seasonal produce inspire my next creation. Plump scarlet tomatoes for gazpacho. Shiny golden peppers for a frittata. Lush emerald spring greens for a simple salad. A kaleidoscope of color to fuel my creativity.
Mom was always my biggest and most enthusiastic fan. I can still picture her hunched over her laptop at our dining room table, tortoiseshell glasses perched on the edge of her nose. No matter how busy she was, she’d happily set aside her legal brief to sample anything I created.
“When you’re a Michelin-star chef, I’ll be eating in your restaurant every night,” she declared the night I served her a plate of sage and brown butter gnocchi, my first successful attempt at homemade pasta. I still remember the way she squeezed my hand, her skin nearly translucent from the chemo.
If she’d known then how unlikely a dream it is, that only 1 percent of Michelin-star restaurants are led by women, I wonder if she would have reconsidered. Not that she’ll ever get the chance. She died before I finished high school. It’s her faith in me that pushes me to succeed, no matter how badly my day goes. I can’t bear the thought of letting her down, of allowing her confidence to be misplaced.
A twinge of guilt weaves through my stomach when I get off at my stop and take in the familiar sights. Immaculate prewar buildings. Glossy department store windows. Nannies pushing strollers that cost more than a car payment. I always feel a bit uneasy when I come home at the end of the school day. Most of my classmates live in cramped student housing; Ali’s the only one who knows I live alone in a two-bedroom, doorman-guarded apartment on the Upper East Side that I’ve called home my entire life.
After a scalding shower, I pull on a white top with ruffled sleeves and a pair of jeans. Standing in front of the mirror, I appraise my reflection.
When I was growing up, people swore I was the spitting image of either my mother or my father, depending on which one of them I was with. But the truth is, I’m a combination of the two. My clear blue eyes and thick, dark brows are all my dad, but I inherited my mom’s full lips and straight, dark blond hair.
I dot on some concealer and add a few swipes of mascara. An improvement for sure, but there’s no covering the telltale dark circles beneath my eyes from a week of predawn wake-up calls for school.
My phone vibrates and a notification pops up on the screen.Call Dad.I sigh and switch off the weekly reminder. Without mydad and his monthly stipend, I couldn’t afford school or even happy hour drinks in the city. But tonight, I don’t have it in me to feign interest in his latest adventure with my stepmom at their Boca Raton country club. It’s Friday afternoon, my friends are waiting, and, most importantly, drinks are half-price until seven.
2
TODAY’S HAPPY HOUR DESTINATIONis Paddington’s, an East Village dive bar with a faded red awning and wooden sign reading “Bar and Grill.” Pushing open the wooden door, I step inside and scan the room for my friends.
The small space is dim, its scuffed floors cluttered with mismatched chairs. A string of Christmas lights casts a red glow against the back wall, every inch of which is covered in eclectic decor. It only takes a moment to find Ali and Chloe at a table in the corner.
Even from a distance, Ali’s laugh cuts through the hum of the crowd. Though barely five feet one, the girl’s got more than enough personality to make up for it. It’s no wonder she’s already become so close with Chloe, even though I’m the one who’s known Chloe for a decade. Ali’s eyes light up as she catches my gaze and waves me over.
I head over to their table, leaning in to give them both hugs. Chloe throws me a quick smile before turning her attention back to her phone.
“Everything okay?” I ask as I slide into the rickety chair across from her. She blows out a long exhale without bothering to look up.
“It’s fine. I just need to change Chad’s social media passwords before he gets himself involved in a scandal even I can’t save him from.” Chloe’s PR job consists of putting out fires for D-list celebrities, including Chad, a formerBachelorcontestant whose daily misadventures put him in constant danger of being canceled. Last week, he posted photos of his new tattoo, a rose surrounded by Japanese text. Chad thought it meant “deflowerer of beautiful maidens.” Twitter detectives discovered it actually meant “gardener of sensual beef jerky.”
Sighing, she flips her phone over and shoves it away with a look of disgust, as if she isn’t going to pick it up again in exactly three minutes. She finally looks up, flashing me a smile as she tucks a perfectly styled blond wave behind her ear. My eyes linger on her glossy red manicure, a stark contrast to my own stubby, bitten-down nails.
A server materializes, setting down a pitcher of margaritas and three salt-rimmed glasses. He leans forward, his square jaw melting into a grin as his emerald eyes sparkle.
“Can I get you ladies anything else?” His Australian accent is thick and, admittedly, dead sexy. I shake my head as he walks off with a wink.
“God, I love a man with Hemsworth energy,” Ali whispers the moment he’s out of earshot. She grabs the pitcher to pour us each a glass. “What do you think, Lex?”
