I’ve been sitting on Matt’s couch for two weeks, and I can literally feel my ass spreading a little more every hour. When I moved my meager possessions into my brother’s house, I had every intention of getting straight into my new life. I have a few contacts in Seattle, so I set about reaching out to them. However, after several phone calls and a few lunches, I came up empty. It seems the Seattle food scene is so happening, it’s happening without me. No one is hiring and the only jobs I can find online are at fast food joints or a ‘50s themed diner where I’ll have to dress up as a pin-up girl.
No fucking way.
Once my job search became too depressing to continue, I set up camp on Matt’s couch and haven’t moved since. I’ve eaten my weight in junk food, watched Sex and the City on a loop, and wallowed in self-pity. What the hell was I thinking uprooting my entire life because of a shitty guy? I should have told Etienne to kiss my ass and moved on without such drastic measures. But I’ve been through it before, and maybe Etienne would have wormed his way back into my life like he’s done every single time I broke up with him.
Thankfully, Matt and Mila have had a hectic schedule of games and travel, so other than a few fleeting conversations on their way in or out of the house, I’ve had the place to myself. This has been a blessing and a curse; if my brother knew that I was putting down roots on his couch and not actively looking for work and a place to live, he’d kick my ass. It’s been bad enough putting on a brave face when mom and dad call.
“I can’t believe you came back and didn’t come to us first,” mom scolded during our first conversation. “The weather in Florida is perfect. I thought you’d want some time in the sun after the gloom of Paris in January.”
“I’m sorry, mom. I got such a good deal on my ticket I couldn’t pass on it,” I lied. “I promise to come down with Matt next time the Whalers play Tampa.”
“You’d better, young lady. We miss you.” I can hear the emotion in my mom’s voice, and I feel like absolute shit yet again.
My heart squeezed uncomfortably at her words, and I felt terrible for not confiding in her. But just like my brother, my mom would swim the Atlantic to put her foot up Etienne’s ass if she knew what was really going on.
So, other than occasional chats with my parents and Matt and Mila, I’ve been alone with my thoughts and my hot Cheetos.
“Squirt, don’t take this the wrong way, but that couch is new, and I really don’t want your ass print on it.”
I look up from my Kindle and stare at my brother, sweaty from his run, that cocky smirk on his lips. He and Mila returned from a four-day road trip late last night when I was already tucked up in bed. However, I forgot they were coming home, so I didn’t clean up the little nest I’d made for myself on the couch before I went to bed. When I got up this morning, the blanket I’ve been hibernating under was already in the washing machine, the Cheetos crumbs had been vacuumed from the rug, the trashy magazines neatly stacked on the coffee table, and all my cups and plates were in the dishwasher. My cheeks flared with embarrassment when I realized my secret solitary behavior had been discovered, so I threw myself into the shower and cleaned up, so I at least didn’t look like a crazy hermit.
“Give me a break,” I grumble, closing my Kindle and tossing it on the couch just as Matt takes a seat next to me.
“You know what? I have given you a break,” he replies seriously. “I’ve watched you fester on my couch for two weeks, and before you deny it, I can tell by your B.O. and permanent Cheetos breath that you don’t even bother getting up when we’re not here.”
I feel my cheeks burn with shame and I shift uncomfortably, avoiding Matt’s stare but not denying what he’s saying.
“I have a feeling there’s more to your move home than you’re letting on, but I’m not gonna push you into telling me until you’re ready.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it in the reassuring way he’s done since we were kids. “However, I will not allow you to wallow on my couch any longer. Tell me your plan, and I’ll do whatever I can to help you out—you know that.”
My eyes fill with tears at his kindness and understanding, and before I can stop myself, I burst into ugly sobs, covering my face with my hands. While I cry, I’m pulled into my brother’s arms, and he hugs me until I’m done crying and the smell of his sweaty T-shirt becomes too much to bear.
“Ugh, you stink.” I sniff, pulling out of his arms, but I give him a look that he knows is full of appreciation for comforting me.
He smirks at me and pulls his shirt over his nose, taking a deep breath. “Smells like hard work and awesomeness to me, Squirt.” He chuckles, the dimple we share popping in his cheek. “C’mon then, let’s hear it. If the restaurants are a dead end, what are you gonna do for work?”
I let out a shaky breath and wipe my eyes. “I don’t know. I guess I could take the diner job until I find something more suitable.” I shrug, knowing that a demeaning job where I have to cook in booty shorts and a crop top is better than no job at all. Plus, it’s a step toward independence, and I know how much I need that.
“The pin-up diner job?” Matt growls, narrowing his eyes at me. “Hard pass. No sister of mine is gonna have guys ogling her butt while she cooks greasy diner food.”
I giggle at his alpha overprotective brother act. If I want to take the job, he won’t be able to stop me, but I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t want me to do something he knows I’ll hate.
“So, if that’s not an option, I guess I could do something outside of cooking. I have my business degree, so I could do something in an office.” I shrug and feel the dread settle in my stomach at the prospect of sitting behind a desk like a corporate zombie all day long.
Matt laughs. “Yeah, you look thrilled at the prospect of that.”
I slump down into the couch cushions and sigh. “Perhaps I should go and stay with Mom and Pop in Florida.”
“Hey now, it’s only been a few weeks. Something will come up. I can ask at the Whalers. We have chefs for the players’ lounge and some who prepare our meal plans,” he suggests.
“Maybe,” I mutter, feeling less than enthusiastic about working alongside my brother and his girlfriend. It seems too much like a handout.
“For fuck’s sake, Squirt, you’re killing me.” He sighs. “Let me ask you this: what’s the dream?”
“The dream?” I ask.
“Yeah, you know, what’s the ultimate Lana Landon dream? If you could do anything in the whole world, what would it be?”
“Well, it used to be to live and work in Paris in a Michelin-starred restaurant, work my way up to head chef, and develop my own menus,” I say in a tight voice. I still dream about working at an award-winning restaurant, about doing what I love and proving to myself and everyone that I can do it. But it doesn’t have to be in Paris anymore. Let’s just say the city has lost its luster.
“So why isn’t that the dream anymore?” Matt pushes.
I huff out a breath and cross my arms over my chest. “It just isn’t, okay? Drop it, would you?”
“Fine.” He huffs as well. “What’s the backup dream? When I was working toward playing in the NHL, one of my junior coaches told me to have a backup, just in case I didn’t make it to the show.”
“I guess I’ve always wanted to run my own kitchen. You know, develop my own menus and cook the way I want. Be my own woman.” But even as I say the words, I know this is not an easy feat. “It’s a stupid idea. Did you know that up to sixty percent of new restaurants fail in the first year?”
“So that means forty percent have to succeed, right? I know math was never my strong point but even I can work that out.” He laughs. “Why can’t you be one of the forty percent?”
“It’s not just that; for starters, it’s the cost of setting it all up. I could try and find some investors, but that takes time and contacts I just don’t have …”
“You know that money isn’t an issue. I’d happily invest in you,” Matt offers without even a second thought. God, my brother may be an overprotective asshole sometimes, but he’s so generous. I have already taken advantage of the Big Brother Scholarship Fund when he paid for me to move to Paris and attend Le Cordon Bleu.
“No way!” I hold my hands up. “I can’t ask you to do that. You’ve given me enough, and it would take hundreds of thousands of dollars to set up. You’ve just bought this house and you have your future with Mila to think about. Absolutely not!”
“Okay, fine. But there must be something I can do to help?” he asks.
“Once I have that magic idea, I’ll let you know.” I laugh. “In the meantime, how about I make us lunch? I don’t think I can continue with the Cheetos and Snickers diet for much longer.”
“Sounds good, Squirt.” Matt pats my knee and rises from the couch. “I’m gonna hit the shower. You know where everything is. Help yourself to whatever you want.”
I stand as well and put my arms around my brother’s waist, resting my cheek against his chest, his arms coming around my shoulders.
“Thank you,” I whisper, giving him a squeeze. “I will tell you why I came back. Just not yet, okay?”
“Sure thing, kid.” Matt pats my back. “As long as you’re alright, I’m happy.”
I feel the sting of tears in my eyes and pull out of the hug before I dissolve into another snotty crying fit. “Are you happy with grilled cheese?” I ask, wiping my eyes with the back of my sleeve,
“You know it’s my favorite,” he replies, wiping his own eyes and quickly disappearing upstairs to shower while I move into his amazing kitchen. Apparently, he had the original one ripped out and replaced with top of the range appliances, marble countertops, and clean modern cabinet fronts. It’s literally my dream kitchen, and I’m excited to cook something other than frozen pizza in it for the first time.
After digging around in the fridge, I find some ingredients to make grilled cheese sandwiches. I slice the sourdough bread into chunky slices and smear one side with butter. Then I load up a slice with pepperjack cheese, white cheddar, sliced jalapenos, and some salsa I found at the back of the fridge.
Adding more butter and a touch of oil to the skillet, I heat it up and then add the loaded sandwich, loving the satisfying sizzle when the buttered bread hits the hot skillet. I keep a close eye on it, checking that the bread is crisping up and the cheese is melting, and at the perfect moment, I flip it over and cook the other side. The satisfaction I get from cooking is comparable to nothing else; turning a pile of random ingredients into something that feeds and nourishes people’s body and soul is something I’ve always loved to do.
“Oh my god, what is that smell?” Mila asks, drifting into the kitchen with her nose in the air as I deposit the first sandwich onto a paper towel to drain, adding the next one to the skillet.
“I’m making grilled cheese, want one?” I reply, pressing the slotted turner to the top of the sandwich so it sizzles loudly.
“Yes please,” Mila sighs, taking a seat at the kitchen island. “After a week of hotel food, I’m dying for something fresh and home cooked.”
“Here.” I slide the finished sandwich onto a plate and dress it with some fresh watercress and a pickle. “It’s not exactly gourmet, but hopefully it’ll fill a hole.”
“Well, this is the fanciest grilled cheese I’ve ever eaten.” Mila laughs, picking up the sandwich and taking a large bite. I watch as her eyes roll back in her head, and she moans. “Oh wow!”
“Hey Red, are you eating my sandwich?” Matt laughs, stalking into the kitchen wearing his Whalers sweatpants and hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower.
“Oh babe, you need to try this,” she says after swallowing the food in her mouth, holding her half-eaten sandwich out to him.
“I love you, but I’ll take my own, thanks.” He plants a kiss on her greasy lips and grabs the freshly cooked sandwich from the paper towel and begins to devour it.
“Hey, at least let me put it on a plate for you,” I protest, disgusted by his caveman behavior.
“No need, Squirt. This isn’t touching the sides,” he mumbles, shoveling more crispy bread and melted cheese into his mouth. I finish cooking my sandwich and turn off the burner, sliding it onto a plate with the little salad and pickle.
“Honestly, Lana, that’s the best thing I’ve eaten in ages,” Mila says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. I try to ignore the dirty smirk that crosses my brother’s face at her comment.
“Thanks. I used to make these all the time in Paris. I have lots of different recipes. I call this one Cheesy Gonzales.” I chuckle, remembering when I made it for me and Zac after a night out, and we came up with the silly name.
“You could totally sell these,” Mila states, taking a bite out of her pickle.
I laugh. “I’m not sure I could open a grilled-cheese-only restaurant.” I shake my head and begin to wipe the cooling skillet clean.
“Who said anything about a restaurant? You could have a grilled cheese food truck,” she says off-handedly. “I see them all the time down at the pier and at big events like festivals and those pop-up outdoor movie theaters.”
It’s like a lightning bolt hits me between the eyes. Why the fuck didn’t I think of that before? I’ve been so focused on restaurants that I didn’t even consider the booming food truck movement. It’s not really a thing in Paris; there it’s all about having an established restaurant in the right part of the city. With a food truck, I could go to all the best spots and all the big events in and around Seattle.
I race round the kitchen island and pull Mila into a hug. “You’re a genius, you know that?” I laugh, feeling buoyant and excited for the first time in months.
Mila laughs and hugs me back. “What did I do?”
“You just came up with my new dream, that’s all!”