“Are you going to be okay?”
His question gives me pause. Will I be okay? Was “okay” a hypothetical three exits ago?
All things considered, I’m hurtling through time and space with a guy whose recovery from a serious cocaine addiction matters as much as the rise of his chocolate soufflé tonight. So I answer honestly.
“I don’t know.” My voice sounds far away.
“Well, if you’re not sure, change. You’ll be walking at least five miles between ushering people to tables and the bathroom and running back and forth from the kitchen.”
“Oh, shoes. You’re asking if I’m going to be okay in these shoes.” I glance down at my black platform wedges.
“Yeah, babe. What the hell else would I be talking about?”
He grabs the bottom of my chin and plants a quick kiss on my lips before he rinses a whisk in the sink.
The shells of seventy-five hard-boiled eggs are in the trunk of a car I rented to shuttle all the shit required for tonight’s guests, I took an unpaid day off from work to be here to help and my parents are about an hour away from arriving to this special “comeback dinner,” which will be the first time they’ve seen Benji somewhere other than the headlines in the last thirty days.
And he’s worried about my shoes?
“I’ll be fine,” I say sweetly, knowing now is not the time for a true audit of my emotional well-being. Tonight is about Benji’s big return and my confidence that all—including my shoe choice—will go as smoothly as the house-made butter at room temp that he’s just whipped up.
I find my reflection in a nearby Cryovac machine and take out a tube of my go-to matte pale pink lipstick from my makeup bag. I sweep it across my bottom lip, then fill in just above my lip line on the top for the illusion of a slightly fuller mouth. After all, I know at least half the guest list is here to see what the woman behind the man looks like.
Speaking of lists, I can see Benji in the reflection as well, leaning over a stainless-steel counter consulting the prep list for tonight’s dinner service. He takes a black Sharpie from the pocket of his apron and puts a quick slash through each item as he recites them out loud to himself.
I come up behind him and cast my arms around him slowly; my touch puts him at ease. He curls his left arm up to hold my arms in place and continues to mouth ingredients one by one to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. It sounds like sweet nothings being whispered to me in a romance language I barely understand.
Benji crumples the list, a sign he’s successfully on track with everything from the dehydrated goat’s milk to emulsified caramel, and I snap out of my schoolgirl daydream. He turns to face me, shuffles a few steps back in his worn kitchen clogs and bends down to shake out his longish dark hair.
I know what he’s about to do. And for as ordinary as it is, especially to girls like me who routinely wear their hair like this, watching Benji shimmy a hair tie—my hair tie—off his right wrist to tie his mane into a disheveled topknot is like the start of an exotic dance. For anyone who says the man-bun trend isn’t their thing, they’re lying.
The hair tie snaps when Benji tries to take it for a third lap around his voluminous bun.
“Goddamn it!”
“Relax, babe,” I tell him as I zip open my makeup bag and pull out a spare. Crisis averted, I think to myself as I put another mental tally in the “Saves the Day” column.
He reties his white apron for the umpteenth time over a tight black T-shirt that shows off his tattooed-solid arms. I know for a fact he doesn’t work out (unless you consider lifting fifty-pound boxes of pork and beef off the back of a pickup truck getting your reps in) but somehow he’s been blessed with the body of a lumberjack. The only thing missing is the ax, which has been appropriately swapped out for an expensive Santoku knife custom-engraved with some filigree and his initials: BZ.
No doubt he’s got the “hot and up-and-coming chef” thing down: tattooed, confident, exhausted and exhilarated. Hard to believe this isn’t a casting event for Top Chef.
Harder to believe this is the man I get to take home every night.
“FUCK! Are you kidding me, Sebastian? Where the fuck is the lid to that thing?” Benji’s words effectively snap me out of the trance I was in danger of being lulled into. It takes me a minute to realize what happened: his sous chef, Sebastian, has pressed Start on a Vitamix full of would-be avocado aioli, except the lid to the blender is nowhere to be found. Green schmutz has gone flying, marking up Benji’s pristine apron like the start of a Jackson Pollock piece.
“Sorry, chef. I got it on now.” Tail between his legs, Sebastian gets back to work as Benji furiously wipes at the streak with his bare hand. He’s making it worse.
“Benji. Breathe.” I grab his half-drunk can of LaCroix and pour a little onto a clean kitchen rag. While tending to the stain in the hot kitchen, I look directly into those deep brown eyes and give him a reassuring smile. He smells of cigarettes and sweat, garlic and onions. It’s intoxicating.
“I know, Allie. This is just...huge for me. Huge for us. The press is going to be here tonight.” He wipes some sweat off his brow.
“And my parents,” I whisper.
“Oh god, them, too.” He releases the tension by cracking the bones in his neck. A poor substitute, I imagine, for his true preference: a shot of whiskey.
But even a slug of 120 proof wouldn’t take the edge off the fact that Benji’s pop-up dinners are the