Page 57 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Then you adapt,” I say, jumping in before Dad can launch into one of his stories about weathering storms. “You call the customers, explain the situation, offer alternatives. People appreciate honesty.”

Brett’s eyebrow arches. “You think people will appreciate calling ahead to confirm their dinner is still available?”

“I think people will appreciate knowing their fish was swimming yesterday instead of sitting in a warehouse for months.”

“That’s assuming they can tell the difference.”

“Of course they can tell the difference! Fresh fish doesn’t smell fishy, it has better texture, the flavor is?—”

“I’m just saying we should have backup plans.”

“And I’m just saying we should have faith in our suppliers.”

Dad looks between us with amusement. “You two sound like an old married couple.”

We both immediately stop talking and focus very intently on our respective tasks. Brett goes back to measuring rug placement with unnecessary precision. I flip through my notebook like it contains state secrets.

My phone buzzes against the makeshift planning table. Chad’s name appears on the screen, and my stomach immediately knots. He never calls unless there’s a problem—usually one that costs me money or peace of mind.

I glance at Brett and Dad, both of whom suddenlybecome very interested in supplier lists. “Excuse me for a second.”

I step outside onto the boardwalk to take the call.

“Chad.”

“Hey, Amber. Look, I need to talk to you about the custody schedule.”

No pleasantries. No asking how the kids are. Straight to business, which is actually an improvement over his usual approach.

“What about it?”

“I need to make some adjustments. I’m looking at a job opportunity in Charlotte—could be six months, maybe longer. Good money, great connections.”

My heart sinks. Not because I’ll miss him, but because I know exactly what this means for Mason and Crew. Another broken promise. Another disappointment they’ll have to absorb and pretend doesn’t hurt.

“So you’re moving to Charlotte.”

“Maybe. Temporarily. The thing is, I won’t be able to do my regular weekends for a while. But I’ll make it up to them when I get back.”

I close my eyes and count to five. “Chad, they’re not subscription boxes you can pause and restart. They’re your children.”

“I know that. This is about providing for their future. Building something stable.”

“You mean like the ‘stable opportunity’ in Raleighlast year? Or the ‘game-changing position’ in Virginia Beach the year before that?”

Silence on the other end. Then: “I’m trying to do better, Amber.”

“By leaving again.”

“By creating opportunities. This could lead to something permanent. Something that lets me provide for them properly.”

The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so exhausting. He spends money on surf trips to Costa Rica but claims he needs a better job to support his kids.

“What about your weekends through the spring?”

“I’ll probably need to skip most of them. But like I said, I’ll make it up to them.”

“Fine,” I say, because fighting about it won’t change anything. “But I’m not explaining this to them. You call and tell them yourself.”