Or mostly not because of him.
But because I was my own boss and I could do whatever I wanted. Killian’s criticism might have been complete bullshit—or mostly bullshit—but he was right about one thing. I could try harder. I could be better.
I’d let myself get away with easy meals because I’d been afraid to push myself only to crash and burn. I had been afraid to push my customers, worried they wouldn’t come back if the food wasn’t familiar and easy to like. I’d been too cowardly to be the chef I wanted to be, and so I’d let myself play it safe and get away with mediocre.
An ugly feeling settled in my chest. I didn’t want to acknowledge the shame I felt burrowing through me, like worms in gritty dirt. Or the embarrassment.
It wasn’t even embarrassment. It was utter humiliation.
Killian Quinn had tried my food, under false pretenses, and found it lacking.
Found me lacking.
Found my whole business lacking.
Good grief, I hadn’t felt this shitty since… well, okay, it hadn’t been that long. But I hated feeling this way. I hated that less-than feeling that hollowed out my chest cavity and churned in my gut. My body felt empty, boneless and bloodless, nothing but an empty shell that couldn’t do anything right. The words rang over and over and over in my head while my thoughts tumbled together, never forming useful ideas or coherent sentences.
Before it had always been Derrek’s opinion that hurt the most. And always because it was aimed at personal things about me. I wasn’t good enough. Pretty enough. Smart enough. I wasn’t ever going to be anything. Amount to anything. Accomplish anything. My soul wasn’t worthy. My very humanity unqualified.
At least I could call that for what it was—an attempt to manipulate and control me. And I’d let it. I’d let those ugly, filthy words twist my spirit until I was wrung so tight I started to unravel.
Killian’s insults weren’t nearly as bad. He’d offended me on a professional level. He’d taken my hopes and fears and thrown them in my face. And he’d called me out.
But he hadn’t dedicated years to breaking me. He hadn’t trapped me in his world where he could poison me, where he could direct my slow death. He hadn’t abused me.
He’d just pissed me off.
I had two days to finish a new menu and prove him wrong. And I would.
I’d prove them both wrong.
“Well, if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.” My dad’s gravelly voice greeted me in the kitchen. He stood over the sink with a store-bought danish halfway to his mouth.
I wrinkled my nose at the processed food, but didn’t say anything because they were his absolute favorite. This picture of my dad, one hand braced against the scuffed sink basin, the other holding some variation of manufactured pastry, crumbs dusting his chin, was one I would always remember. This was my dad.
“Sorry,” I mumbled through a yawn. “I’m not used to working so late.”
He winked at me. “I remember those days. Man, do they mess with your internal clock. It always felt weird to drink beer at seven in the morning. But then again, you can’t end the work day without a beer.” He finished off the second half of his pastry in one giant bite. “It used to be quite the conundrum.” His words were muffled by his full mouth, and his eyes were so thoughtful, so rich and deep with years of life and experience and wisdom.
“I don’t think it would be hard for me to decide.”
My dad chuckled. “Yeah, it was never too hard for me to choose either. Besides if you pick the light stuff, it can be considered breakfast too.”
“Is that how it works?” I smiled at him and moved to the refrigerator. My hand closed around the orange juice carton, and it was all I could do to keep from popping the top off and guzzling it straight from the carton. Partly because of thirst, but also because of old habits that hadn’t died. I never expected to have to move back here at twenty-six, and there was just something about drinking straight from the carton that brought out the fourteen-year-old kid in me.
“What are your plans for the day?” Dad asked after he’d washed and dried his hands.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I told him. “I want to talk to a few distributors, and there’s this farmer’s market I found online that I’d like to wander around.”
“You’re not open tonight, though, are you?”
I shook my head and enjoyed a long gulp of orange juice from a tumbler. “Nope. Thursdays through Saturday. For now.”
“You wanna get dinner with me tonight?” he asked. “We could go down to the Riverwalk and grab tacos at that place you like.”
Worry pitted in my stomach, quickly growing roots and spreading out under my skin. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”
He waved me off. “I’m fine. Besides, haven’t you heard of the curative powers of tacos? For as smart as you are, I wonder sometimes.”
There was a twinkle in his eye, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “You know, I hadn’t heard of that before, but who am I to argue with medical science?”
“My thoughts exactly. Invite your brother. He’ll get jealous if we leave him out again.”
“Again?”
My dad gestured at the kitchen. “You know, because you’re living here with me. He feels like he’s missing out on something.”
My mouth unhinged. “He doesn’t live here because he has an actual apartment. Because he can support himself at his actual job. What is there to be jealous of?”
Dad let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, you know your brother. He’s more sensitive than you.”
I laughed again and felt encouraged at his surprising burst of energy. “That’s true,” I agreed. “Fine, I’ll invite my poor, delicate brother to tacos. I better go then. I’ve got a lot to do in a short amount of time.”
“Don’t rush for me, baby girl. I can eat a late dinner.”
I let him see my eye roll. “Dad, a late dinner to you is like four-thirty. That gives me all of three hours to run my errands and stop by the truck for a bit.”
He waved me off again. “Go on then, get out of here.”
I kissed his cheek and grabbed my purse off the counter. “Love you!”
“Love you,” he called back. “And don’t forget your brother!”
I promised to invite him and headed out. The city felt sticky with summer heat. The tar on the street had started to melt, and the air smelled like metal and sweat. I blinked at the aggressive daylight, groaning in resignation. Coffee was at the top of my list today.
Before Europe, I had a decent size savings account. It wasn’t anything to retire on, but it got me to Amsterdam and helped fund my journey to self-discovery. When I go there, I had convinced myself that I would work my way through the best restaurants in the best cities and keep my savings padded so there would be nothing to worry about.