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I glanced at the exit door. I was torn between the need to protect Ruben and whatever might be there, and the urge to give in to the euphoria bubbling up inside me and tell Adriel how much I was looking forward to this evening.

“Adriel, why am I so terribly nervous when I’m happy?”

I didn’t know which of us was more surprised that I had said that. In any case, Adriel immediately stopped laughing and smiled gently at me.

“It’s the same with being an artist, right? Even if you love the stage, there’s always a good dose of stage fright when it’s important to you.”

His words rushed through me, setting off a rush of effervescent bubbles in my stomach.

“Wow, boss. You’ve hit the nail on the head.”

He squeezed my upper arm briefly. “I’m happy for you.”

I hadn’t expected that after what Adriel had said in his opening speech about stress between employees.

I watched him thoughtfully as I heard laughter coming from the building.

I turned around and saw through the wide glass windows that the meeting Ruben was attending was coming to an end.

Course participants streamed out of the open double doors. It was interesting to observe the people Ruben worked with. They were all wearing suits and business attire, dressed in their finest clothes.

A cook I knew vaguely from breakfast came through the door. I automatically reached out and stopped her. Instead of going through myself, I stood still and more people hurried through. They came up to me with smiles on their faces.

“You make an excellent doorman, Shane,” said a slender guy. Did I know him?

“Thanks!” I joked back.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ruben stepping out of the conference room. I let go of the door and walked into the entrance area. He didn’t see me, but this way I could get his attention.

“Ruben, wait a moment.”

An older gentleman held him back, and Ruben turned to a small group of people.

Immediately, everyone talked to each other in French. Apparently, Ruben told a joke, because everyone around him burst out laughing.

The oldest person in the group, perhaps the speaker, was talking to Ruben. Ruben shook his head with a slight smile, as if embarrassed by the attention. I didn’t understand a single word. They didn’t even say “oui.”

I eyes drifted down to myself. Jeans and a basic sports shirt.

My gaze wandered back to the group. Ruben looked like he had stepped out of a magazine: “30 Under 30 Chefs” could have been the headline.

On a path without me.

“ . . . you haven’t made it out of this shithole. You live the lowest of lowlifes, while everyone around you is achieving something in their lives.” Why did I let Richard’s words get to me? Why did they stick to me, refusing to let go, while the person who uttered them took off at the first opportunity?

Same as Ruben.

I watched the group talk with animated energy. What reason was there to talk in French?

No. Not as Ruben. That had been something completely different.

He turned his head abruptly and stared directly at me.

There I stood—frozen in place. Like a package that had been dropped on the stairs and had been forgotten ever since.

A smile spread across Ruben’s face, and I wasn’t imagining it. He probably thought I hadn’t noticed him checking me out. But his red cheeks gave him away. I was pretty sure the color wasn’t only from the heat in here.

He quickly turned to the group, then shook hands with the leader. Last, they switched to English at the end.