I smile at him. “I like hanging out with you too.” And I mean it. Ethan is such a sweet guy and exactly the type of person I should be dating. If only I could convince the Jake-shaped hole that’s currently eating away at my heart.
After we finish our yogurt, Ethan walks me to the train station. At the steps, he pauses, then takes a small step toward me. My heart races with panic—Is he going to kiss me?—but I exhale with relief when his lips brush my cheek instead.Thank the great ghost of Betty White in the sky.When he pulls back, the kind look in his eyes hits me with a fresh wave of guilt.
“See you at work Tuesday.”
12
BY THE TIME JAKEarrives the next evening, I’ve already been to the market, torn through my collection of cookbooks, showered, and changed my outfit four times. I finally settled on black leggings, a long white tee, a half-up top knot, and some delicate gold jewelry. The perfect “I didn’t put in effort, I just happen to be this cute” look.
When I open the door, Jake is standing there holding a bottle of Chardonnay. My pulse trips over itself at the sight of him, the blood in my veins throbbing violently against my skin. He’s dressed in a gray knit with a pocket across the front. It looks so soft it takes every ounce of self-control to keep myself from leaping across the threshold and burying my face in it. His glossy brown hair flips out beneath a tan beanie, and it’s then that I notice the absence of his signature white cap.
“Hey,” he says, leaning forward to brush his lips against my cheek. I smile and gesture for him to come inside, taking a deep yoga breath to steady myself. I hate that after all this time, my attraction to him hasn’t faded in the slightest.
“What happened to your hat?” I ask. The corners of his mouth droop slightly. “Oh, uh. My stylist sort of banned it. She said it didn’t go with the image my label is trying to project. Somethingabout ‘the end of my Cracker Barrel era.’” He shrugs as he steps into the kitchen, and it’s clear he wants to drop the subject.
“It smells great in here,” he says by way of transition.
“Really? I’ve barely done anything yet,” I laugh.
“Must be the anticipation.” Jake grins as he slides onto a barstool. “Should I open the wine?” I nod, grabbing two glasses from a kitchen cabinet. He fills each one generously, and I pause to take a long, appreciative sip. Then I walk over to the fridge, pulling out the ingredients I’ll need. I want to cook something that would make Jake feel at home, relaxed, and at peace. After much deliberation, I’ve settled on the most comforting recipe I could think of: roast chicken. My grandparents have been gone for years, but it’s what my bubbie always made when we visited them in Westchester for the High Holidays. The smell of it is transporting, reminiscent of home. And family.
“Tell me more about your new job,” Jake says. His eyes study my hands closely as I begin spatchcocking the chicken, my knife sliding with perfected skill into the just-right spot between its joints. A wave of confidence rolls through me as I consider how much stronger my culinary skills have gotten since we last saw each other.
“Well,” I sigh. “It’s a lot of work.”
Jake nods. “But do you enjoy it?”
I shrug. “I mean, it’s not exactly a dream job, but it’s a necessary step in my career plan. Now that I’ve gotten a position at a restaurant, I just need to work my way up the ranks from line cook to sous chef and then executive chef.” And then, I’ll finally be able to do the things I love most about cooking. To be creative and create dishes that bring people joy. To see the impact food can have.
Jake nods. “Seems like you’ve got things all figured out.”
“My mom is the voice in my head that keeps me going. She was always so supportive of my cooking career.”
I blink back the hot tears prickling behind my eyes. “I can still remember this one night, about two weeks before she passed away.By then, she could hardly keep anything down, so I decided to make her some matzah ball soup. It was just a box mix, but at the time, I was so proud of myself.” I take a deep breath before continuing.
“It must have been so hard for her to even force that much down, but she ate every bite like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. And when she finished, she took my hands in hers, and said, ‘When you open your restaurant, remember that I was your first and proudest fan.’” I smile at the well-worn memory, the image of her hands in mine burned into my retinas. Her nails, left unpolished for the first time, looked so foreign to me, but her touch was warm as ever.
Jake tilts his head slightly as though he’s trying to work something out. “So, working in a restaurant,” he says softly, his voice tinged with sympathy. “Is this your dream, or your mom’s?”
His question jolts me back to reality. For a moment, I’m frozen. Then I busy my hands, lining the baking sheet with thyme sprigs. I carefully arrange the chicken on top before finally turning to face Jake.
“It’s my dream. Cooking has been my passion since I was a teenager.” I take a deep breath, attempting to loosen the tightness in my chest. “It’s fulfilling to make something that brings strength and comfort to someone else. Food is love, you know?” And it’s true. But there’s also more to it than that, something I’m less willing to admit out loud. Cooking feels like a way to preserve my mother’s memory, to continuously feel like I am making her proud, just like I did when she was alive. When I cook, I remember exactly how it felt when we were all together as a family. When we were happy.
“Hmm.” Jake nods again but doesn’t say anything else. But a look of understanding is etched into his handsome face, and somehow, I know he gets it. That he recognizes how deeply my goals for the future are intertwined with my memories of the past.
“Well, good for you for not letting anything stop you.” He holds my gaze, his eyes boring into mine. We stare at each otherfor a long moment before I clear my throat to break the spell. I grab a bag of baby potatoes from the countertop.
“Here, help me slice these,” I say, anxious to change the subject. I hand him a knife and a cutting board. He cocks his head slightly as he stares in confusion at the supplies, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I’m embarrassed to say I’ve eaten many of my mom’s potatoes, but never bothered paying attention to how she made them,” he admits sheepishly.
“You just cut them in half, like this,” I explain, sliding a knife lengthwise through the skin of a small red potato. He moves to stand next to me, and my shoulder buzzes with electricity in the spot where his arm brushed alongside it. That old current is still there, crackling in the air between us.
“Ah, of course.” Furrowing his brow, he holds the knife tightly before making the slowest, most deliberate cut I’ve ever seen. He lifts his head to look at me, waiting for approval.
“Well done,” I comment with a nod. “Though at that rate, we’ll be eating this for breakfast.”
Jake chuckles, the dimple in his right cheek popping, and my stomach does a traitorous flip.
