Page 74 of Until August

How dare he talk about August like that?

My hands balled into fists as I paced back and forth, my chest heaving with indignation.

And how dare he act like my restaurant was beneath August?

Why had I let Jonathan Kessler’s words get to me?

But I already knew the answer.

This restaurant was my sacred space. The place where I could hide from the world and throw myself into the work instead of dwelling on the problems in my personal life.

It was the only way I’d coped over the past two years. And I guess that’s why the review mattered so much.

If I wasn’t making a success of it, then how could I justify all the time and energy I devoted to my job?

The guilt was always there. So deeply ingrained that it wasn’t easy to shake off.

How dare I spend so much time obsessing over the menu and the perfect food placement of each dish when my husband couldn’t even feed himself?

How dare I kiss my sous chef in the walk-in?

How dare I yearn for the feel of his hands on my body when my husband couldn’t even wrap his arms around me?

How dare I care what a restaurant critic says about my food, restaurant, or sous chef when my husband couldn’t speak?

And yet I cared. Because I was all too human.

I still cried, hurt, laughed, and yearned for something more.

Because I was still here.

I sagged against the wall and tipped my head back. Looking up at the stars reeling in the sky, I swiped my tongue over my lips, tasting the salty sea air, and I tried to send it back into the universe and let it all go.

My insecurities. My guilt. My fears. The stress of not only trying to keep a restaurant afloat but to achieve greatness.

I knew I was a good chef. But I knew August was better.

He was a perfectionist. A master of his craft. Never satisfied. Constantly tweaking and improvising and improving.

People don’t change much. August was still ambitious and driven.

He wouldn’t be content to work for someone else for the rest of his life. This was just a pit stop. An opportunity to get back in the game and test the waters before he ventured out on his own again.

It wasn’t a matter of if. It was a matter of when.

And that was okay.

Nothing lasts forever. You just had to hang onto the good, make the moments count, and let the rest go.

The door opened, and August joined me. He leaned against the wall next to me without saying a word. As if he sensed that I was trying to wrap my head around my fears and insecurities and find a way to let it all go.

At that moment, I realized something else. Something important that August was trying to tell me earlier.

My self-worth didn’t hinge on one restaurant critic’s opinion. And it didn’t matter if he’d chosen August’s dishes or mine.

Whatever he decided to write wouldn’t change anything.

I was meant to be a chef, and even if I lost this restaurant tomorrow, lost everything like August had, I would pick myself up, dust myself off, and get back in the game.