Page 47

FORTY

ruby

I haven’t even left the lecture hall after class when I see the email from my advisor. I open it nervously.

Ruby,

Let’s set up a meeting next week so we can discuss your career decisions.

I trust you’ve had time to come to a conclusion.

The time to start planning for graduate or culinary school applications is now—and I’m being generous.

Remember, there’s no shame in admitting you’re not cut out for more years of school, but you need to decide. Otherwise, you’re wasting your time.

There’s no shame? Of course there’s shame. The whole reason that phrase exists is to talk people out of the shame they’re already feeling. I scowl down at the email.

“Okay, ready?” Bree asks next to me.

I wipe the scowl off my face and pocket my phone. “For what?”

“To talk to Wythe about food science club! Remember?”

Oh, yeah. Bree’s been on my ass lately about joining the club, and last class I promised to think about it. “Come on, I need to score some brownie points. Let’s tell her the good news.”

I let her link her arm in mine and steer me toward the front of the room. “I didn’t say you convinced me. I said I’d consider it, which if you know anything about me means absolutely nothing.”

She lowers her voice to a whisper. “At least pretend I convinced you. Come on, I’ll let you cheat off me.” She raises her eyebrows as we approach Wythe.

“Ladies.”

“Professor Wythe, may I introduce you to the newest member of the Shafer Food Science Club?”

Wythe looks from Bree to me with a surprised smile. “Is that so?”

“Well . . .” I start.

“Yep,” Bree cuts in.

“Wonderful. I was starting to think we’d never get you to commit, Ruby.”

Bree and I exchange a quick glance. “Well, Bree said it’s always a good time. And my résumé’s basically a blank document at this point, so ... sure.”

Bree’s phone rings, and when she sees who it is, she offers Wythe a polite “Excuse me,” tells me she’ll catch me later, and strides off, leaving us alone.

Wythe gathers a few papers off her table.

“I don’t sense much enthusiasm from you regarding food science club,” she says with a knowing look.

“I promise you it offers a lot of opportunities that’ll be a real advantage after college.

” At her request, I’ve kept Wythe in the loop as my career plans evolve.

“I’m just worried about the time commitment. If I continue with the research chef thing, senior year is going to be brutal. I have a lot of ... slacking off to make up for.”

“So being a research chef is still an ‘if’?”

I shrug. “I’m intimidated by what it takes to get there,” I admit.

“It’s a lot, no doubt,” she concedes. “The plus side is there are a lot of different paths to reaching that goal. There’s room for flexibility and adapting as your life changes.”

“Culinary school is a must, though, isn’t it?”

“Plenty of research chefs never attended culinary school. But I still think it’s the quickest way for you to get where you want to go.”

“I hate school.”

Her eyes flicker with amusement. “I can tell. Yet you turned your grade in my class completely around in just weeks, and you’re about to finish the semester with an A.”

But I don’t think she understands how hard I had to work to do it. I’m not sure I could do that once I have a full course load.

When I don’t answer, she says, “Ruby, I’m certainly not here to convince you to do something you hate.

I have no skin in the game. I’m only here to tell you that if you want to do this, you’re completely capable.

Be willing to work hard, adapt, and go where the opportunities are.

If you push yourself out of your comfort zone, you can do this. ”

Her words land hard, and if I was a different person, they’d land with a burst of motivation.

But after I thank her and head toward home, they only weigh me down.

I know Wythe is right. If I want to be a research chef—if I want to be anything except Lorenzo’s girlfriend—I have to be willing to be far from him, to do the long-distance thing and have faith that we’re strong enough to withstand it.

The thought brings on a wave of heartsickness, and suddenly the last thing I want to do is go home.

I want to go to him but, for once, I won’t.

My phone vibrates from my back pocket, and when I take it out, Lorenzo’s name scrolls across the screen.

With a pang of guilt, I silence the call.

I haven’t seen him since the Rossi party over the weekend and I miss him, but I can’t talk to him right now.

He’d sniff out my despair immediately and rush in to soothe me and make it all better, and even though that makes him the perfect man, I can’t have that right now.

I have to make it better on my own. I have to stop depending on him so much.

Everything I wanted for us is happening: Lorenzo is preparing to start interviewing agents, and I finally have some direction.

But now I have to prepare for the reality of it.

If I don’t want my life to fall to pieces, I need to make sure that all the strength he sees in me doesn’t disappear when he goes.