Okay, the last one was a bit specific.
Stevie slides in under Zanders’ arm. “My feet are hurting, so if you want to get one more dance in with your baby mama, you better make it now.”
Without a word, the two of them take off towards the dance floor.
“How about you, wife?” Ryan asks. “Can I take you for a spin?”
She smiles at her new title. “Please.”
Indy looks back at me cautiously, as if she doesn’t want to leave me and my son on the outskirts of the dance floor, sad and alone.
“I’ll um . . .” I look around, trying to find something that can keep me occupied. My attention lands on the portable bathroom. “I’m going to go use the restroom.”
I couldn’t have picked the bar? Or the dessert table? I don’t even have to piss.
“Let us take Max for a dance then.” She takes my son before nodding towards their back door. “And don’t use the portable one. Go use the one in the house.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Kai. You’re family. Our home is your home.” She gives my forearm a squeeze before she takes off with Ryan and Max to dance.
With my friends all occupied on the dance floor, I slip my hands into my pockets, head hanging low as I walk into the house to pretend to use the bathroom. As soon as I shut the back door, the music drowns and silence creeps in again.
Things feel like they did before summer began—me, alone, with my friends happy and in love. Only now, I know what it feels like to have what they have.
I feel equal parts jealous as I do grateful.
Jealous that I don’t have it anymore, that I don’t have her by my side to celebrate the good moments with. And grateful that I had the chance to love Miller, to be loved by her even though I never let her say it.
That’s the part that’s getting me through the dark days, the undeniable gratitude that I had her. Our time together was short, but it was everything.
I linger into the living room, wasting time, and trying to figure out just how long I should be inside. I pace, attempting to keep my mind occupied, when I spot a magazine on the side table by the couch.
And right there, the girl who has haunted my every waking moment is plastered on the cover.
It’s her Food & Wine edition, but that makes no sense. It doesn’t go to print until next week.
I’m eager to touch it, eager to know what the fuck this is doing in my friends’ house. Eventually, I find the strength to pull my shaking hand from my pocket, taking a seat on the couch, and bringing the magazine into clearer view.
Miller looks stunning. Unhappy as fuck, but beautiful nonetheless. She’s standing in her crisp chef’s coat, arms crossed over her chest, hair slicked back, no septum ring in sight. My kitchen is blurred in the background and my stomach sinks at the memories.
Her and my son making a mess, having so much fun baking together.
The team coming over to try her creations.
Us, sliding our bodies together because we finally had to touch each other.
Leaning my elbows on my knees, I stare at the magazine in my hand.
God, she’s impressive. I’m so fucking proud of the girl. As much as I’ve been hurting since she left, the pride I feel hasn’t diminished.
After taking in every inch of the image, my attention finally slides over to the headlines.
Zero-Waste Cuisine Takes Hold.
Six Tips on Poaching the Perfect Egg. I should send those to my brother.
And finally . . .
James Beard’s Outstanding Pastry Chef of the Year Talks Family, Food, and Changing Things Up.
Without wasting more time, I flip through the pages, looking for the article. I land on it halfway through the magazine.
The Best Things in Life Are Sweet
By Gabby Sanchez
I first met Chef Miller Montgomery in the dimly lit dining room of up-and-coming restaurant, Luna’s （Los Angeles—Chef Maven Crown）。 We filled the potentially awkward opening minutes with small talk, both of us easing into the hard-hitting questions, but before I could get to them, Montgomery stopped me, fleeing to the kitchen to pull a baking sheet from the oven.
Returning, Montgomery proceeded to place a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie on the table between us before casually asking, “Should we get started?”
Here I was, sitting across from James Beard’s newest Outstanding Pastry Chef of the Year, with an entry-level baked good offered to me on a small dessert plate.
There wasn’t much that made sense to me that afternoon. Our interview took place in another chef’s restaurant. Montgomery was casual and used words that an at-home baker could understand, distinctly unlike any James Beard recipient I had interviewed before. There was an approachability about the young chef, a relatability that so many long-time professionals lack, but every juxtaposition, every contradiction, disappeared when that chocolate chip cookie hit my tongue.