Page 79 of Love Arranged

Maria, an older Italian woman I’ve spent time getting to know, and her American husband pull Lily and me aside to say hello.

“Lorenzo!” The chef throws her arms around me. “What a nice surprise. I had no idea you’d be attending tonight’s class.”

I freeze up, only to be further physically tested when her husband claps a hand around my shoulder.

“Good to see you.”

I’m about to shake him off, but Lily’s hand wrapping around my bicep puts a temporary stop to that idea.

Careful now, the same black fog slithers through my mind, sucking some of my life force away.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Lily says while looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

“Thank you! Lorenzo helped us with the rebranding project.” She beams. “Without him, it wouldn’t have been possible to turn the restaurant into a cooking school.”

Maria’s husband, who looks extremely uncomfortable at the reminder of my help, is proof why. Most people, especially men, hate asking for money, so I’m typically brought on as a silent investor when people are out of options and need capital.

I provide funds in exchange for a small percentage of annual profits, and based on the way Maria’s cooking class is thriving, I made the right decision investing in the remodel. Although he’d never say it, I’m sure her proud husband agrees given how packed the room is.

He and Maria politely excuse themselves from theconversation so they can welcome the other guests. The attendees’ ages range, and our group is full of newlywed couples and retirees who are looking for something entertaining to do on a weekday.

“Who else have you helped in town?” Lily whispers to me while Maria hands out plastic aprons to the group.

I press my mouth against her ear. “Wouldn’t be much of a secret if I told you, would it?”

She is a little slow when pulling away. “I’m surprised you’re not flaunting it for everyone to see.”

“Unlike the Lopez cousins, some of us don’t need to have a street or soccer field dedicated in our honor.”

She sticks out her tongue as Maria stops by our station to hand us our aprons. “For my favorite student.”

Lily grabs both. “Better not let your other ones hear that.”

“They’ll understand once they see this man cook.”

Lily waits until Maria takes off before teasing, “Sounds like I’m in the presence of a professional.”

“Hardly.” I’d rather downplay my skills than be praised for them.

“How’d you get into cooking?” She speaks low so no one hears us.

“My parents.” Hopefully my short answer wards her away from asking more questions about it.

Cooking is more about control than enjoying the art. My first and last therapist told me as much, along with how control was one of the reasons I most likely developed OCD.

Sometimes when a child is ripped away from their life like I had been, they feel the need to establish control over every aspect of their environment.

Which is why tonight is that much more difficult for me. In my own kitchen, I know exactly where and when the food was bought. I can double- and triple-check expiration dates without anyone noticing the compulsion, and I’m able to wash my fruits and veggies until it feelsjustrightwithout anyone judging me.

It isn’t healthy. My brief stint in therapy taught me that, but my compulsive behaviors can be difficult to stop, and me staying in my comfort zone where I have full control over everything doesn’t help. So instead of learning how to better manage them, I’ve built quite a repertoire of recipes since I rarely order takeout or eat at restaurants.

Lily slips her plastic apron over her head, making her dark hair stand up in all different directions. Before I think twice about it, I reach behind her head and fix her hair so it’s no longer catching on the plastic.

She blinks up at me, her eyes slightly wider than before.

“What?” I ask.

She rips her gaze away. “Nothing.”