Yes chef, p.23
Yes, Chef, page 23
When you victimize yourself, you put yourself in the most dangerous position: in another person’s hands, reacting to their actions. When you determine you’re the victim, you lose control of your ability to act on your own. I spent a long time with my therapist, working through that discovery.
This time on my own taught me how to become my own champion. I will never be able to get back the lost moments with my grandma. I will never be able to control how my mother acts. I’ll never be able to control how Henry treats me, but I can control how I react to it.
It took running away and putting some space between myself and the situation to discover that I don’t have to be a victim. Did I go through some serious shit at the expense of other people’s actions? Yeah, I did. But crumbling under the weight of those actions is the worst way to lose. And I refuse. Having James has been nice, a reminder that people can be different. But what really steeled my spine was my ability to make my own choices for a while.
So even though I can’t ask James to take that much time away from the restaurant—when I desperately want to—for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to believe I might be okay handling the wedding on my own. Kind of. I’m not quite willing to make a declarative statement just yet, but at least things are heading in the right direction.
The first week of February arrives and my restlessness begins to turn into worry. I’m starting to second guess the decisions I’m making in the kitchen, and James and I are working later into the night to tweak things—swapping herb, spices, and techniques to see if anything we’re doing can be improved.
The kitchen is still flowing like a well-oiled machine, but you can tell we’re all starting to get a little shifty-eyed. Every time I try to lose myself in a book, I find myself picking up my phone to check Google alerts and see if there’s mention of our restaurant anywhere. Lots of social posts, a few independent blog write-ups, and a story or two from the local publications are great, but they aren’t stars.
I read and reread each article I come across. The only review I don’t hold much of a candle to is the review vlog from “Mandy Eats.” She’s complimentary, but she compliments the substitutions she made more than the dishes themselves, trying to convince everyone that there’s a secret menu if you know how to ask. The joke’s on her: the secret to the menu is that it’s pretty much a secret to all of us until we get Elliot’s list. Her substitution recommendations are a flop, and I’m vindictively pleased to see that people call her out on it in the comments. Because yes, I read all of the comments.
James, I can tell, is feeling restless too. Since he’s done this before, I badger him with a million questions, trying to find out if this wait time is normal, but he just nods his head, gives my hand a squeeze three times, and says, “We’ve got this,” as if he doesn’t have a doubt in the world.
But then the small bomb drops.
One morning, as we find ourselves doing our usual shopping, Theo comes bounding out to give us a hug, but he has a sorrowful look on his face. I don’t know what to read on that, but my gut says it isn’t good. He doesn’t say much as he gives us our selections for the day, so after we finish up shopping, we beeline it back to the restaurant.
By the time James and I get there, Elliot is already in the office. He hasn’t been in this early for a long time, so that alone has me nervous. But the fact that he calls both James and me into the office has my skin crawling. Before we enter the room, James grabs my hand in passing, squeezing it his usual three times.
“I have some news,” Elliot says in a serious voice while looking at the screen of the computer.
I haven’t checked my phone all morning, which was a big mistake at this point—huge. I have no idea what this is about, but I bet that if I’d had the presence of mind to check my phone on the walk over here, I’d have known what’s going on.
“We had a pretty nasty article come out about our kitchen dynamic,” Elliot grunts out as my stomach plummets. “I don’t know how to break this news, but it’s about the two of you . . .” he says, trailing off.
“What?” I can hardly breathe. This is my worst nightmare. This is exactly what I've been trying to avoid. I've liked James for so long, and I can finally admit it to myself, but what good is my self-control if I'm called into an office again?
James, to my surprise, doesn't seem phased and steps closer to me.
“What’s it claiming?” he asks in an even tone I wouldn’t be able to produce at the moment.
“I’ll let you read it for yourself.” Elliot’s tone is neutral, not reprimanding as I expected. As if he’s annoyed someone would bother to bring up something so trivial. I’m relieved he’s not firing me immediately as my worst-case scenario brain expected, but I don’t know why he’d bring us in if he didn’t care that much.
“If I need to step down, I will. But Claire stays. That’s my request.” The finality in James’s voice has my heart flipping and my head whipping in his direction. He can’t quit. I should be the one to leave. Teaks needs him, not me. I open my mouth to protest, but Elliot cuts me off.
“Are you two together?”
James doesn't pause for a second before saying in as firm a tone as I've ever heard him use, “Yes.”
“How long have you been seeing each other?”
“Long enough.”
My head is snapping back and forth between the two, and I just can’t keep up. We’re not together. Not really. I mean we kind of are based on our behavior, which someone must have picked up on. Elliot looks between the two of us, pausing before he finally says, “Honestly, I don’t care.”
“What?” Apparently, that word is the only thing I can contribute to this conversation.
“I don’t care. It’s about time, really. As long as it doesn’t affect what’s going on in the kitchen, I couldn’t care less. I don't want a messy breakup, so I expect both to be adults about this. Got it?” And then looking back at the computer he adds, “Now, the good news is that it looks like the article came out very strategically, and perhaps it’s intended to overshadow what I would actually like to be telling you guys right now—” he says, then pauses for affect, the jerk.
James grabs my hand again, and I resist the urge to swat it away in the name of professionalism, but knowing Elliot doesn’t care brings a weight off my shoulders that’s been there for months. Months!
“Chef,” James mumbles carefully, prodding him to continue.
Elliot looks between us with a twinkle that looks suspiciously like a tear in his eye. In the most monotone, reverent manner, Elliot looks back to his computer, and then to James and me, hand in hand, and says the three words that I’ve been waiting to hear since arriving at Teaks.
“We did it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Champagne: a sparkling wine that originates from the Champagne region in France, and it is known for its effervescence and celebratory associations
The moments after hearing we finally got our Michelin star are a blur. James picks me up to spin me around, and I hug him back without restraint. He waits until we’re out of the office to pull me aside again, wrap me up in that bear hug I love more than anything, and places a chaste, quick kiss on my lips. The rest of the staff comes into the kitchen at that point, preventing that kiss from becoming anything more. But I can feel the electricity sparking behind all of the boundaries we’ve placed for ourselves slowly starting to evaporate. He gives me an electric look before calling everyone to the front to meet.
Elliot joins us in the kitchen, and the news causes an eruption of celebration. Someone gets champagne and we all toast to the hard work we’ve put in. Gabe and Michael demand that we all go out to celebrate tonight, no matter how late, and Elliot coordinates a "family dinner" on our next off Monday to celebrate as a team.
There’s a pep in everyone’s step as we move through our tables of the night. The news of our star has already spread, and our phones are flying off the hook, our online reservations booked out months in advance. But in keeping with our standards, we don’t allow any extra tables to be added, knowing we’re already at max capacity. One of the biggest mistakes you can make after getting a star is changing your ways to accommodate your new popularity, sacrificing your service in the process.
By the time we’re done with our tables, the staff is cleaned up in record time and we all head to get a drink at a local bar. I’m so anxious to get to talk to James alone after the oh-so-subtle declaration he made on our behalf, but he seems perfectly content to remain in the celebration. And I am, too, honestly. This moment is the culmination of what I've been working towards. This camaraderie, this sense of accomplishment . . . the deep breath I feel like I can finally take. This is it. This is the revelry.
And the best part? Now that James’s word is already out about us, he doesn’t hesitate for a second before draping an arm around my shoulders, grabbing my hand periodically to squeeze in his customary way, or immediately taking the spot that’s vacant next to me. We haven’t defined where we are yet, though it feels a little unnecessary at this point. But there are still things he needs to know about me before we can cross that final hurdle. I haven’t had a chance to dig up the article yet, but none of that matters. He’s just happy to be here, celebrating with me.
The whole team, including Elliot and Charlotte—whose spouses come to join us—are happy to just sit in the ambiance and celebrate. It’s nearing two in the morning before Elliot calls it quits and sends us home.
“We have a star to maintain, after all,” Elliot says, sending us off and wishing us safe travels home.
James and I walk hand in hand back to our apartment building, and the electricity around us is almost visibly buzzing. There’s no way I could control the butterflies even if I put all my effort into it. And there’s no reason to, either. It’s hard to wrap my brain around it, and I’m doing everything I can to hide the pounding in my chest, but I feel as though he can sense my accelerated heartbeat through our joined hands. Before we make it even two blocks, he pulls me through an arch that leads to a secluded alleyway and pushes me up against the wall before bending down and kissing me senseless.
Gone are the chaste kisses he teased me with before. His kiss now is hungry, as desperate for me as I am for him. I’ve never felt more desired in my entire life, and he shows no intention of relenting anytime soon. This kiss removes any logical thought I should have about being worried we’re in a random alleyway, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a busy city. But this is Paris! The city of love! If this is how I die, I’ll take it.
His hands, which are wrapped securely at my hips, keeping me in place, start to move freely up my waist and rest right below my rib cage, but I want more. I need more. His hands dwarf all of me, and I’m cursing the layers of wool and cashmere and cotton between me and feeling the rough calluses of those hands where I want them most. He can sense the change in my urgency and pulls away just far enough to place his forehead on mine.
“We should get back. I want to talk about this before I make a complete fool of myself,” he says, letting out a heavy sigh and self-deprecating chuckle. “You okay?”
“I’m perfect,” I reply “But you’re probably right. There could be a murderer in this alleyway, and we would have never known it.”
He takes my hand again, kissing it briefly, and we quicken our pace back to our building.
“That’s a little too cliché, don’t you think?” he adds, bringing a lightness to the conversation and cutting the physical tension. It doesn't work. Tension is still very much present. “None of the thrillers I’ve read would do something so mundane like hiding behind a trash can in an ally waiting for a couple to stop and make out before attacking them,” he continues.
“Should it be concerning that you vet your safety logic on fictional books?” I jest.
“Nope, just innovative.” Then, pulling up his phone, he starts to type something one-handed, not letting go of my hand with his other. “Should we look at the article before or after we talk?”
“Ugh. I don’t know. I kind of want to get it over with. Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“Is it horrible?”
“It’s funny, actually. I kind of like it.”
“Funny? How could it be funny?”
“It looks like it was intended to make us look bad, but the people they quoted are all supportive, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I dug through the comments, and people are wildly supportive. We’re ‘ship-able,’ according to the internet.”
“All right, that’s enough. Hand it over.”
It takes me the rest of the walk back to read the article and the comments he was referring to. Steam must be coming out of my ears by the time I sit down on the couch. James sits next to me, in his new usual spot, before grabbing my legs to drape them over his. If I were to guess, physical touch seems to be his love language.
The article is kind of cute when I take the comments into account. The person writing the article did their due diligence in collecting quotes from people around us, but aside from the quotes from Mandy Eats, everyone else just sounds supportive. Gabe’s quote especially made me smile, but the author used it to make horrible accusations. Gabe said, “You could cut the tension between James and Claire with a knife, but she’d probably pass out from it, and James would swoop into save her . . .” He said it much sweeter, but the way the author twisted it made it seem like we were causing the tension to spread throughout the rest of the kitchen. Mandy Eats had nothing good to say whatsoever and her quotes (multiple quotes) were used the most, but they came across as kind of petty.
But the worst part about it? The author. It took all of two seconds to identify the motive behind this article, and it had Rachel written all over. It wasn’t by her—oh no, she’s too smart for that. But I know who her usual reporter is, and he did a good job at doing her bidding. As always.
“See? Aren’t we cute?
“Don’t we need to talk about the concept of ‘we’ a bit?” I ask, a little sheepish. He doesn’t seem to mind.
“We can move at whatever pace you need, baby, but I’m not going anywhere, all right?” He sits up a little so he can pull my hand into his. “Do I want everyone to know you’re not on the market and certainly not going to be associated with your douchebag of an ex anymore? Yeah. But I know the last thing you expected to find moving across the globe is another leash, and I’m not going to be that for you. I just want you and me to do what we’ve been doing. I don’t want to hide you. Hell, I’d have claimed you the day we went out to Martins, but if you need time, then you need time. Just know that I don’t need time, but I’m willing to wait.” He gives me a lingering look, his eyes resting on my lips before adding, “Can you just maybe let me keep kissing you? Now that I’ve started, I don’t know that I can stop.”
“I don’t think I want you to stop,” I reply. My mind is a scramble, and there’s nothing holding me back. There’s nothing stopping me. “So, you want to keep me?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve wanted nothing more. I want you so badly I’d eat the terrible cruise food for the rest of my life if it meant you’d be sitting next to me.”
I burst out laughing, and it eggs him on further.
“I want you so badly, I’d wait in line to see the Mona Lisa on the busiest, most touristy day just to have you standing next to me the whole time.”
I can’t stop laughing at his absurd declarations of love he apparently has no intention of stopping.
“Damn it, Claire, I want you so badly, I’d eat at the knockoff ninety-nine cent pizza places for the rest of my life if it meant you’d come along with me. I’d miss every flight, I’d take every crowded train, I’d shop every market, I’d do every tourist activity Paris has to offer four times over, and I’d even go on those runs you do every other morning if it could convince you how badly I’ve wanted you all these months.”
Tears are welling in my eyes as he pulls me onto his lap.
“I’ve had it bad for you for a while, all right? If you need time, take it, but I’m right here waiting for you.”
“I don’t need time,” I admit.
“Thank God,” he says, and then he’s all over me. In seconds, he’s pulled me onto further on his lap, proving his words to be true with every kiss. His hands explore my body, and it’s new and familiar all at once. His hands move from firmly holding my hips in place, to up my back to cup around my neck and into my hair to pull me into a deeper kiss. James Sullivan wastes no time in showing me just how much his words mean, and I don’t know what kind of romantic it makes me, but hearing his willingness to drop all of those Type A tendencies I’ve come to know and adore makes me trust him so much more.
After what feels like an eternity of getting to know each other on a physical level, he pulls back ever so slightly and makes me fall a little more for him by saying, “Okay, okay . . .” between peppering kisses up my neck giving, me full body chills. “I want to do this right. Let’s take this slow.” He’s panting as if he just came back from a half marathon as he moves me off of his lap and into the crook of his arm. I fit like a glove, and for the first time since knowing James, I don’t try to deny how well we work together.
“You okay?” he asks, brushing my hair behind my ears and looking at me so tenderly, my heart breaks a little. Does he know? He couldn’t possibly know. There’s no way.
