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I stand up and take one step after another away from her. It feels like ripping off a limb, each inch of distance a new kind of agony.
At the door, I pause, hand on the knob. “For what it’s worth, deal or no deal, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be here. Call me if?—”
“Goodbye, Brandon.”
Her voice is the shock that ruins a soufflé mid-rise, undoing all the careful effort in a single moment. I step into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me.
Final. Irreversible.
I lean back against it, my head falling back with a thud.
Fuck.
My hands still remember her trembling against me. My chef’s instincts scream to fix this, to find the right ingredients, the perfect recipe to make everything better. But this isn’t a failed dish I can remake. This is Naomi.
I’ve never felt more useless. Not when my restaurant failed, not when my father died. Because this time, the one person I want to protect more than anything is pushing me away, and all my usual tricks, the jokes, the cooking, the careful planning, mean nothing.
I really want that breakfast-pancake subscription.
The bourbon burns going down, but not enough to dull the ache in my chest. Five glasses in and I still see her face, still hear her voice telling me to leave.
I stumble to the kitchen, yanking open cabinets until I find what I need. Pots clang against the counter, ingredients scattered like casualties of war.
“You think I’m giving up?”
“Aren’t you? The Brandon I knew in college would never?—”
If food is the way I reach her, I’ll cook.
Still, be that guy she…
I grab an onion and knife starting to—The blade slips, biting into my finger. “Shit!” Blood wells up, bright against the cutting board and half-chopped onion.
When was the last time I actually cooked something? Not pancakes, not a salad. Something real. Before Dad died? Before everything went to shit?
Some chef I turned out to be. Can’t even dice a fucking onion without hurting myself.
I’m a failure.
The restaurant. Naomi. The company.
I sweep everything off the counter. Pots crash to the floor, and vegetables scatter.
My phone sits on the counter. What would I even say? ‘Sorry, I’m such a fucking mess’? ‘Sorry, I couldn’t be what you needed’?
God, Naomi would hate seeing me like this.
Maybe that’s why she pushed me away. She saw what everyone else sees. A drunk playing at being functional, pretending he’s not falling apart.
I wrap a dish towel around my bleeding hand, the white fabric quickly staining red as I rush to my office. Fuck, that’s gonna need stitches.
Down the hall. Left turn. The door’s already open. Did I leave it that way? The safe sits behind my desk, a black metal box full of secrets and leverage. My fingers fumble with the combination. 4-8-2-1. It swings open.
Enough power to keep her close.
Can I be that asshole? Hold something like this over someone? Over her?
She’d have no choice.