Chapter 4 Old bruises

The city was waking up outside, cars starting, light pushing through the blinds. An hour later, after I was dressed and ready to leave, there was a knock on the door. I knew it was Cherry before I opened it. I let her in, she observed me quietly. "Well...you survived, are you feeling okay?" I wasn't in the mood to bare my soul to her or anyone. I've never really been very expressive, so I forced a smile to my face.

"Of course I'm okay, mission accomplished." I waved the wand of cash in front of her, she gasped.

"Holy shit Sash, that's a lot of greens, what sort of sorcery did you perform last night?"

I smiled and shrugged. "Well let's go get breakfast, I'm buying." I decided to forget last night ever happened.

I paid my rent, sorted out all my outstanding bills. As I got handed the receipt, something twisted in my gut, it wasn't guilt, it was sadness, for how I was able to make the payment, for what it reminded me of.

Soon after, I started cooking again, not in a restaurant, not for strangers who sent plates back without any acknowledgment. I became a private chef, I catered to people who want something homemade, something that tasted like care, carefully curated just for their taste buds. Word spread quietly and I started getting referrals. A birthday dinner here, a small gathering there.

In other people's kitchen, I found a sense of purpose. The sound of knife against a board, onions softening in butter, the slow rhythm of a meal coming together, it all steadied me, kept me grounded.

Late at night, sometimes, I'd think about him, about that night, I'd touch myself and imagine it was him touching me. How could I possibly forget, when he completely swept me off my feet like a tidal wave. Cherry would sometimes call to ask if I wanted to hang, for a while I kept politely declining. It wasn't that I blamed her for my dilemma, she just reminded me of a night that has since plagued me, I would never admit any of that to her though.

It was late afternoon, I was chopping herbs in a client's kitchen, the sun slanting through the blinds, dust catching in the light. My phone buzzed across the counter. Unknown number, but I knew. You can always tell when when it's someone who shouldn't be calling. I steadied my voice and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

A pause. Then I heard his voice, low, calm, too familiar.

"Hey...it's Crest."

For a second I didn't breath, that voice brought everything back, all I've been struggling to erase, the dimly lit room, the quiet and the ache I thought I buried under rent receipts and grocery lists.

"I wasn't sure you'd pick up." He said.

"I wasn't sure I should." I replied.

He laughed softly, like we were sharing a private joke.

"I've been thinking about you."

"It's been over a month."

I said, but it came out sharper than I meant.

"I'd like to see you" he said. "Just dinner nothing more".

I closed my eyes. Behind me something sizzled in the pan, the smell of garlic filling the air, grounding me in the life I was trying to create for myself. When I opened my eyes I responded,

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because there's no point, I'm not about that life."

The line stayed open for a few seconds, the silence, deafening. I hung up and blocked the number. My hands were shaking but I kept chopping. The knife, the herbs, the sound, steady and rhythmic. That night when I finally decided to have dinner with Cherry at my apartment, I didn't tell her about the phone call. I needed a clear head for work the morning at Mrs. Levin's.

In her late sixties, rich, widowed, elegan in that soft, deliberate way women of her generation seemed to perfect. I cooked for her twice a week, quiet dinners for one, sometimes two if her bridge partner stayed late. She'd taken a liking to me early on. Said I was hard working and industrious, also said she didn't know how she survived all those years without having me as her chef. Mrs. Levin was the kind of woman who believed young women needed companionship. I liked and admired her, so when she said.0 "You're too pretty to be without a man. Let me introduce you to someone," I didn't know how to refuse.

His name was Matthew, her friend's nephew. "Lovely man, divorced, stable, good job." She had said.The kind of description that sounded more like a tax assessment than a person. Still, I said yes. Maybe because I wanted to rid myself of thoughts of a certain person.

The restaurant was a cozy Italian place in River North , all soft jazz, low lighting, and tables close enough that you could hear snippets of other people's lives between bites. He stood when I arrived. Tall, pressed shirt, too much cologne, the kind that smelled expensive but tired.

"Wow," he said, smiling too wide. "Mrs. Levin undersold you."

"Did she?" I said, taking my seat.

He ordered for both of us before I even looked at the menu. Wine, calamari, something "light." I told myself not to judge too fast. For the first fifteen minutes, he was charming in a predictable, almost professional way. He asked where I was from, what kind of cooking I did. But when I started describing a private dinner I'd hosted for a couple's anniversary, he cut in with,

"Oh, that's cute. My ex-wife used to go through these chef phases. Bought all the gadgets, never used them."

I smiled politely and took a long sip of wine. From there, it was all him. His business, his workouts, his ex-wife's "drama," his plan to buy property in Florida "before the boom hits again." Every few minutes, he'd say, "You know what I mean?" I didn't.

At some point, I realized I'd stopped listening. I was watching the couple at the next table, a young woman feeding her boyfriend a forkful of pasta, both of them laughing with their mouths full. It looked messy. Real. Alive.

"Do you always cook?" Matthew asked suddenly.

"Yes," I said. "It's what I do."

"That's adorable," he said, nodding. "You'd save a lot of money if we moved in together."

I blinked. "We've known each other forty minutes."

He laughed, "Hey, I'm just kidding."

I didn't think he was.When dessert came, he refused it , "I'm keto," he announced proudly. He looked at my tiramisu like it was a personal attack. By the time the check arrived, I'd already decided I'd never see him again. But he still leaned in for a hug that lasted a beat too long and said. "You should come by sometime. I'll make you my famous protein shake."

"Tempting," I said, smiling with my teeth.

On the drive home in my almost rickety car, I rolled the window down and let the cold air wash the evening off me. It wasn't that he was awful. He was fine, polite, successful, maybe even kind in his own way. But I realized something on that drive, fine wasn't what I wanted. I'd had too much of fine.

At home, I slipped off my shoes, poured myself a glass of wine, and texted Mrs. Levin.

"Lovely man. Perfect teeth. Definitely not my type."

She sent back a single heart emoji and:

"Try again next week."

I laughed out loud, a small, helpless sound that faded into the quiet of my apartment. I didn't want another date. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. Because beneath the disappointment, there was still a part of me waiting, not for Matthew, not for anyone new, but for something that felt real enough to stay.