I’m convinced my heart has been ripped out of my chest and left with two boys two thousand miles away, and the only good thing about being so busy with interviews and line shifts is that, for the most part, I’ve been able to turn off my mind during those times and just work.
Reaching into my chef’s coat pocket, I run my fingers over the cardstock, always keeping it with me. The card they gave me is the one and only birthday card I’ve kept in my life, never one to be sentimental, but those two boys have ruined me to the point where not only have I kept it, but I keep it as close as possible.
“Chef Montgomery?” Maven asks when I don’t respond to her order.
I pull my hand from my pocket, quickly running by the sink to wash them. “Yes, Chef. Sorry, Chef.”
With my hair slicked back and my chef’s coat back in place, I attempt to focus on the task at hand—to get through this shift. Then to do it again tomorrow. Then again, every day after that, while I pray that this longing homesickness starts to ease.
Using the towel over my shoulder, I wipe the edge of the plate clean, delivering the Bananas Foster to Maven standing on the other side of the pass-through window.
“Beautiful, Chef,” she says, eyes flicking to me before I return to my station.
She’s not wrong. It’s stunning. The problem is no longer that I can’t do my job.
The problem is that now I don’t want to.
The house rental Violet got for me is nestled in the Hollywood Hills, expansive and expensive with giant open windows so everyone in the valley below can witness just how lonely I am.
When I get back there after another late night at the restaurant, I only turn on enough lights to grab a shower and a glass of water, snagging my phone off the counter before walking right back outside to sleep in my van parked in the driveway.
This house may be beautiful, but it’s empty without Max’s toys littering the living room or the dishes piling in the sink. It’s too pristine. Too perfect. It makes it far too obvious how much I miss them.
The van is just as lonely, but with it being such tight quarters, I can justify that the lack of space is the reason why Kai isn’t in bed next to me.
God, I miss him.
I miss his smell, his smile—the tired one and the confident one. I miss his steady hold, and his overwhelming encouragement. I feel like I’ve been spinning off axis for the past seven days, but this was always the plan.
I was always going to be here, without him.
The short time before bed is the worst and best part of my days. It’s when the loneliness starts to sink in because it’s the only free moment in my day to think of them, to focus on them, though there’s an ache in my heart and a hollowness in my gut every hour of the day due to missing them.
We haven’t spoken since that morning I left Chicago. My dad checked in every few hours of my two-day drive and when I got to California and asked him why he suddenly decided to become a helicopter parent, he simply said, “Kai asked me to.”
Communicating would only make things harder. This is my life and that’s his. Did I indulge in the thought that it could’ve been mine too? Sure. Am I still wanting it? Yes, absolutely, but I have responsibilities here. Responsibilities to these kitchens I’m scheduled for and a responsibility to my dad to do something impressive with the life he’s given me. I’m also responsible for living up to the James Beard Award I won. Responsible to the editors who chose to feature me on the cover of their magazine.
This must be how Kai feels. Responsible to everyone else, constantly trying to do right by others, and rarely choosing things for himself.
He did make one selfish decision this summer though, and I’ve got to say, it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Climbing into bed, I pull the covers up to my chest before checking my phone for the first time today.
There are a few texts waiting for me, but before I read any of them, I head straight to the Internet to find the results from Kai’s game this afternoon. Today was his second start since I left, and his last game wasn’t his best.
And judging by the headlines, today’s was worse.
The Warriors lost five to two, and Kai was pulled in the third inning.
A short video clip shows the moment he got pulled with my dad and him meeting on the mound. They don’t zoom in enough for me to get a clear image of his face, but I can read Kai’s body language perfectly. He’s upset. Not mad, but emotional. My dad gives him a nod and Kai jogs off the field, straight through the dugout, to the clubhouse, and out of the camera’s view.
That right there is my fault.
He’s not okay because of me.
And as much as I can pretend during work hours, I’m nowhere near okay either.
Tears are already burning the backs of my eyes when my attention falls to the framed photo Kai gave me for my birthday. Me with my head on his lap and his son asleep there on the couch too.
I miss them. I ache for them, and I’m mad at Kai for breaking me this way, for making me feel when I spent so much of my life unattached and untethered.
I hate that I love him so much.
So what’s the harm in one little text? One tiny text to remind him that I’m thinking of him.
I find my messages to do just that, but the time at the top of my phone blinds me with the realization that it’s almost three in the morning. It reminds me that Kai asked me not to give him any hope.
It reminds me that summer is over.
Regardless of the late hour, a text comes through from Chef Maven.
Maven: Sorry we haven’t crossed paths much this week! Meet me at the restaurant tomorrow morning for coffee and we can sit down and go over your ideas for the menu?
So much for that morning off I was hoping for. But it’s probably for the best that I don’t give myself time to think because thinking only leads to missing them.
Me: Sounds great. I’ll see you then.
Finally making my way into my other messages, I find texts from Kennedy, Isaiah, Indy, and my dad.
Nothing from Kai. His way to move on quicker, I guess.
I could be sick just thinking about it. Them with another woman in their lives, someone else loving Kai and Max the way I do. That’s what I should want for them, right? To have everything I can’t give them. Everything they deserve.
Then why am I laying here crying in bed at the thought?
This is his fault too. I never used to cry. I never used to feel. Now it’s like a dam has been broken and it’s a non-stop flood pouring from my eyes when I’m not at work. I never needed anyone before them and now I’m laying here, a desperate, sobbing mess in the middle of the night in the Hollywood Hills because there’s a baseball player in Chicago and his son who I miss. Who I love.
Who I can’t have because nothing about our lives aligns.
Blinking through the blurry tears, I find my dad’s text.
Dad: I’m sure you saw the game recap. Give me a call sometime so we can talk. I miss you, Millie.
I don’t hesitate, calling him, needing to hear his voice, needing someone to tell me I made the right decision by going back to work because right now it feels all wrong. I know he of all people will find what I’m doing impressive. He’ll find it worthwhile.
The phone rings until the call goes straight to voicemail because, of course it does. It’s the middle of the night.
“Hi, Dad,” I say into the receiver, clearing my throat in hopes he can’t tell I’m crying. “Just calling to say hi and that I miss you. I really miss you. But things are going great here.” God, is my tone too telling that I’m full of shit? “I have my interview with Food & Wine tomorrow afternoon, so . . . that’s exciting. Sorry about your game.”