“Yes. I didn’t want to lie anymore.”
“Okay, but I’m not sure our readers will like this? They really, really dig the idea of Solo February. And you’re kind of like, saying, uh… never mind? Like, uh, forget it?”
The old Sora would cave right now. The old Sora would agree and offer to change the article. But the new Sora…
“I see why you might feel that way,” I begin. “But that’s notthe point of the article. The point is everyone has to choose the path that’s right for them.”
“Yes, but the readers have chosen to go solo? And they might hate it if you duck out early? I’m just warning you?”
I have that old familiar fear about sticking my neck out. Then I think about the fact that being quiet hasn’t gotten me anywhere, either. If I’d spoken up when Marley hadn’t paid his share of household expenses, or when Dan hadn’t been around on weekends, maybe I would’ve ended those bad relationships earlier.
“I know I’m being the nail. But I’ve just got to do it.”
“Uh, the nail?” Arial asks.
“Never mind. Long story, I just mean I’ve got to stick to my guns on this one.”
“Okay, but if the readers revolt, I don’t know?” I know she means that if this goes south, she doesn’t know if the full-time job offer still stands. I get it.
“I understand it’s a risk.”
“If you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Now, all I have to do is get dressed and head to the Golden Chef Awards, which start in less than an hour.
I take Jack’s ticket with me in my tiny black clutch bag, as I take a rideshare to the Hancock Tower on the Magnificent Mile. I’ve glued on my lashes, and poured myself into double Spanx and my old standby, a flattering-for-all A-line black dress. I’m wearing my long dark hair wavy and loose, and I’ve got Grandma’s pearlson. I like to think I look like an Asian Audrey Hepburn, and I try to avoid mirrors to keep reality at bay. I’ve got red stilettos on my feet because… why not? They match my wool coat. Who cares if the weather lady predicts a blizzard later? I need to look goodnowand I refuse to wear snow boots because that would be like admitting defeat to winter. Not this Midwestern girl.
I’m cursing Saturday-night traffic, because I’m even later than I feared I’d be. I rush inside Hancock Tower, past the giant round reflecting pool in the center of the lobby. It’s empty. The ceremony is being held at the swanky Signature Room on the ninety-fifth floor, and signs point to roped-off areas near the elevators for Golden Chef Awards ticket holders. That’s technically me. I don’t see Jack. The ceremony, I realize with a cold sweat, is already underway. I show my ticket to the elevator guard, and he waves me forward, into a super-fast car. My ears instantly pop as I ride the fastest elevator in North America, speeding from the first floor to the ninety-fifth in thirty-eight seconds. Then the doors open to a glittering, gorgeous, golden-hued restaurant with 360 degrees of floor-to-ceiling windows. I suck in a breath as I see the city of Chicago, lights twinkling to one side, and the large, dark expanse of the lake to the other, a big silver half moon reflected in its calm waves.
“Wow,” I manage.
Forget the Sears Tower. Or Willis Tower. Or whatever they’re calling it these days. This is the best view in Chicago. Very well-dressed people pack the restaurant with the amazingly high ceilings and the golden, flattering low light that washes over the dining room. Beautifully decorated tables dot the huge dining room, all carrying expensive bottles of SignatureRoom–label champagne in buckets. The Golden Chef hat logo seems to be everywhere, and it’s all gorgeously decorated. It’s the perfect spot, I think, for a grand romantic gesture.
Awards are being handed out from a small stage near the windows, and I hope and pray that I haven’t missed Jack’s event. I glance around the room, looking for Jack. Where is he? The restaurant is low-lit, and there are so many dark-haired men in tuxedos, I can’t find him. Utensils clink as people dig into their appetizers from the prix fixe menu, and others sip champagne from crystal flutes. I realize I recognize many of these people. They’re famous chefs from all over the country. Actually, the world. Some are reality TV stars. There are a few other celebrities as well, from Chicago-area shows, and a few from Hollywood. It’s a big deal to be nominated, clearly, and I’m so proud of Jack.
“Can I take your coat, miss?” a man in a tie asks, and I realize I’m near the coat check.
“Oh, sure. Thank you.” He takes my red wool coat and hands me a ticket. I keep scanning the crowd. On the stage, a woman accepts an award for Best Sous Chef, thanking her family.
Where’s Jack?
And then, I see him on the other side of the room. He’s sitting at a large, round table of ten, the chair next to him empty. He looks fantastic in his tuxedo, his fuller beard looking clipped and coifed, and in short, like the sexiest superspy baker I’ve ever seen. His eyes widen in surprise as he sees me.Pleaselet him not be thinking that I clean up well. Men tend to refer to me like I’m a crab fisherman—shocked when I roll into a restaurant without plastic overalls and galoshes and not smelling like dead fish.
I wave at him, and he waves back, but he still looks stunned. Did he not get my message? I hesitate. Is this big, grand romanticgesture a mistake? Then I see a woman walking to Jack’s table, wearing a thin, shimmery gold gown, and carrying a matching clutch. She’s wearing her golden hair in finger waves, so she looks like a star from glamorous old Hollywood. I recognize her immediately.
Mal.
Jack’s ex-fiancée.
She sits right down next to him. In his plus-one seat. And drapes her arm around his shoulders.
Nineteen
JACK
Love is supposed to solve all our problems, but what if it just creates them?
