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“Irrelevant.” I glance at Naomi’s door. “About the viewings?—”
“At midnight? Really?”
“Schedule them, but kick Morozov.” My free hand finds the back of my neck, squeezing. “Whoever offers the most gets it.”
Silence stretches between us, and I can practically hear him choosing his words.
“Brandon… Maybe sleep on this? We can talk tomorrow when you’re?—”
“Just do your job, Jeff.” I step inside the elevator and press the button for the garage. “Set up the viewings.”
Another pause. “You sure about this?”
No. “Yes.”
“I’ll email you the schedule in the morning. And Brandon?”
“What?”
“Get some sleep.”
I hang up without responding.
It’s time to face my demons head-on.
For her.
Back at my apartment, I stop in the middle of what could generously be called my living room.
Empty takeout containers create a monument to my descent into culinary hell. Clothes and bottles compete for floor space like ingredients fighting for counter space during rush hour. The place reeks of stale beer and forgotten food, a bouquet thatwould make any self-respecting chef commit seppuku with their favorite knife.
My fingers twitch. The kitchen doesn’t look any better, dusty counters and crusty dishes are piled in the sink.
Mother’s voice rings in my head.A clean kitchen is a productive kitchen.
Well, what does this disaster say about mine?
I grab a garbage bag and start tossing bottles, and my shoulders start protesting as I bend down again and again. Each bottle feels heavier than the last, like they’re weighted with all my failures.
The cleaning supplies are where I left them untouched, under the sink. I grab the spray bottle and start.
The kitchen counter first. One surface at a time. The chemical bite of cleaning spray burns my nostrils, a far cry from the aromatic heaven my kitchen used to be. At least I haven’t forgotten how to follow a process, even if it’s just systematic sanitizing instead of dry-heat cooking.
Spray. Wipe. Scrub.
Then the stovetop, I pause, the rag hovering above it. Custom-made, top-of-the-line, a real beast. I had to pull some serious strings to get my hands on it.
My old man thought I was crazy. “You’re throwing your money away,” he said, shaking his head. “On a stove?”
He didn’t get it. This wasn’t just a stove. It was a statement. A middle finger to everyone who said I couldn’t make it on my own.
And they were right.
I run my hand over the cool stainless steel, remembering the first meal I cooked on it. Steak au poivre. The sizzle of the meat and the aroma of the peppercorns…
Now, it’s just another thing I abandoned, another surface to clean.
Sweat trickles down my neck as I attack the built-up grease. My biceps burn from the repetitive motion, but I welcome the pain. It’s better than thinking about Blake’s words, about Naomi, about?—