I watch it again with a smile on my face, catching Cody, Travis, and Kennedy all there, but then I pause the video on Kai.
Even when he’s sad, he’s devastatingly handsome.
I scroll down to Isaiah’s second text.
Isaiah: What do you think Kennedy’s favorite song is?
And lastly, a message from Indy.
Indy: We missed you and your desserts at family dinner tonight. But mostly we missed you! I wish you were going to be here next weekend.
Indy and Ryan are getting married next weekend. I wish my schedule allowed me to go, but I’ll send them a gift in my absence.
For the first time in my life I have friends. I have people I ache for, people I miss. People who are all within a thirty-minute drive of each other while I’m out here on the other side of the country, trying to make a name for myself in this career that I once revolved my entire life around.
I don’t know how so much could change in eight weeks. It doesn’t seem possible. And it doesn’t seem reasonable to make rash decisions based on those short two months. But the decision I made to come back to work, a decision based on years of hard work, feels like the wrong one. But it also feels like a decision that I can’t change.
Climbing off the bed, I grab the framed picture Kai gave me for my birthday, bringing it to my bed. I leave it right there next to my pillow because I’m sad and pathetic and don’t know how to handle all these newfound emotions.
This picture is all I have of Kai and Max while I’m off chasing a dream that feels more like a nightmare the longer I’m away from them.
Chapter 39
Miller
I wake, reorienting myself.
I’m in Chicago.
Kai’s bed.
A smile immediately blooms on my lips until I blink away the sleep, looking around, looking for him.
Only I’m not in his bed. I’m in my van.
I’m in LA.
My stomach dips just as it did the first day without him because each morning, as I wake from my sleep, the realization sinks in that I’m two thousand miles away.
The realization that today I won’t be baking in their kitchen, won’t hear Kai’s encouragement, won’t get to kiss him. And I won’t be playing outside with Max in the afternoon. I’ll be at Luna’s to meet with Maven over her menu changes.
Stretching, I roll my way out of bed but as my feet hit the floor, so does the framed photo I slept with, crashing with an undeniable crack.
No, no, no. I’m too fragile for this right now.
I cautiously pick it up. The glass from the frame is completely splintered with the center of said crack landing right over my face.
That seems fitting.
A pathetic whimper creeps up my throat because yes, now I’m the person to cry over a broken frame. I guess that’s what happens when you start forming attachments.
I carefully place it upside down on the counter, promising to buy a new frame on the way back from my meeting with Maven. I unclasp the prongs, loosening the backboard so I can pull the picture out, hoping it didn’t get scratched in the fall.
And as I disassemble the thing, Kai’s handwriting comes into view, right there on the back of the photo.
Our names—Max, Miller, and Malakai are accompanied by the date and year with a small inscription below.
I hope you’re out there finding your joy because you’re the reason we found ours.
And just like that, on day eight, I’m ruined all over again.
“I’ve followed your career since I was in culinary school,” I admit like the fangirl I am. “You did a four-day seminar on brioche. Mixing, shaping, proofing, baking, all of it, and I don’t think I had ever been so excited about bread before.”
“I remember that. I think I gained like thirty pounds going around the country and teaching that class.” Maven brings her espresso to her lips. “You’re impressive, Chef. I enjoyed watching you on the line last night.”
“As are you. Your line is . . . well-trained.” I blow on my chai tea latte, helping it cool.
“They’re the best, and I’m looking forward to having you join us for the next three months. I can’t wait to see what kind of changes you’re thinking about for the dessert menu.”
I pull out my notebook and pen, setting it on the table between us. The pages are filled with ideas on how to incorporate all the fresh California fall fruits. I don’t know that it’s inspiration that’s struck me since I got here last week, but instead, a fear of allowing my mind to be quiet. To allow it the space to miss everything I left behind.
“There’s a pomegranate dish stirring in my brain that I can’t wait to play with,” I explain as Maven flips through the pages of my notebook.