I don’t have much more to add to that piece of the conversation because my mind has been doing cartwheels all summer knowing something has felt off for quite a while.
“All right Miss Food & Wine cover girl.” Maven claps her hands, putting the big questions on pause. “I need to know about these top-secret recipes. And where did you end up taking the cover photo? They called to get my permission to shoot here, but then called back to say they had a set in Chicago.”
A set in Chicago. I could laugh. They had a beautiful kitchen in someone’s home with a toddler running around.
“I was helping my dad this summer in Chicago. He’s a baseball coach and his starting pitcher has a son who needed a nanny for a couple of months. We took the pictures in his kitchen. Actually . . .” I pull my phone out of my pocket. “Violet sent over the layout for the article. They just need to add the write-up from the interview we’re doing this afternoon.”
Maven and I scoot our chairs closer as I scroll through my emails, finding the one Violet forwarded. As soon as I pull it up, the cover shot takes over the screen.
It’s blurred in the background, but it’s there. The kitchen I made so many memories in. I’m standing in front of it, chef coat in place, arms crossed over my chest.
But the most alarming part of this photo is how unhappy I look. Did no one else notice when they picked this shot?
“Wow,” Maven exhales. “Stunning photo, Miller.”
I don’t respond, scrolling down to find the images of my desserts and the recipes that accompany them. There are more photos of me, whisking, cracking an egg. I look just as unhappy.
“Oh,” Maven awes. “We need to feature that dark chocolate cylinder this fall.”
The dessert I thought of when I was in Boston with Kai.
And once again, I want to cry, crumble, dissolve into nothing because he’s everywhere.
He was so concerned about noticing my absence in his house, but I’m two thousand miles away and that man is embedded in every moment of my life.
As he should be.
I shake it off, trying to regain my excitement.
“Violet said the photographer sent over the shots that didn’t make it. I’m sure there’s more angles of the desserts there too. The mozzarella cheesecake turned out beautiful.”
In my emails, I find the photographer’s message with the subject line that says, “Thought you should have this.”
I click, letting them load, but once they do, I realize there are no photos of the desserts. No action shots or pictures of the kitchen.
Only one photo is attached. Me in my chef’s coat holding Max with a smile so big, my eyes are almost non-existent. He’s equally as happy in my arms, big gummy grin, and I’m looking at him like he’s everything that’s been missing from my life.
This must have been from when Max wobbled onto set, right before Sylvia lost it on me for daring to wrinkle my chef’s coat.
It’s undeniable, the joy on my face in this photo compared to the one that landed its way on the cover.
“Is that your son?” Maven asks, looking over my shoulder at the screen.
“Oh,” I startle, forgetting for a moment that she was here. “No. This is Max. The little boy I was nannying for.”
“Interesting.”
“What is?”
“You look at him the way I look at Luna—my daughter, not the restaurant.”
With my new frame in hand, I thank the rideshare driver as he drops me off in front of the house rental in the Hollywood Hills. Parking is a real bitch in LA, so I’ve been taking rideshares and leaving my van parked in the driveway here.
The driver takes off and I look up to see a giant man sitting on the front steps, tattooed elbows leaning on his knees.
“Dad?” I ask.
His smile grows. “Hi, Millie.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I got your voicemail this morning. You sounded like you needed me.”
I quickly nod, picking up my pace to meet him at the steps. “I do.”
He wraps me up in a hug that’s big and comforting. A hug that feels like home after telling myself for so long that I didn’t have one.
“Missed you, my girl,” he says into my hair.
“I missed you.”
After convincing him and myself of my independence, like I could go through my life alone, it sure feels nice to admit how much I need him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, quickly pulling away to get a view of him. “Is Max okay? Kai?”
“They’re fine. That’s not why I’m here.”