“No. No need to do that.” I shake his hand. “I’m just going to go.”
Curtis is still on the floor, so I offer him a simple middle finger as I make my exit because yes, I’m an awarded pastry chef who sometimes still acts like a child.
As if my inability to do my job wasn’t suffocating enough, the moment I’m outside, the late June humidity chokes me. I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to spend my summer working in a South Florida kitchen.
Quickly hopping into my van parked in the employee lot, I crank the AC to full blast. I love this van. It’s completely renovated inside and out with a fresh coat of deep green paint on the exterior and my own little kitchen on the inside.
I live in it while I travel the country for work, hair down and without a care in the world. Then when I get to my destinations, I turn on work-mode and spend the following months with my tattoos covered, being referred to as “Chef” for ten hours of my day.
It’s the weird juxtaposition that I call my life.
And if we’re being honest, it’s not exactly what I saw myself doing. I had once dreamt of running my own bakery, making all my famous cookies, bars, and cakes that I had baked for my dad while growing up. But I was lucky enough to be plucked fresh out of school to train under one of the best pastry chefs in Paris, followed by another internship in New York City.
My career took off from there.
Now, it’s bite-sized tarts, mousses most people can’t pronounce, and sorbets that we all like to pretend are more fulfilling than ice cream. And though there are parts of the high-end world that feel pretentious and ridiculous, I’m grateful this is where life has taken me.
My career is impressive. I know this. I’ve worked endless hours to be impressive, to reach these borderline unattainable goals. But now that I’ve achieved most of them, I’m floating without direction, looking for the next checkmark to chase.
And that’s exactly what my chaotic mind has reminded me over the past three weeks. I either maintain success or quickly take my spin through the ever-revolving door that names the newest and hottest chef in the industry.
With my mind reeling, I merge onto the highway headed towards my dad’s hotel just as my agent calls.
I answer on the Bluetooth. “Hi, Violet.”
“What the hell did that little prick do that made you, of all people, quit a job early? Chef Jared called me to apologize and tried to forward three months’ pay for you.”
“Don’t accept that check,” I tell her. “Yes, his employee is a raging douche, but the truth is, I wouldn’t have been any help to him this summer anyway.”
She pauses on the line. “Miller, what’s going on?”
Violet has been my agent for the past three years, and though I don’t have many friends due to my hectic lifestyle, I’d consider her one of them. She manages my schedule and lines up my interviews. Anyone who wants to write about me in their food blog or have me consult on their menu must go through her first.
And though there are very few people I can be honest with about what I’m dealing with, she’s one of them.
“Vi, you might kill me, but I think I’m going to take the rest of the summer off.”
If the Miami highway wasn’t so fucking loud, you’d be able to hear a pin drop.
“Why?” Her tone is frantic. “You have the biggest job of your career in the fall. You have the cover booked for Food & Wine magazine. Please don’t tell me you’re backing out of that.”
“No. God no. I’m still doing it and I’ll be in Los Angeles by the time my next job starts, I just . . .” Shit, how do I tell her that her highest-paid client is losing it? “Violet, I haven’t been able to create a new dessert in three weeks.”
“You mean you haven’t had the time?” she assumes. “Because if you’re needing more time to perfect the recipes for the article, I could understand that.”
“No. I mean I haven’t made something that didn’t fall apart in the process or burn to shit in the oven. It’d be comical how bad I am at my job if I weren’t on the brink of a mental breakdown because of it.”
She laughs. “You’re fucking with me, right?”
“Violet, a five-year-old with an Easy Bake Oven could make a better dessert than me right now.”
The line goes silent once again.
“Violet, you still there?”
“I’m processing.”
Taking the exit for my dad’s hotel, I wait for her to speak.