Personal Ego Death

“Okay,” Dana looks between them, taking the bait and looking for more information. “Where’d you meet this girl?”

“It’s not, I mean-”

“She’s a chef,” Robby cuts in, completely incapable of keeping things to himself and loving how embarrassed Jack is getting. “She came in a few weeks back with a pretty gnarly cut that Jack stitched up.”

Dana pushes, hands on her hips, “And did you hit on her while she was a patient? Or wait until after?”

 “Alright, alright,” Jack crosses his arms.  “It’s not like that. We were talking about how she cut herself, she mentioned the restaurant, and invited me to drop by. There was no hitting on. At least, not until dessert.”

“And now,” Robby continues on his behalf, “he hasn’t called her in, what, four days? Five days?”

“She’s a very busy woman, okay? I’m not going to bother her just yet.” Jack looks around and then snaps back to Robby. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Didn’t I just pass an entire emergency room off to you?” Jack taps at the chart in Robby’s hands.

“Go on, they could use you in four,” Dana looks at Robby and tilts her head back. They share a knowing look.

Robby drops a hand on Jack’s shoulder and squeezes. “Good luck with that plan, my friend. Let me know how not calling her goes for you.”

When he walks off, Jack drops his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I am going home, taking the hottest shower possible, and sleeping until my next shift,” he groans.

“Come on, Jack,” Dana leans back against the nurse’s station. “What is this about?”

“Robby cannot keep his mouth shut, is all.”

“You like this girl?” Dana asks.

It takes a moment for Jack to answer. He sighs, and settles next to Dana, their shoulders brushing. He thinks about how you looked walking through the dining room in your whites, how you scrunched your nose, or the way you looked at him as he told a story, like there wasn’t anyone else in the room. He thought about how you felt pressed against him, and how your lips tasted like chocolate and honey.

“Yeah,” he says, finally.

“Then whatareya waiting for?”

“I told you, she’s busy. She has a lot going for her. I’m not- I haven’t figured out how I fit into it yet, is all.” Jack says, realizing it in the same moment the words come out.

“Listen,” Dana’s voice is soft, not pushy, “I assume this woman has a strong sense of self, otherwise you wouldn’tave liked her so much. Let her decide how you slot in. She’s not going to wait around forever. Don’t make that choice for her.”

“Well, when you say it, it sounds so obvious,” Jack smirks.

“I have that effect,” Dana says flatly, tilting her head. “I’m serious. I don't think I've seen you so... hesitant before."

When Jack finally clocks off, he sits in his car for a moment, trying to figure out how to break the silence. Multiple texts are typed out, and promptly deleted. Eventually, he decides it's actually too early, and you're probably asleep. Best to go home, take a shower, and get some rest. Have a clear mind. The last thing he'd want to do is finally text you, then pass out for 12 hours. Yes, solid plan.

When your phone buzzes in your pocket, you ignore it, deep in conversation with the Executive and Sous chef. You're planning the upcoming menu change from summer to fall. You have your notes sprawled out in front of you on the stainless steel table, while the two men watch your pencil wave in the air, animated as you explain.

"I just don’t think, as we move into these heavier dishes, people are going to want a massive slice of cake at the end of the meal,” you look at the listed entrees and appetizers and shake your head.

“Come on, you know the customers have been wanting something like this.” The Executive Chef, Wes Reyes pushes. “They want something impressive that they can take a picture of and post.”

“My desserts are photo worthy,” you shoot back, bordering on defensive.

“No one is saying they aren’t.” Scottie chimes in.

“Please don’t fight me on this, alright?” Wes pushes, his tone calm and commanding. “We need a cake option on the menu. People like cake. They want an impressive cake. We will give them a cake.”

 “Okay, fine,” you bristle. You consider for a moment, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I can do a full sheet cake and cut it into rounds. I’ll make sure the recipe fills the pan, that way I can still cut the layers in half horizontally. The cake won’t be huge, but it’ll have a bunch of small, impressive layers.”

“How many layers are we talking?” Wes asks, watching you with interest as you draw out your plan on the pad in front of you.

 “For an 8-inch cake, I can probably get 6 rounds cut out of a full sheet pan, but I would only use 4 layers in one cake. Cut those in half, fill them with like pastry cream or something. 8 cake layers, plus filling, makes for like 15 layers?” you look back at the men, deep in thought.

“A 15-layer cake,” Scottie grins. “Sounds like an easy upsell to me.”

“I like it,” Wes nods.

“We can assemble the cakes in the rounds easy, and slice and plate them for service to order. I’ll use the scraps for something else, like a parfait special on the brunch menu,” your mind is already working a mile a minute, trying to figure out how to execute a recipe that doesn’t exist yet. “And if we do this,” you push, carefully, “Can I please put my pumpkin ganache tart on the menu?”

Wes considers for a moment, looking back at the savory lineup. “Yeah, if you can get this cake for me, you can put whatever tart you want on the menu.”

“Yes, thank you, Wes,” you beam.

“What flavor are you thinking for the cake?” Wes pushes through your small moment of victory.

 “I, uh,” you think for a moment. Flavor combinations from all of your previous jobs fly through your head. “We can do an olive oil cake, work in a salty dulce de leche filling or something bright like persimmon.”

Wes considers, shaking his head. “Think on that some more and come back to me. I like an olive oil cake, but that doesn’t read well at the end of the year.”

“Heard,” you nod, keeping your face straight.

Wes nudges Scottie, and tilts his head back to the walk in, likely for ingredient inventory. He pushes away from the table and starts to back off before adding, “And get those recipes ready for me next week, okay? We’re going to put the menu together for staff tasting.”

You freeze, making a mental note of how little time that is. “Right, yes, I can do that.”

“That’s my girl,” Wes nods and heads back into the walk in with a clipboard in hand.

Scottie lingers for a moment, kicking his shoes against the floor and meandering closer to you.

“What do you want, Miller,” you don’t look up from your notes.

“What, I can’t stay to hang out with my favorite pastry chef?” Scottie asks in mock offense.

“I don’t know, has hell frozen over?” you deadpan.

After a beat, Scottie finally leans in, keeping his voice down. “I need a favor.”

“Of course you do,” you groan, slamming your pencil down.

“Look, Wes has us sighed up for this festival thing next month. It’s an autumn chef series,” he turns to make sure Wes is still safely inside the walk in. “I can’t go, and I need you to step in for me.”

“Why me?” you shoot back.

“You’re great with the people,” Scottie tries to schmooze. “And it’s nothing you can’t handle. Take care of the prep, pass out some free samples, talk to the crowd. Easy.”

“And if it’s so easy,” you narrow your eyes, “why can’t you do it? You’re his sous, not me.”

“I don’t want to get into it right now, okay?”

“Fuck you- don’t want to get into it,” your voice rises.

“Damn it,” Scottie runs a hand through his hair, “Okay fine. I’ve got tickets to this show that I don’t want to miss.”

“A show,” you narrows your eyes.

“Yes.”

You smack him on the shoulder. “It’s a date, isn’t it? You’re bailing on this for a date?”

“Hey, back off, woman,” Scottie swats your hands away. “If you’ll recall, I handled the floors the other night so you could go off with mystery man.”

“Boo-hoo, you had to mop an extra ten square feet of space,” you scoff.

“Please. I’m serious. I got these tickets as a surprise, and I didn’t get around to asking for the time off.” Scottie presses his hands together. “I’ll owe you.”

“Ugh,” you groan, resting your forehead on the stainless steel table. “Fine. But you will owe me and I will decide what that is.”

Scottie claps his hands together. “Yes! Thank you. Seriously.”

“Get out of my face before I change my mind,” you gather your notes.

Scottie sends air kisses your way, backing towards the walk in to meet Wes. You pull your phone out to add the festival to your calendar, only to be reminded of the notification you already forgot that you ignored.

Hey chef.

Your brows furrow. It’s a Pittsburgh area code. It could be someone on the front of house team, you don’t have most of their numbers. Could it be someone else asking a favor of you? You've already decided that you're annoyed.

Who is this.

Direct and to the point.

Jack Abbot. You forgot about me already?

Your face gets warm, and you smiles to yourself. But that smile fades just as fast as it comes when you remember the context of this text. How long it’s been since you've seen him last.

No, but it seems like you forgot about me.

You sigh and stuff your phone in your pocket. It’s a busy day, and you have a grocery run to make. You need more cherries to finish out the summer menu, along with a can of pumpkin and a scrap of inspiration for the fall menu. When you get into your car, your phone vibrates again.

I know, and I’m sorry. I have a couple of nights off coming up. Let me make it up to you.

The last thing you want to do is reward Jack with an immediate response. You waited around for days, jumping at every notification, hoping it was Jack. Eventually, you had to stop getting your hopes up. The man is an idiot, and you kicked yourself for not getting his phone number instead of handing yours out. At least then, you would have reached out sooner, and the rejection could happen quicker. But you're curious, and admittedly horny, and accept his invitation.

It takes a few tries to find a day where you are both free, and when you do, you're already regretting everything. Jack refused to tell you where you were going, and only told you to dress for outside, and wear shoes you can walk in. Were they going on an evening hike? You are only 70% sure that Jack wouldn’t take you out to the middle of nowhere to kill you. And the other 30% almost won out.

You shut the building door behind you and walk the steps down to Jack’s car, where he idles on the side of the street, waiting for you. The sun is just starting to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. It’s a little late for the start of a date, but you are choosing to trust.

“Hi,” you smile through the open window.

“Hi,” Jack’s shoulders drop when he sees her, calm, settling. It happens often, you realize. Jack always seems to be in his own head about something, visibly relaxing when he gets pulled out.

“You gave me absolutely nothing to work with. Is this outfit okay?” you step away from the car and give a spin. Lace up combat boots, a mid-length skirt that hugs your curves before flowing down to your calves, and a t-shirt that you know makes your chest look amazing. You're hair is down for a change, the tight bandanas forgotten on top of your dresser. It's a welcome reprieve for your scalp.

Jack’s eyes wander down your body, lingering where the skirt hugs you tightly. He swallows, “You look perfect.”

You beam and slide into the passenger seat. “So,” you buckle your seatbelt, “are you going to tell me where we're going?”

“It’s not a long drive,” Jack shrugs as he peels away from the curb. “Let’s keep the mystery alive for a little longer.”

It is a short drive, and when Jack’s car slows to a stop, you look out the window, confused. “I thought the botanical gardens would be closed by now? It’s late, no?”

Jack puts the car in park. “They are putting on a light sculpture festival for the next few weeks, an end of summer celebration, and tonight is opening night.”

You look back again at entrance. The sun was almost completely set by now, so you can see the distant glow of lights coming from inside.

“I know it’s not much,” Jack says next to you, “but my date ideas are usually restaurants or bars, and I wasn’t sure if you’d want to spend your night off in either.”

“It’s perfect,” you smile reassuringly. Your heart swells at the consideration. “For the record, I’m not opposed to other people cooking for me.”

“Noted,” Jack nods.

Jack pays the entrance fee for the both of you, and you follow the line inside. The normal path of the botanical garden was illuminated with gently twinkling lights, highlighting the well taken care of garden displays. Trees were uplit with lights, incredible attention to detail paid to each display. You stop at a booth and treat yourselves to beers served in small plastic cups. Jack winces at the price, complaining that beverage costs have turned into highway robbery, which just makes you giggle.

You walk under a canopy of twinkling lights, your arms bumping each other. You study Jack’s face for a moment before finally asking what’s been on your mind. “So, what gives?”

“What do you mean?” Jack asks, treading carefully.

“Why did you wait so long to reach out?” you ask, shrugging. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind or something.”

“No, fuck,” Jack nearly chokes on his drink. “That is not the case. At all.”

“Ah, I see,” you nod, teasing. “Playing it cool?”

“It’s a little embarrassing,” Jack starts. When you motion for him to continue, he sighs. “I think I typed a message out to you a dozen or more times, and deleted it every time. I couldn’t figure out what to say to you.”

You let out a loud laugh, receiving startled reactions from the clusters of people nearby. “I’m so sorry, no,” you grab Jack’s arm when he rolls his eyes, “no, that’s so sweet.”

“Really? Because you’re making me feel like it’s not. And I’m baring my soul to you right now,” he tries to fight the grin, but you can see through it.

“It’s just, I understand what you mean, and that is so sweet. But the thought of you laboring over what to say and landing on ‘Hey Chef’ is killing me,” you nearly double over, holding your chest as you catch your breath.

“Okay, okay,” Jack chuckles, “not my best move. Go easy on me, okay? It’s been a while since I’ve asked a pretty girl out.”

You pull Jack under a tree that has been completely illuminated with warm, comforting lights. They catch the angles in Jack’s face, and you can only hope you look half as good as he does.

“Well, I’m glad you did. Eventually. Finally,” you can’t help yourself. Jack starts to look away, smiling, when you pull his face back to yours. You lean in and press your lips to his. It’s a chaste kiss. But given the setting and the number of families present, you don’t want to push too far.

You spend the rest of the walk with your fingers laced together, marveling at the light displays and searching up strange plants you’ve never heard of. It’s been a while since you felt so comfortable with someone, especially someone you barely know. Jack has a strangely calming presence. Or maybe it’s the overpriced beer that has you feeling this way.

Whatever it is, you doesn’t want it to end. So when Jack pulls up to your apartment to drop you off, you cup his face and give him a sweet kiss on the cheek. You slide out of the passenger side and nod back to your building.

“Come up for a second,” your lips curve in a small smile.

“Are you sure?” Jack raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine.” You back away from his car and sigh dramatically. “I’ll just make a drink, for myself. Lay out on the couch, by myself. Change into my nightgown, alone.”