24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Hazel

I'm sitting at the kitchen bar, crafting and recrafting my email to Jeff, not sure how I'm going to word it. He sent me here in the hopes that I'd move to Paris to work for him, and now I'm gearing up to tell him that I will indeed move here, but that I'm resigning?

There's no easy way to phrase this. Even Jeff's cheery mood is going to take a punch with this one. Of course, I'm not going to leave him high and dry. I can keep my position for a few months, even help him find a replacement who already lives here in Paris.

I've also stayed up most of the night debating whether to write my reviews about the second round of restaurants I visited. I know that sending those along would soften the blow. But in the end, I decided not to. I'll tell Jeff not to pay me for that portion of the trip. It would be unethical to write them. I didn't pay for the meals, and I've met all the chefs. They were all amazing and generous, even if some elements of their cuisine could be improved. Plus, now that I know the dramatic consequences a bad review can have, I don't want to keep writing them. I know they're meant to spur improvement, but a bit of research showed me that many Michelin star chefs end up in depression—or worse—when they lose stars. And while I'm not the one awarding them, it still feels like I'm part of the process, and I don't like it.

Ivy's face appears on my phone as it vibrates. We've been messaging since yesterday, and through most of the night, so she's officially caught up on my personal drama.

I put the conversation on speaker. "Hey, you're up early. "

"About to go to sleep, actually," she says with a yawn. "Night shift at the hospital."

"Oh, right. How was it?"

"Slow night. So, good." She cracks her neck to each side. "Oh! Speaking of work, did you spill the beans to Olivier?"

I moan. "No, not yet."

Another thing that's been keeping me up all night. The sword of Damocles has been lowering dangerously these past few days. Ever since Jeff said the reviews would be published "soon." But the blade hasn't fallen yet.

I know I'm lucky. It's like the universe is offering me a chance to come clean before it's too late, but I can't. I was so close to telling him yesterday. But every time, I chickened out. I need to rehearse exactly how I'm going to reveal my big secret. I only have one chance at this, and I can't blow it.

"Hazel!" Ivy scolds. "You have to tell him. You said you'd do it this morning."

"I know. I know, but he was so amazing, and I really, really like him, Ivy. I think we have a serious shot. I don't want to mess it up."

"Where is he now? "

I blow out a heavy sigh. "At the market. I said I had to write my resignation email, so he went alone."

"Well," she scolds, her reproachful tone back on, "You have to come clean. The longer you wait, the worse it's going to be."

I twist my lips as my heart wrenches. "I know, but I want to resign first. That way, when I tell him, it'll already be a thing of the past, you know? And I want to choose my words carefully."

"That doesn't make much sense to me. Words won't change the truth. Tell him now and send the email later. What if he wants nothing to do with you once he finds out? You did say that was a possibility."

My throat constricts at the thought. "I know. But I'm hoping it won't go down like that. The things he said to me . . . I think he likes me as much as I like him."

"Well, either way. You have to tell him and fast."

I swallow hard. "I will."

As if on cue, just when I hang up, I hear the front door opening.

"Hey," Olivier greets as I join him at the door to help with the bags. "How's the email going? "

"Not great," I say, ignoring the lump of lead in my stomach.

"I can imagine. I'm not quite ready to have that conversation with Jean-Pierre either." He grimaces. "I'll wait until I find a location for the restaurant, though. That can take a while. I also have to talk to the banks and so on."

Bobbing my head, I help him with the groceries before sitting back at the bar, staring at the blank document I have open.

I've opened a blank document on my laptop, trying to write down what I would tell Olivier, but I've been rewriting the same two sentences for the past twenty minutes, and I hate everything. I thought it'd be easier to see the words and rearrange them before I confront him, but no matter how I put my confession, it's still awful.

Olivier, I have to tell you something. When we met, I said I was a historian, but that's not exactly true. While I do hold a deep love for history, and Paris is a great place to be for that—

Seriously? I press the Backspace key until the page is blank again. I need to be more direct.

Olivier, I lied to you. I am not a historian but a food critic. When we met, I was really evaluating your restaurant .

Maybe not that direct? Gosh, this is impossible. No matter how I lay this on him, he's going to hate me. I'm sure of it now.

"Hazel?" Olivier utters, his pitch rising. He stands up from the couch, phone in hand. His wide eyes meet mine, and shock is written all over his face. "You're a food critic?"

The last word gets stuck in his throat, as if it doesn't want to come out. And I can't blame him for not wanting to say it out loud. Those simple words have terrible consequences.

Blood drains from my face as my brain rushes to put words together to form a coherent sentence, but nothing comes out.

"Dull," he reads, eyes glued to his phone. "A cuisine that clearly lacks passion and creativity. High hopes for the son of a gastronomy legend who didn't deliver on the promi–"

His eyes close, and he drops his phone on the couch.

I scurry toward him, reaching forward to take his hand, but he takes a step back, his face reddening as he pulsates with anger. His usual warm and sparkling eyes become two dark holes as he bears an expression that's a mix of shock and fury .

" C'est pas possible ," he mumbles, shaking his head slightly. " ?a recommence. Tu m'as menti . . . "

"Olivier, you're speaking French," I say, even though I'm pretty sure I know what he's saying. That I'm a big fat liar.

"You lied to me. You're not a historian. You're . . . You're a food critic?" he asks, staggering another step back, like he's just been shot in the stomach. "HC from Miami Taste . That can only be you. Those words, you said them to me that night. I remember."

I venture another tentative step toward him. "Olivier, I can explain. I'm so sorry. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't. When we met, I—"

Closing his eyes again, he huffs out a forceful breath. "Please, just go," he says, slumping onto the couch and staring into space.

"What? No." I sit down next to him, placing a hand on his knee. He grabs my hand and removes it at once, and the chill of his touch sends shivers down my spine. "I wrote that review before I knew you. I'm sorry. Please, we can figure this out."

"No, Hazel. We can't." He turns to me, and then I see it—the mix of disappointment, hurt, and hatred brewing in his eyes. They start to redden, glassing over, and now I'm the one who's just been shot. Or maybe I've been stabbed, because I can almost feel my insides writhing deep in my gut. "You messed everything up. I don't want you here anymore. Please, just go."

"Olivier," I plead. "We have to talk about this."

He springs up from the couch. "I can't do this, Hazel," he shouts, a sour expression marring his face. "We had fun, we fooled around, and now it's over. I don't have time for this."

My heart sinks. "‘Fooled around'? Is that what you think we were doing? We were making plans for the future together."

"Don't twist this around. Just go. Please." His tone is calm yet firm, and it's icing my body out.

"Olivier, please. I had to lie when I was reviewing your restaurant. Then, I just got caught up in it. I didn't know how to tell you. It's—"

"Get out, Hazel," he booms, his eyes bloodshot.

My lips quiver, and I do my best to hold the tears in. "Fine. But for the record, I thought what we had was real. "

His head snaps toward me. " Real requires honesty, Hazel. And you lied to me from day one."

A tear escapes his eye, sliding down his cheek, and it's too much for me to handle. My own tears blur my vision as I grab my computer and rush to my room.

I hastily pack my stuff up. When I return to the living room, he's not on the couch anymore. It's probably better that way. One last look at him, injured by my actions, and my heart might shatter into a thousand pieces.

Olivier

I can't believe it happened again. What's wrong with me? Is there a sign that says ‘lie to me' or ‘take advantage of me' hanging on my forehead or something?

I chuck the grocery bag to the other side of the room.

I really thought things were different this time. Never in a million years would I have thought we'd end up this way. Hazel was mending her heart just as much as I was—or so I thought—and that made me vulnerable. Or was she lying about that too? How can I know what's even true at this point?

All the moments we spent together play before my eyes. With every smile, every laugh, every kiss that we shared, it hurts just a little more. Now, everything makes sense. Her knowledge about high gastronomy, her passion for food, why she wanted to try out restaurants while she was stuck here, why we even met in the first place. How did I not see any of it?

She was eating alone that night. That should have tipped me off. Except that clue in itself doesn't really mean anything. These days, a lot of people dine alone. It's not even remotely suspicious anymore.

Plus, we know for a fact that critics—at least Michelin guide critics—come in groups or with their loved ones to stay incognito, because dining alone is way too obvious. Yet here we are.

And the words she used in her review. So cold, so harsh. I know I hadn't prepared my best meal that night, but did I really deserve those scathing descriptions? Boring, dull, lacking in creativity and passion. Those words break careers. And in this case, they also crush hearts. And I don't have to think twice to decide which one hurts most.