Violet: Somehow, this break you took has made you even more sought after. Not even I could’ve planned this kind of positive press. We’re all ready for you to be back and see what kind of inspiration you’ve been hit with.
Violet: Miller?
Violet: Why aren’t you answering?
Max is playing outside, trying to catch the bubbles Kai and Isaiah are blowing in his direction. I watch them all together through the glass of the backdoor slider.
“Chef.”
Max smiles up at his dad, his blue eyes squinting with a full-tooth smile.
“Chef.”
He crawls over to where Kai sits, climbing onto his lap as his dad tries to teach him how to blow an exhale against the bubble wand.
“Chef Montgomery.”
Snapping out of it, I turn to find Sylvia, today’s photoshoot coordinator, looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.
I clear my throat. “Yes?”
“I was asking where you want the crew to put those?”
She points towards the rack next to the sink where Max’s sippy cups and silicone plate lay to dry.
The kitchen is pristine. Kai was up before Max or I were awake to make sure it was spotless because, of course he did. He’s done everything in his power to help me succeed in going back to work.
The only things left in the kitchen are the dishes Max used for breakfast this morning.
“I um . . .” I look around for a place to put them, but that’s where they belong. Because this is someone’s house, and yes, a toddler lives here.
“Just put them on the floor or something,” Sylvia says, frantically waving her clipboard around. “The photos will all be from the waist up, so they won’t be in the shot.
Her assistant bends at his knees to put the dishes down.
“No! Don’t,” I call out. “I’ll take them.”
I gather them in my hands, awkwardly holding Max’s cups and plate so I can find a safe spot for them that’s not the floor. But looking around, there’s no free space because the kitchen has been overtaken and turned into a photoshoot set.
Lingering in the opening of the hallway that leads to Kai’s room, I watch as Sylvia and the photographer go over the different shots the magazine is looking for. Three different people work on the lighting. Another assistant preps glass mixing bowls with ingredients for me to appear as if I were working in front of the lens.
The house is chaotic; ten or so people, whom I’ve never met, mill around Kai’s kitchen, working their hardest to make it appear as if we were in a high-end restaurant instead of the house occupied by a single dad and his son.
Nothing feels right. From the moment the first person shoved inside the front door with their equipment, I regretted my decision to do this here. How the hell am I supposed to look at that magazine cover when it releases in the fall, knowing this kitchen holds some of my favorite memories, none of which relate to the life or career that will be featured in the article.
This is the place where Max and I baked cookies together for the first time. Where I fell in love with the basics of baking again. Where Kai and I were so desperate to touch that we literally rode each other’s bodies on the counter.
And now it appears as if it’s never been used before, with blinding bright lights and strangers frantically running around.
As I hold Max’s dishes, my attention slides to the backyard again. The three Rhodes boys have been outside all morning, keeping Max busy and away from the chaos of the house. Compared to the frantic kitchen, outside looks like a whole other world.
My whole other world.
The life I’ve built during my summer hiatus sits on the other side of that glass while I’m immersed back into my regular life. But now that family outside feels like my new normal while this, the chaos of a kitchen that I was so accustomed to before, feels like a space I don’t belong in anymore.
“Chef Montgomery,” a shoot assistant says, and it takes a moment to register that he’s speaking to me. I haven’t been called Chef in so long. It sounds odd when I hear it now.
He quiets his voice. “Can I just say that I am a huge fan of yours?” His eyes are wide and excited. “I’m in culinary school right now, but I volunteered today because I was hoping to meet you. The way you combine contemporary presentation and techniques with an experimental approach to ingredients is . . .” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Inspirational.”
“Thank you . . .”
“Eric.”
“Thank you for that, Eric.”
“No thank you, Chef. I don’t think there’s a person in the industry who isn’t waiting on bated breath for your return to the kitchen.”