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I laugh at her question, partly because she’s being so nosy and partly because she’d love to know that I’m about to go and see what culinary school would involve.

But I haven’t made any decisions yet, so I’m not telling her anything. I’m just here to see what kinds of courses they have on offer. I’m not committing to anything.

“I’m just going into a meeting,” I say. “I’m going to have to go.”

“But don’t come to the hotel. I’ll meet you at your place.”

“My apartment?” A thrill travels up my spine as I think of her back at my place. But she can’t come back there. It’s perfectly obvious, from my book on the nightstand, that I’ve been sleeping in the guest room—the one she stayed in—since she left.

“Your office,” she clarifies.

“Oh, yes. Okay.”

“Or I could meet you for a drink,” she says. “Or I could stop by tonight at your apartment, if you’re going to be busy this afternoon.”

My mind is full of thoughts of hope and terror stitched together. What on earth does she want to talk to me about?

I glance up at the list of occupants of the building and my eyes catch on the Institute of Culinary Education. “I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll see you tonight.” But I can’t see her in my apartment. I can’t risk an omelet turning into more. “Let’s meet for a drink. I’m not sure what time I’ll be able to leave the office though.”

“Okay,” she says. “Text me when you’ll be free.”

I agree to let her know the time, and just as I hang up, the lift doors open.

I don’t often get nervous, but my stomach dips as I step inside the car and I push thoughts of Avril to the side. I need to focus.

I’ve deliberately dressed down today. Like Bray says, it’s good to have people underestimate you. But I still feel like I’m going to be the odd person out. No doubt the people attending this open day will be kids right out of college or something.

As the lift rides up to the thirty-third floor, I get the urge to run. What am I thinking? Am I really considering going to culinary school? Why?

Because I love cooking.

I love food.

I always have.

And I want something more in my life. I want to be moving toward something rather than running away from my past.

I have the same need in me that my father had—to feed people. But I’m not my father. I’ve spent my entire life making sure I’m not vulnerable. No one can break me like our landlord broke my father. It can’t happen. But it has meant I’ve pushed out the good parts of my father’s career, along with the bad. He loved the creativity of food. He liked finding new flavors, poring over recipe books in Goodwill, exploring markets for produce.

Cooking lit him up. He was drawn to it like he didn’t have a say in his path.

I’ve spent my life proving that I control everything. I’m the puppet master.

But it hasn’t made me happy.

Now it’s time to make a change.

I step out of the lift and a deep stillness settles in me. It’s like I’ve come home.

There’s a row of badges set out on a table. Sitting behind the desk, an older lady wearing a badge telling me her name is Misha smiles up at me. “You here for the open day?”

I nod. “I’m Ben East.”

She types my name into her computer and the printer starts to whir into action. She assembles my badge and then hands it to me. “Here you are. If there are any questions you don’t want to ask in front of the crowd, come and find me at the end. I’ve worked here a very long time. There’s not a lot I don’t know.”

That’s kind. I glance around and there’s nobody behind me.

“What percentage of the attendees today will apply for your Easter intake?” I ask.