Chapter Twenty-Eight

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Kieran

Enforced vacation. That's what Steve had called it when he sent me home yesterday.

"You've been a fucking zombie for the past two weeks," he said. "I don't want to see you until Saturday."

I didn't answer, just grabbed my stuff and went to my locker.

He followed me, asking quietly, "What the fuck happened? You were on fire, and now what?"

"I guess I'm burned out," I said dully. Or Ellie had put me out, and nothing could light me up again.

I still craved her. Her lush curves, her laugh, her wiseass comments. I hated that I craved something so bad for me. Once an addict, always an addict, I thought in my worst moments, counting the cracks in my ceiling in the middle of the night. Ellie hadn't been kidding about what a bitch insomnia could be.

On the third day in my pit of cereal boxes and empty soda cans, someone rang my doorbell. Not once or twice, like a normal person would, but constantly.

"Fuck's sake, I'm coming!" The ringing stopped. I yanked on shorts and a T-shirt and opened the door to Jay's back. Her hands were on her hips as she watched the neighbor's cat hunt a fly. She wore the little backpack she used for longer runs.

When she finally turned around, she raised her eyebrows and gestured to her running clothes. The twenty unread text messages on my phone stopped me from slamming the door. I held my index finger up instead and went hunting for my sneakers.

Five minutes later, she led me on a gentle jog south. After days inside, the Mission woke up my senses. I smelled detergent from the laundromat, saw the bright yellows and deep blues in the murals, inhaled the sizzle of carnitas frying at my favorite taqueria. And now I listened to what was happening inside me.

My stomach, complaining about my Cinnamon Toast Crunch diet.

My heart, sore and cracked but still beating.

We were running at the kind of pace where we could talk at the same time, but Jay was still quiet. Too quiet?

Then she booked it . I hauled ass behind her, my quads firing and my arms swinging hard as I attacked the hill, which got steeper and steeper when we got closer to Bernal Heights. She was all legs, but I'd spent more time lifting weights, and those muscles pushed me up and up and up, until we sprinted on a dirt trail, dust exploding under us. No work here, no book, no Ellie, just Jay's flying feet and my body screaming.

She tapped the bench at the top of the slope first, and somehow had enough oxygen to do a silent victory dance. I slumped onto it instead, hands on my head and legs sprawled. The view of the Bay and the mountains was epic, but it was hard to appreciate it when my lungs felt scorched.

"Better?" she finally said as she sat down next to me.

Ellie hadn't been on my mind for a whole thirty seconds. "Ish."

"Damn." She passed me a bottle of water from her pack. "So what's the matter?"

"Everything," I said after I'd chugged half of it.

"OK, drama king. Start at the top."

The top and the bottom and the heart of it all was a soft, curvy woman with a brain the size of a galaxy. "I miss her. She didn't love me, she didn't think I was worth trying for, and I still fucking miss her."

"Sounds like you hurt her just as bad, though."

I blinked at her in surprise, and she shrugged. "I'm trying out this whole ‘being friends' thing with Nicole. She tells me stuff. Ellie locked herself away, same as you. Stopped taking care of herself, same as you."

No, heart, I wasn't going to care that Ellie was hurt . "She did it first." I kicked a pebble. "Maybe this was how it was going to work out anyway. I wasn't ever going to be what she needed."

Her eyes narrowed. "Since when are you a pessimist?"

"I'm not."

She wagged a finger. "Don't tell me you're a realist. If you were a realist, if you listened to every single fucking thing your parents ever said about what you couldn't do, you'd still be deep-frying shrimp at Coconut Pete's and pickling your brain in vodka. Every day you've had since you got sober has been an act of optimism. You're the sous chef at one of the best restaurants in the country, and my best friend, and a Chaos Muppet who's acting like no one's had a broken heart before in the history of the universe."

"Chaos Muppet?"

"Yup. And Ellie's an Order Muppet. But that's what makes you two work. You lift her off the ground, and she keeps you from flying into the sun."

"But she doesn't want me," I told my knees sadly. "What do you know about what makes things work, anyway? You and Nicole fell apart."

Jay blew out air, like she was breathing through pain. "We didn't fall apart. We needed different things. I was unhappy because I wanted her to do something she couldn't. That's on me, not her. You have to meet people where they are." Her eyes met mine. "Did you?"

My shields instantly went up. "Of course I did. I made that birthday lunch. I stood up to her mother-in-law."

She raised her eyebrows. "Ellie spent her entire life thinking her needs had to come last. That she had to do what everyone else wanted. Then when she did something to make herself happy for once, that made her feel free, everyone got mad at her. What do you think she would do when everybody who mattered to her was angry?"

I thought of Ellie's high voice, the way she'd shaken and gone pale. "Panic." I put my head in my hands. "She panicked, I yelled at her for panicking, she panicked even more, and I walked out on her."

"Yup."

She'd needed me to listen. To stay. Instead I'd made it about me. "I was an asshole."

"Not going to correct you."

One last wave of hurt hit me. "I said I loved her."

"That's not nothing," she said kindly. "But it's not all about you. It's about where she is, too. She has to want to change her life for herself, not just because you want to carry her off on your white horse and live in a love bubble with her forever." She reached over and rubbed my back. "I don't blame you for being mad that she didn't pick you right away. It's easy to be angry. It's hard to talk to her, it's harder to understand, and it's hardest to forgive. But my friend's never been afraid to do the work when he really wanted something."

She reached into her running backpack. "Steve gave me this. Mrs. Hutton dropped it off last night." She held out an ivory envelope, my name a line of curlicues across the front. When I took it, the fancy paper caught on my calluses.

"The golden ticket?" she asked when I finished mouthing the words on the card inside.

"An invitation to tea at her house on Monday at two o'clock." Four days from now.

She wiggled her eyebrows. "That means your own place, if you get this right."

I dropped the boulder of missing Ellie for a second, and asked quietly, "Can you help me with my pitch?"

"Of course. You're my friend. I will always help you." She took out a notebook and a pen from her bag, and I pinched myself hard at the flash of Ellie.

"What do you think is the most important thing about running a restaurant?" she asked.

I thought of the comforting vibe Ellie had given off when she sliced onions and sauteed mushrooms. She was quiet competence, making something delicious not because she was trying to impress anybody, but because she loved food and loved the people she was cooking for, whether it was her brother, or her in-laws, or the invisible people who'd be making her recipes in kitchens across the country. That wasn't to say that creating something new and exciting and exquisite was bad. But I couldn't just make it because I wanted to look smart. I had to care, and not be afraid to show that.

No gimmicks. No tricks.

M RS . H UTTON ' S HOUSEKEEPER didn't blink when she found me on the brick doorstep on Monday at one fifty-nine, which I thought was a good sign. I looked pretty sharp in Mr. Murphy's suit. No one needed to know that I'd had to belt the pants one notch tighter.

"Mrs. Hutton will be ready shortly," the elegant older woman said, her plain black heels tapping on the honeyed wood of the front hall. "Wait in here, please."

The living room, with its huge piano and fancy Turkish rugs, told me the suit had been the right call. The floor-to-ceiling windows had an excellent view of the gray curve of the Bay Bridge and the gold sweep of the Oakland hills. I wandered over to them, and my eyes tracked north. I recognized the spire of the bell tower on the Berkeley campus. Ellie was in her cottage somewhere near there. I rubbed my chest when I thought of her, exhausted and sad, with just Floyd to keep her company.

"Kieran. Thank you for coming."

I turned to see my boss coming through the doorway. "Hello, Mrs. Hutton."

"Anh, please." She shook my hand firmly. "Have a seat. My apologies for being late." She tugged my sleeve between two pinched fingers. "That's a lovely suit. Where did you get it?"

"A guy named Mr. Murphy in North Beach."

Surprise flashed on her normally stern face. "Goodness, Fergus Murphy sold you a suit?"

"Is he special?" I asked, confused.

"He has a months-long waiting list. You must know someone important."

I did. Or I had, until I'd abandoned her.

Anh's housekeeper came in with a tray and set it on the polished wood coffee table, next to a folded square of white paper.

"Anyway, enough about fashion," Anh said. "Tea?"

The liquid she poured was rich and dark, even with milk in it, and the pattern on the porcelain cups swirled with deep blue, rust, and gold. Ellie would have liked them. She would have liked the whole room, to be honest. It was like her guesthouse, but with a lot more money behind it. The wall of built-in bookcases packed with hardcovers and paperbacks even matched hers.

"Are you a reader?" Anh asked, following my gaze.

"I'm not, sorry."

She smiled. "My husband wasn't either. But he had those shelves built for me. Otherwise, I would have piled my library on the floor." She linked her hands over her knees. "Now, obviously you're here because it's time to expand the Phoenix Group, and I would like you to become the executive chef of our next restaurant."

I held back a sigh of relief. "I'm honored."

"But there are some things we need to discuss first. As you know, each restaurant in the group has a unique perspective and mission. So tell me. What's your vision?"

If she'd asked me nine months ago, I would have spouted buzzwords. Luxury. Theater. Spectacle. Whatever I thought would impress her.

But that was before Ellie had thought I was great the way I was.

"I want to create a warm and welcoming space," I said, mentally going through the points that Jay had helped me outline. "Where our guests will know that for an hour or two, they can leave their worries at the door and have a nice time."

She took a slow sip from her cup. "You sound like you don't want to chase Michelin stars."

"No. I want it to be a neighborhood place."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Like a diner?"

I took a deep breath and contradicted her. "No, but somewhere that doesn't have as high a barrier to entry as Qui. There's always going to be an audience for fine dining. But there are a lot of people who are scared of the price tag and the unwritten rules. I still want those people to have an amazing night. So no tablecloths or dressed-up waiters, but we'd have candles and a really deep wine list. It would be a place where couples would come for a date night. It'd be where friends could meet up when they hadn't seen each other for a long time, where families could celebrate together. A meal would be an event, but not a once-in-a-lifetime one."

"Your priorities have shifted significantly, then," she said, her voice thoughtful. "Perhaps less ambitious?"

Ellie would be pissed with that description. "Planning a local institution is ambitious," I said firmly. "I think I can take the color and excitement of what we do at Qui and make it more accessible."

She tilted her head for a second, considering, and I held back a sigh of relief when a small smile curled her mouth. "That's very interesting. I wouldn't have thought of it that way." She asked some more logistical questions, and we spent a few minutes discussing neighborhoods, the kind of premises I'd want, how we would link it to the rest of the Phoenix Group.

Then she said, smiling, "Do you want to know how I made my decision?"

She was giving off strong "I know something you don't know" energy. I raised my eyebrows, smiled back, and said, "I think you're going to tell me anyway."

"The dinner at Qui was certainly a point in your favor. Your culinary talent is undeniable. But I wanted to be confident that you could see a long-term project through. Hence why I challenged you to be serious about your book."

I had the book, but I'd lost Ellie. Thinking that made me want to whimper like an abandoned puppy. "Thank you," I managed to say.

"But what heavily tilted the scales in your favor was a letter that arrived in the mail ten days ago. It turned out to be an extremely pleasant surprise."

No one had ever put on a pair of reading glasses so slowly. Or picked up a piece of paper and unfolded it so carefully. When she cleared her throat, I was ready to scream.

" Dear Mrs. Hutton. Such beautiful penmanship. An underrated skill these days."

"Uh-huh," I said, not dying inside.

She beamed. "I imagine dozens of people are fighting to tell you how wonderful Kieran O'Neill is. You may have already decided his future in the Phoenix Group, but I wanted to write to you anyway. I hope you don't find this letter irrelevant."

My brain knew other people used that word. My heart sped up like it'd been slogging through a tunnel and suddenly saw a flicker of Ellie in the darkness.

"Are you all right, Kieran?" Anh asked.

"Fine," trying to keep my professional face on. "Please keep going."

"All right. Kieran doesn't believe in doing things the way they've always been done. He believes in doing them better. Working with him as your executive chef may be different from what you're used to, but I promise that he'll meet, and exceed, your expectations. Just maybe not how you'd think."

I could just see her snarky little smile.

"At first glance, Kieran might appear frivolous or flighty, but he is neither. He takes the things and the people he cares about very, very seriously. He inspires the people around him to be their best selves, too, and to do the right thing, even when it seems impossible."

What right thing? I looked up, confused, and Mrs. Hutton raised her eyebrows. "I called Tad Winthrop and he confirmed that Ellie Wasserman resigned from your book and paid back the money she'd received on September tenth."

The day after I'd stormed away from her. I'd heard on a podcast once about a Japanese technique for fixing broken pottery, where the artist would mix gold with glue, binding the cracks together and making them glow.

I wasn't the distraction, Ellie was saying. The book was, and all the burdens that came with it.

"Shall I continue?" Anh said.

"Please," I said, hope filling me with gold from my heart outward.

"I'm sure you're aware that Kieran is an exceptionally talented chef. But he's also a good man. The best, even. He is kind, generous with his time and energy, loyal, and, above all, he knows that people matter the most and has no trouble saying so."

My head landed in my hands. I'd thought I'd loved her quiet and thoughtfulness, but when she'd begged me to wait, to give her more time, I'd punished her for it.

"If you put your faith in Kieran and trust him with his own restaurant, he will reward you more than you can imagine. Thank you for reading, and apologies again for being so disruptive the last time we met. Yours sincerely, Ellie Wasserman."

She put the paper down. "What do you think?"

The words stuck in my throat and my sinuses ached. Just like when Dr. Meyer told me I wasn't a bad person, just wired differently.

She'd quit the book. She'd sacrificed her spotless reputation and her dream of owning her own place, and I knew she'd done it for me.

"It's a truly excellent letter of recommendation," Anh said. She held out the letter to me and smiled wide. "But I think we both know this wasn't just addressed to me."

I barely heard her goodbye, barely noticed walking to the door. It shut behind me, and there I was, standing on a staircase on Telegraph Hill, totally dazed, a life-changing piece of paper in my hand. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, tapped until I was about to call a car to take me to Berkeley.

I closed the app. I couldn't just throw myself at her feet and tell her I still loved her. My feelings didn't change that I'd left her when she'd needed me to help. She'd made sure that my dream would come true. How could I do that for her?

She had so much talent, so much integrity, so much heart, and the world deserved to know about it. I couldn't write in the elegant, flowing way she did. No one could. But I didn't have a problem saying what I thought, how I felt, and I was going to New York soon for the prepublicity tour Tobias had booked. There would be video interviews and a live-streamed cooking demonstration for the Banquet YouTube channel.

When I talked about Ellie, millions of people would see.