Page 45 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Maybe. Just realizing that in about six months, we’re going to be doing this every night. Except in a real kitchen, with actual dining room service, and probably twice as many covers.”

“Scared?”

“Terrified,” I admit. “Also wondering if I’ve completely lost my mind.”

“Welcome to the club. I’ve been oscillating between excitement and panic for weeks.”

“Any regrets?”

She glances around at our tiny, chaotic, tremendously successful food trailer setup. At the line of people waiting to try what we’ve created together. At the banner announcing The Salty Pearl to a town that’s been waiting for exactly this without knowing it.

“Not a single one,” she says.

And just like that, all my fears settle into manageable territory. Which should probably worry me more than it does.

“Besides,” she adds with a grin that’s pure mischief, “it’s too late to back out now. Half the town has tasted our food. If we don’t open a restaurant, they might riot.”

“Good point. I’m not equipped to handle an angry mob of seafood-deprived locals.”

“Smart man.”

By three o’clock, we’ve sold out of nearly everything except the last two fish tacos, which Amber insists we save for ourselves. The festival is still going strong, but our part is done.

“So,” I say, biting into what might be the best fish taco I’ve ever had, “how do you think it went?”

“See that?” She points to our cash box, which is significantly fuller than it was this morning. “And that?” She gestures to the stack of business cards we ran out of around noon. “And that?” Now she’s pointing to a napkin covered with phone numbers from people who want to know the exact moment we’re opening.

“I think it went well,” I conclude.

“It went better than well. It went like we actually know what we’re doing.”

“Do we know what we’re doing?”

“Today we did.”

We’re sitting on the tailgate of my truck, feet dangling, watching the festival continue around us. The afternoon sun is warm but not brutal, and there’s a breeze off the water that carries the scent of salt and possibility.

This is the kind of moment that makes people think about settling down, about building something permanent. The kind of moment I usually run from.

“Thank you,” she says suddenly.

“For what?”

“For pushing me to do this. For believing I could pull it off. For handling all the boring permit stuff so I could focus on the food.”

“Thank you for trusting me with your recipes. And for not firing me when I couldn’t tell the difference between drill bits.”

“The day is young.”

We sit in comfortable quiet for a while, both of us probably processing what this day means for the future we’re building together. In a few hours, we’ll pack up and go back to our respective homes. Her to three kids and homework supervision. Me to an empty house that’s starting to feel less like a temporary landing pad and more like a place I might actually want to stay.

Which is exactly the kind of thinking that gets people in trouble.

“Brett?” Amber’s voice is soft, almost hesitant.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you offered me this partnership.”