Foodie was Plan B.
I’d put myself through culinary school to become a world renowned chef. I’d fought and battled my way through a male dominated profession to work in the best restaurants around the world. I’d slaved and sacrificed to build a resume and reputation that would open doors to any kitchen I wanted. And I’d hoped and prayed that I would be able to learn from the best chefs, to be accepted in their circles and maybe even, hopefully, someday be considered one of them. I’d promised myself awards, Michelin stars and industry-wide respect.
Only that hadn’t happened. My dreams had been delayed because I made a poor decision and got distracted.
I still felt distracted.
No matter how hard I’d worked over the last year to heal, I still felt the nagging pressure on the back of my neck, the hitch in my breathing and sickly feeling deep in the pit of my stomach.
I still felt the presence I couldn’t ignore hovering just over my shoulder. A dark specter I couldn’t quite see… couldn’t quite forget.
This truck, as beautiful and inspiring as she was, didn’t represent the person I thought I would become. She was the culmination of everything that I’d let happen to me. She was dreams abandoned and futures lost.
And she was all I had left.
Bells jingled in the distance, drawing my attention toward the shop I shared the parking lot with—Cycle Life— when the owner stepped outside. I smiled at him since he was one of my favorite people on the planet. A small business guru, a total hipster in denial and my older brother, Vann was everything I looked up to and admired. He held up his hand against the blinding sun and started walking toward Molly and me with a nod.
Molly returned a halfhearted jerk of her chin and then went to stand on the ladder so she could finish the last touches on Foodie. She was all confidence and comfortable-in-her-own-skin until she had to show someone else her work, then she became as insecure and unsure as the rest of us mere mortals.
“Hey, Vann,” I greeted before he’d made it to the shade of the awning.
He gazed seriously, assessing Molly’s handiwork. Usually, Molly didn’t have anything to worry about. Her art was always perfect, her talent moving and breathtaking to anyone lucky enough to see it. But my brother wouldn’t hold any punches, especially not for Molly. Molly and Vann were as close to being siblings as Vann and I were. “You got the name on it?”
Nervous energy tingled through me. “What do you think?”
Vann was super critical of every single situation he ever encountered. He had no filter. And he had no sense of empathy. He always said what he meant. And he meant what he said.
That made him an intolerable asshole the majority of the time.
Which meant his opinion was super important to me.
“Looks good, Vera. You’re a legit business now.”
“Hear that, Molly? I’m like legit.”
She turned toward us, balancing on the ladder rungs and smiled. “You’re impressed. Aren’t you, Vann? Go ahead and tell me how amazing I am.”
He waved her off but nodded in agreement. “I like it. I’d eat here.”
“I hope so,” I groaned. “I need at least one paying customer.”
Vann let out a low chuckle. “Oh, I didn’t say I’d pay to eat here. I just mean because it’s so close to the shop and mooching by parking in half of my lot. Plus, it’s run by family. For those reasons, I would stop by once in a while for a meal on the house.”
I gave him a look. “I can’t afford meals on the house. I can’t even afford meals that people are paying for yet.”
His face crumpled, disappointed. “Not even lunch?”
Giving his shoulder a shove, I shook my head. “All I have today is paint. But I’m happy to whip you up a bowl of red.”
“Barn Red to be exact,” Molly added helpfully.
“You’re such a smart-ass these days,” Vann said to my back. “You used to be so nice. Hey, Molly, remember when Vera used to be nice?”
Molly paused in her work again and looked down at me with pretend pity. I ignored the real emotion lurking in her sarcasm.
I could handle sarcasm.
I did not want to face the real stuff.
“It’s because she thinks she’s better than us,” Molly agreed. “She’s all world-traveled and cultured now. We can’t compare to Europe, Vann, no matter how awesome we are.”
“I love you guys,” I told them honestly. “Europe, despite how good the food was and how fantastic the fashion was and even how easy the public transportation was, cannot compare to you.” I paused with one foot on the step leading to the guts of my new business. “Have I told you about the architecture, though? They have buildings that are older than our entire country.”
“You’ve mentioned it,” Vann grumbled. “Once or twice.”
“Or three thousand times,” Molly added.
Smiling to myself I disappeared up the stairs of the truck and paused to check out the inside of my new venture.
I’d gone to one of the best culinary schools in America. I’d spent the last year of my life bumming around Europe tasting the best food and putting together the best flavor profiles. I had experience, education and a whole bunch of shattered dreams.
Europe had been safe and I’d been anonymous. Nobody had known anything about me or where I’d gone to school or who I’d dated before. I hadn’t had to worry about being blacklisted because of malicious rumors or turned down for a job because of the enemies I’d made.
But now that I was back home, I could feel my past stalking me like a hungry alligator getting ready to spring. Working somewhere prestigious was no longer an option. Pursuing my dreams was no longer possible. So I had to come up with a contingency plan—another way to do what I loved and piece together my broken life.
Why not open a food truck?
Inside Foodie, everything gleamed in stainless steel. From the ceiling to the floor, the cabinets and refrigerators, the stove, fryer, and dishwasher—every single piece of my new kitchen shined. Looking at the countertops, I could see my blurred reflection in the flawlessly smooth surface. The lines of my freckled cheeks and narrow nose were unfocused and soft, hiding my makeup free face and tired, gray eyes. My messy hair mostly hidden underneath a black bandana, chestnut curls spilling down my back like Medusa’s snakes. Only wilder. And much frizzier. My formerly white t-shirt splattered with red paint and sweat from working hard. I was not my most attractive.
I looked more like me than I had in years.
Now to feel like me, too.