“What the fuck…” Dean paces away from me, his shoulders stiffening. “I won’t approve her thesis because her research and methodology are incomplete! I told her that. I told you that. I won’t put my name behind a student who produces lousy work. And she won’t take my suggestions or find another topic, so we’re at a deadlock.”
“Why hasn’t she changed advisors?”
“Because she claims it would set her back too far since she already started with the previous professor, and then she took a year off. She still thinks she can earn her master’s by the end of the year, even though she hasn’t started writing her thesis. Much less done any useful research. I’ve been telling her that since last summer.”
He swears and paces again, running a hand through his hair. I tighten my arms around myself, feeling the thump of my heartbeat. I could care less about Maggie Hamilton’s poor research abilities.
“Why… why would she imply you treat the female students inappropriately?” I ask.
“I don’t know! I haven’t even talked to her in a…” He stops suddenly. Tension rolls through his body as he turns back to face me. Darkness suffuses his eyes.
I take a step back. My throat aches.
“Liv.”
I can’t look at him.
“Liv.” His voice roughens. “Do you believe her?”
No. No!
The denial boils inside me. But it is not powerful enough to dissolve the hard-edged fear that has prodded at me for weeks now. I clench my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms hard enough to hurt.
“I don’t… I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I whisper. I realize that is the unvarnished truth. A wave of dizziness washes over me.
“Liv… Jesus, Liv…” The words crack as Dean backs away, pale beneath his tan. “No, for the love of God. You think I would do that to you, to us, after… why the fuck would you… no.”
“I’m sorry, Dean! I feel… for weeks now, I’ve felt like you’re keeping something from me, but I have no idea what it is, so when she said—”
“You thought that was it?”
“I’m just… things have been so messy between us, and then she… why would she say that?”
“No.” His voice is forceful now, lined with steel. “No, Olivia. I have never made a pass at another woman since the day I met you. Since long before I met you. If you can’t believe that, then I don’t know what the fuck we’re even doing anymore.”
He turns and leaves. A second later, the bedroom door slams shut. I sink into a chair and bury my face in my hands.
Is it true? Have I stopped trusting my own husband?
If so, where in the love of God does that leave us?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
October 9
ock the blade, Liv.” Tyler Wilkes pauses beside my station.
“Sounds like the name of a chef’s concert series.” I shoot him a grin. “Rock the Blade, fronted by Chef Tyler Wilkes on the sauté pan.”
“Funny. Now pay attention to what you’re doing.”
I turn back to chopping chives. The voices of my fellow students and their occasional laughter rises around me and Tyler. Oil sizzles in pans, blades thwack against cutting boards, oven doors open and close.
It’s all become pleasant and very welcome over the past weeks, a familiar cadence that soothes all my tangled, barbed-wire thoughts.
“Careful.” Tyler steps closer. “Move it backward to get ready for the next stroke.”
He puts his hand over mine on the knife handle, then takes my other hand and places it against the top of the blade. He’s done this often since that first time when I kind of freaked out. Now I’m used to his hands-on guidance, and I appreciate it because he shows me exactly how to do it right.
“This stabilizes the cutting board,” he explains. “Now rock the blade up and down without moving the tip. Keep it in the same position, and let the knife do the work.”
He guides my hands into the rhythm. It’s easy and satisfying to feel the sharp blade chopping the chives into uniform pieces.
Tyler steps back to watch me. “Good. Got all your mise en place?”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Remember the chicken breast won’t take long to cook. Give it a good sear, then finish it in the oven.”
“Got it.”
He watches me chopping herbs for a couple more minutes before he nods with approval. “Nice work, Liv. Told you I’d make a chef out of you yet.”
He winks and smiles, which makes a pleasant warmth glow through me. Even at almost thirty years of age, I apparently still have the urge to earn the teacher’s approval.
At the end of class, we sample our own dishes and everyone else’s. My chicken turned out dry and, according to Tyler, under-seasoned, but overall it’s not a bad dish. At least it’s edible.
“How do you feel?” Tyler stops by my station again when we’re cleaning up and getting ready to leave.
“How do I feel?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Yeah. About your cooking skills. You were pretty shaky about your abilities at first. Since it’s been a few weeks now, I was wondering how you feel. Are you enjoying yourself?”
Hmm.
“I don’t know if enjoy is the right word,” I admit. “I mean, it’s frustrating when I can’t even crack an egg properly. But that soufflé did taste good, right? And I’m learning a lot.”
“Are you practicing at home?”