Caught Up (Windy City Series)

“How’d it go?” Violet asks, following me around the bustling kitchen as I hustle to prepare for dinner service.

“It was fine. The same as all the other blog interviews have been this week. Fine.”

Stepping into the walk-in, I use the clipboard in my hand to take inventory of the fruit delivery Maven’s restaurant received today, making sure the kitchen has enough to get through until its next delivery on Wednesday.

“Okay, great,” Violet continues, stepping into the cold walk-in, head down, scrolling through her iPad. “Since the restaurant is closed tomorrow, I have another interview scheduled for tomorrow morning with this big-time blogger that goes by Pinch of Salt.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?” I mentally inventory the shelves, counting crates of persimmons, pears, and figs. “I have my Food & Wine interview tomorrow afternoon, and I’m sure by now anyone who gives a shit is well aware that I’m back to work.”

“Miller, we’re capitalizing. Striking while the iron’s hot.”

“Well, I’d really like the iron to cool the fuck down so I can take a second to breathe. I haven’t had a single moment alone since I got to LA unless I’m showering or sleeping.”

“Yeah, about that.” Violet continues, nose down, looking over my schedule. “What do you think about taking some phone interviews while you’re showering? You know, really take advantage of every minute of the day.”

I turn on her. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Of course I am. Did you leave your sense of humor in Chicago?”

Sense of humor. Heart. Both are still there, I think.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll tell Pinch of Salt that it’ll be a quick chat on Tuesday instead. That’ll give you tomorrow morning off before your interview with Food & Wine.”

I nod. “I can do that.”

The walk-in door swings open to reveal Jenny, one of the two line cooks on desserts, holding a carton of raspberries in her hand. “Chef, we have a problem.”

The kitchen is chaos behind her, busy bodies moving to get set up for the dinner rush.

“The raspberries that were delivered today are sour. Real sour.”

I take one from the carton, holding it to my nose. She’s right, they’re far more sour than they are tart, but I pop it in my mouth to be sure.

Shit. They’re bad, and I have a white chocolate mousse with a raspberry crémeux on the menu for tonight, one that I’ve been designing for the last two days and prepping all afternoon, minus the hour I took to interview with yet another food blogger.

“All of them are like this?” I ask.

“All of them. Maybe we can swap a blackberry crémeux instead? Those were also delivered today but they look good.”

“No. It won’t have the right flavor profile.”

“Yes, Chef.” Jenny’s eyes refocus on her feet.

“That’s not a bad idea, though,” I quickly correct. “The blackberries are a bit too tart for that dish, but you’re thinking on your feet. I like that.”

Her lips slightly lift at the corners. “Thank you, Chef.”

My eyes dart to the box of pears that were also delivered today. They’re meant for the poached pear dish I have planned for Tuesday’s dinner service, but I can figure out the future later.

“Get rid of the raspberries. Tell Chef Maven that we’re pulling the mousse and swapping it for the poached pear dessert I planned for Tuesday. The pistachio soufflé stays. And would you mind going to the freezer and checking on the chocolate sorbet?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“And please make sure Chef Maven knows why we’re changing the menu. Your kitchen needs reliable suppliers and this one doesn’t seem to be one.”

“Of course, Chef.”

Violet and I follow her out of the walk-in and my agent stays right on my heels as I continue to organize my station.

Tonight is my fifth dinner service at Luna’s, Chef Maven’s Los Angeles restaurant. While consulting, I’m not typically on the line unless I’m covering a call out, but I like to spend my first couple of weeks at a new job right here in the thick of it, figuring out how they communicate and what their timing looks like.

It helps me cater their menu to their kitchen.

“Violet, we’re about to start service,” I remind her while organizing my station.

My stack of clean dish towels are right where I like them and my knives are ready and laid out in the proper order.

“I know. I know. But I wanted to show you the Food & Wine layout. They sent it over to me this morning. It looks amazing and the photos are fantastic. Everything is ready to go. They just need to add your interview and it’ll be off to the printers.”

Violet is nose deep on her iPad once again, looking through her emails to pull up the article.

“Vi, would you mind showing me later? Tonight is kind of frantic with a whole new dessert I wasn’t prepared to introduce until later this week.”

“Of course, Chef.” She stops what she’s doing. “Have you eaten today? You need to eat before the rush.”

Luna’s does a staff dinner every day before service starts. I, however, haven’t been able to partake in one yet, seeing as I’m using that downtime to interview with any and everyone who wants a piece of me.

“I’ll grab something.”

Except, I’m not hungry, and I can’t remember the last time I was.

I look over my station again, making sure that Jenny and Patrick, the two line cooks who are in charge of desserts, have everything ready for tonight.

Besides the poached pear that needs a bit of prep, we are good to go.

Through the pass-through window, I spot Chef Maven getting into position, my cue that doors are about to open and service is about to begin.

“Violet, I gotta get to work.”

“Okay. I have your phone. Where do you want it?”

“Would you mind dropping it by the house rental? It’s on your way home, right? I don’t need it tonight.”

“You got it! Have a great service.”

“Violet.” I point to my phone in her grasp. “Any important calls or texts?”

She hesitates. “An important email, actually. The photographer from the Food & Wine shoot emailed an image that didn’t make the cut for the magazine. You should check it out. It’s beautiful.”

My heart sinks with disappointment. Another day without hearing from him.

“I’ll look later. Thanks.”

“I need two Lobster Bolognese all day,” Chef Maven calls out to her line. “Jeremy, less truffle froth on the Bolognese. Your plating is getting crowded.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Chef Montgomery, you’ve got two soufflés coming up. Table six and table ten.”

“Yes, Chef.” I eye the oven door, checking the count I currently have baking.

Maven runs a tight ship, but there’s not a person on her staff who isn’t top tier.

I chose this restaurant because I’ve been eager to work with Maven since she hosted a seminar while I was in culinary school. However, tonight is only the second night I’ve gotten the chance to work alongside her.

I’ve come to find out that Maven only spends two nights a week on her line, letting her second in command cover the rest. She works on ordering, menus, and prep during the day, then entrusts her line with dinner service while she heads home.

And they kill it. Every night.

“Chef Montgomery, I need one Bananas Foster all day.”

For the first time today, my heart skips, my hands freezing on the plate I’m currently working on.

The Bananas Foster is rarely ordered. It’s the off-menu vegan option, sauteed in a caramel-like sauce and served with a vegan butterscotch ice cream.

And I can’t hear it ordered without thinking of Max because yes, something as simple as bananas has me missing him and our days in the kitchen together.

Just like that, I’m jolted right back to that tearful goodbye seven days ago. How much it hurt to drive away from Chicago after leaving everyone outside of the stadium. How Max’s little blue eyes started tearing up, though he had no idea why, only that he saw me and his dad crying.

I’m convinced my heart has been ripped out of my chest and left with two boys two thousand miles away, and the only good thing about being so busy with interviews and line shifts is that, for the most part, I’ve been able to turn off my mind during those times and just work.

Reaching into my chef’s coat pocket, I run my fingers over the cardstock, always keeping it with me. The card they gave me is the one and only birthday card I’ve kept in my life, never one to be sentimental, but those two boys have ruined me to the point where not only have I kept it, but I keep it as close as possible.

“Chef Montgomery?” Maven asks when I don’t respond to her order.

I pull my hand from my pocket, quickly running by the sink to wash them. “Yes, Chef. Sorry, Chef.”

With my hair slicked back and my chef’s coat back in place, I attempt to focus on the task at hand—to get through this shift. Then to do it again tomorrow. Then again, every day after that, while I pray that this longing homesickness starts to ease.

Using the towel over my shoulder, I wipe the edge of the plate clean, delivering the Bananas Foster to Maven standing on the other side of the pass-through window.

“Beautiful, Chef,” she says, eyes flicking to me before I return to my station.

She’s not wrong. It’s stunning. The problem is no longer that I can’t do my job.

The problem is that now I don’t want to.

The house rental Violet got for me is nestled in the Hollywood Hills, expansive and expensive with giant open windows so everyone in the valley below can witness just how lonely I am.

When I get back there after another late night at the restaurant, I only turn on enough lights to grab a shower and a glass of water, snagging my phone off the counter before walking right back outside to sleep in my van parked in the driveway.

This house may be beautiful, but it’s empty without Max’s toys littering the living room or the dishes piling in the sink. It’s too pristine. Too perfect. It makes it far too obvious how much I miss them.

The van is just as lonely, but with it being such tight quarters, I can justify that the lack of space is the reason why Kai isn’t in bed next to me.

God, I miss him.

I miss his smell, his smile—the tired one and the confident one. I miss his steady hold, and his overwhelming encouragement. I feel like I’ve been spinning off axis for the past seven days, but this was always the plan.

I was always going to be here, without him.

The short time before bed is the worst and best part of my days. It’s when the loneliness starts to sink in because it’s the only free moment in my day to think of them, to focus on them, though there’s an ache in my heart and a hollowness in my gut every hour of the day due to missing them.

We haven’t spoken since that morning I left Chicago. My dad checked in every few hours of my two-day drive and when I got to California and asked him why he suddenly decided to become a helicopter parent, he simply said, “Kai asked me to.”

Communicating would only make things harder. This is my life and that’s his. Did I indulge in the thought that it could’ve been mine too? Sure. Am I still wanting it? Yes, absolutely, but I have responsibilities here. Responsibilities to these kitchens I’m scheduled for and a responsibility to my dad to do something impressive with the life he’s given me. I’m also responsible for living up to the James Beard Award I won. Responsible to the editors who chose to feature me on the cover of their magazine.

This must be how Kai feels. Responsible to everyone else, constantly trying to do right by others, and rarely choosing things for himself.

He did make one selfish decision this summer though, and I’ve got to say, it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Climbing into bed, I pull the covers up to my chest before checking my phone for the first time today.

There are a few texts waiting for me, but before I read any of them, I head straight to the Internet to find the results from Kai’s game this afternoon. Today was his second start since I left, and his last game wasn’t his best.

And judging by the headlines, today’s was worse.

The Warriors lost five to two, and Kai was pulled in the third inning.

A short video clip shows the moment he got pulled with my dad and him meeting on the mound. They don’t zoom in enough for me to get a clear image of his face, but I can read Kai’s body language perfectly. He’s upset. Not mad, but emotional. My dad gives him a nod and Kai jogs off the field, straight through the dugout, to the clubhouse, and out of the camera’s view.

That right there is my fault.

He’s not okay because of me.

And as much as I can pretend during work hours, I’m nowhere near okay either.

Tears are already burning the backs of my eyes when my attention falls to the framed photo Kai gave me for my birthday. Me with my head on his lap and his son asleep there on the couch too.

I miss them. I ache for them, and I’m mad at Kai for breaking me this way, for making me feel when I spent so much of my life unattached and untethered.

I hate that I love him so much.

So what’s the harm in one little text? One tiny text to remind him that I’m thinking of him.

I find my messages to do just that, but the time at the top of my phone blinds me with the realization that it’s almost three in the morning. It reminds me that Kai asked me not to give him any hope.

It reminds me that summer is over.

Regardless of the late hour, a text comes through from Chef Maven.

Maven: Sorry we haven’t crossed paths much this week! Meet me at the restaurant tomorrow morning for coffee and we can sit down and go over your ideas for the menu?

So much for that morning off I was hoping for. But it’s probably for the best that I don’t give myself time to think because thinking only leads to missing them.

Me: Sounds great. I’ll see you then.

Finally making my way into my other messages, I find texts from Kennedy, Isaiah, Indy, and my dad.

Nothing from Kai. His way to move on quicker, I guess.

I could be sick just thinking about it. Them with another woman in their lives, someone else loving Kai and Max the way I do. That’s what I should want for them, right? To have everything I can’t give them. Everything they deserve.

Then why am I laying here crying in bed at the thought?

This is his fault too. I never used to cry. I never used to feel. Now it’s like a dam has been broken and it’s a non-stop flood pouring from my eyes when I’m not at work. I never needed anyone before them and now I’m laying here, a desperate, sobbing mess in the middle of the night in the Hollywood Hills because there’s a baseball player in Chicago and his son who I miss. Who I love.

Who I can’t have because nothing about our lives aligns.

Blinking through the blurry tears, I find my dad’s text.

Dad: I’m sure you saw the game recap. Give me a call sometime so we can talk. I miss you, Millie.

I don’t hesitate, calling him, needing to hear his voice, needing someone to tell me I made the right decision by going back to work because right now it feels all wrong. I know he of all people will find what I’m doing impressive. He’ll find it worthwhile.

The phone rings until the call goes straight to voicemail because, of course it does. It’s the middle of the night.

“Hi, Dad,” I say into the receiver, clearing my throat in hopes he can’t tell I’m crying. “Just calling to say hi and that I miss you. I really miss you. But things are going great here.” God, is my tone too telling that I’m full of shit? “I have my interview with Food & Wine tomorrow afternoon, so . . . that’s exciting. Sorry about your game.”

I try so hard not to ask, but I can’t help myself. “Is Kai okay? I hope he is.” I exhale a sad laugh. “But I also hope he’s missing the shit out of me because I’m missing him. And you. I miss you a lot, Dad. I wish you were here because I miss seeing your face. I got used to it this summer, I guess. I used to be so much better at this whole traveling year-round thing.” And I’m rambling. “Anyway, call me when you can, and I’ll be sure to answer. I love you. So much. Talk soon.”

Loneliness sinks in again as I hang up and lay in my quiet van where only the sound of my sobs can be heard.

I hate it here, but this quiet moment is the only place where I can be honest about that.

I find my texts again, hoping something from one of my friends will make my self-pity shut up for a second.

Kennedy: Checking in on you. How’s the restaurant? Isaiah won’t stop texting me about whether he should change his walk-out song and then proceeds to ask me what my favorite song is, you know, in case he wants to use it. And I miss you!

Finally, a genuine laugh escapes me.

Isaiah: Here with your daily dose of Max. He learned how to say “duck” yesterday but definitely pronounces his “Ds” as “Fs” so that was a fun treat to hear. I took a video for you. You’re missed, Hot Nanny.

He accompanies that with a video of Max sitting on his lap in the center of the Warriors’ clubhouse.

“Maxie, what is that?” Isaiah asks, pointing to the book they’re reading, which seems to be about a giant Mallard duck.

“A big fuck!” Max proclaims, so proud of himself.

The clubhouse erupts in laughter around him, and Max just sits there, clapping for himself, and the rest of the team joins in to cheer too.

Quickly, the camera pans to Kai, who is sitting in his locker stall shaking his head, a tiny smile fighting to break through before the video abruptly ends.

I watch it again with a smile on my face, catching Cody, Travis, and Kennedy all there, but then I pause the video on Kai.

Even when he’s sad, he’s devastatingly handsome.

I scroll down to Isaiah’s second text.

Isaiah: What do you think Kennedy’s favorite song is?

And lastly, a message from Indy.

Indy: We missed you and your desserts at family dinner tonight. But mostly we missed you! I wish you were going to be here next weekend.

Indy and Ryan are getting married next weekend. I wish my schedule allowed me to go, but I’ll send them a gift in my absence.

For the first time in my life I have friends. I have people I ache for, people I miss. People who are all within a thirty-minute drive of each other while I’m out here on the other side of the country, trying to make a name for myself in this career that I once revolved my entire life around.

I don’t know how so much could change in eight weeks. It doesn’t seem possible. And it doesn’t seem reasonable to make rash decisions based on those short two months. But the decision I made to come back to work, a decision based on years of hard work, feels like the wrong one. But it also feels like a decision that I can’t change.

Climbing off the bed, I grab the framed picture Kai gave me for my birthday, bringing it to my bed. I leave it right there next to my pillow because I’m sad and pathetic and don’t know how to handle all these newfound emotions.

This picture is all I have of Kai and Max while I’m off chasing a dream that feels more like a nightmare the longer I’m away from them.