I Don’t Think About You

Hannah

I should have known Noa McNamara suggested Hibiscus for a reason. She’s not the type to frequent the help wanted ads. But I genuinely thought Caleb was still in Europe and it didn’t occur to me that he’d be the one I would come face to face with. This is like running into heartbreak and disappointment and contention all at once.

When he says bearnaise sauce, I know that’s his way of testing me. He can probably make a bearnaise in his sleep, but it’s widely known to be a challenging sauce to perfect. Making it isn’t the hard part for me, though. The hard part is accepting the fact he seems to want to disregard the two years we dated—as well as the lifetime of friendship before that—and treat me like a virtual stranger. He’s content to ignore the fact we represent a lot of firsts for each other, like that means nothing.

I guess it’s easier to pretend I wasn’t his first kiss or his first love—though, I doubt he ever loved me like he claimed he did.

It’s not so easy for me to face the man I thought I’d marry and have children with someday. We may have been young, but I thought we were forever. Joke’s on me, because he’s obviously thrived while I’ve floundered.

Not only is he running his own kitchen, he’s grown up. A lot. His hair is a few shades darker, so it’s more similar to his father’s—not that I’d ever tell him that. He’s got a seriously sexy stubble enhancing his sharp jawline. And the black chef coat he’s currently tugging on is like watching him slip into his teenage dreams. I know how much this means to him.

He hands me a pristine white apron, so I pull it on and tie my hair up, ready to get down to business. He may have had some knowledge of what I could do as a teenager in the kitchen, but he has no idea what I’m capable of now.

“Come. I’ll give you a quick tour. You’ll have to find your way around because I need to jump on the line and help with lunch prep.” He turns for me to follow him and explains where all the main things can be found.

The immaculate kitchen is buzzing with activity as other cooks rush around, preparing for the influx of lunch guests. The space is divided into sections, with two long islands running down the middle and various equipment placed around the perimeter. Everything is made from gleaming stainless steel, and given the massive exhaust fans covering a large portion of the ceiling, the temperature isn’t as bad in here as most kitchens I’ve worked in.

The entire space is spotless. It’s not just cleaned to get by when it comes to health and safety inspections. There’s pride in the shine of this kitchen.

“Stay out of everyone else’s way and let me know when you’re finished. This is your one shot. I don’t give second chances,” Caleb states before walking off.

That makes two of us.

It’s obvious the kitchen is short-staffed if they’re expecting to fill that dining room. As much as I’m desperate for a job, I don’t want him hiring me because he’s desperate. Nor do I want a pity hire because of our history; though I don’t think that’s on his mind at all.

So I get to work creating a perfect bearnaise that will land me a job. It is very finicky, so it takes skill and patience. It’s something I’ve done at least a hundred times before. Never in a restaurant, because I haven’t worked anywhere that had it on the menu, but I took Sunday brunches and dinners at home seriously.

It takes me a few moments to gather the equipment I need, familiarize myself with the stove, and find the right ingredients. I start by clarifying the butter, which a donkey with one bad eye could manage. Hardly a challenge. I skim off the foam, leaving behind a beautiful yellow liquid. Next, I tie up the tarragon and peppercorns in cheesecloth, chop a couple of shallots, and add everything to vinegar in a saucepan. It takes time to infuse the vinegar, and you can’t skimp on this step. I glance up to see Caleb studying me from his spot at the far centre island. The heat in my cheeks is unexpected. I chalk it off to the warming vinegar mixture.

I continue to watch the flurry of activity as everyone dances around each other. It looks like they’re all struggling. I’m not sure if it’s because they lack the skill to accomplish what they’re trying to, or if they’re just overworked.

Once my vinegar is infused, I discard the cheesecloth and allow the mixture to cool. I hate wasting time in between steps, so while I wait, I ask another line cook if I can help her with any of her prep. She looks toward Caleb, who issues a sour-faced shake of his head.

“No, thank you,” the timid ginger woman replies.

I thought redheads were feisty. She just capitulated so fast, it makes me wonder if it’s the job or Caleb who has doused her flame. I contemplate that question until my vinegar cools and I can move on to the next step. After an arm workout from whisking, I’ve finished my task.

My first taste of it has me nodding in satisfaction. It’s not the best bearnaise I’ve ever made, but I’m partial to one type of champagne vinegar. This will do.

I notice Caleb about to dart by, so I call out, “Chef? When you have a moment, the sauce is done.”

Caleb’s eyebrow raises, and the gesture leaves me wondering if he thought I could finish it at all.

My better judgement tells me to storm out and not look back. To walk away from the man who walked away from me, and now stands here doubting me without giving me a real chance. But, as he pulls a clean spoon from the utensil tray underneath the counter and dips the back of it in the sauce to test the thickness, logic loses out. I want to see his reaction when he tastes it. To see his surprise register when he realizes he can’t sabotage me. I may not have studied at a fancy French school, but I know my way around a kitchen.

He tilts the spoon, taking a small amount in his mouth. His facial expression doesn’t change. “You made a lot for a test batch.”

My stomach drops. Does that mean he thinks it’s bad? There’s no way. “I figured since I was making it anyway, I’d save someone else the work.”

“What if it’s awful?”

His face might remain neutral, but mine doesn’t.

I glare at him, angry he’s doubting me like this. “It’s not, and I knew it wouldn’t be.” I inhale deeply, trying to find the courage to advocate for myself. “Sure, this was supposed to be a test, but I’m good at what I do. I’ve never worked somewhere that allowed me to showcase what I’m capable of because I got complacent. It was never because I couldn’t do it. If I’m not the right fit for Hibiscus, so be it.”

Here I thought he’d come over and appreciate my initiative. He’d tell me the sauce was out-of-this-world amazing, then he’d help me find a chef’s coat in my size. Instead, I’m leaving defeated. This entire situation was just a tax on my emotions.

The hope of finding a new job.

Seeing him.

Cooking in a restaurant kitchen again.

High highs and low lows. Too much for one day.

“Thanks for the opportunity, Caleb.” I untie the apron and walk toward the exit, hanging the garment on a hook as I hang my head in defeat.

“Hannah?”

I turn back to look at my first love, hating that I feel like I’m at his mercy.

“Decent sauce.” That must be his idea of a compliment.

“Thanks for your approval,” I retort with more sass than I should. “See you around.” Even though I’m sure I never will.

Rather than drowning my sorrows in a three-course meal my parents will complain about because they think I’m trying to make them fat, I curl up on my bed with my little pug. She’s only two years old, but she came into my life at a difficult time and quickly became my entire world.

“What am I going to do? No one wants to hire me without references,” I whine as she lies on the pillow beside me.

Akili stares at me with her soulful eyes, as if she’s trying to tell me something. I imagine what she’d say if she could speak. “Stop sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, Hannah. Pull yourself together. My dog food isn’t cheap, so you better suck it up and get your life in order.”

She’s harsh, but she’s not wrong.

I feel a rush of disappointment recalling the events of the day. It’s just another bump in the road that has been very bumpy over the last few years.

“Move on, Hannah,” Akili tells me with a tap of her paw.

At least, that’s my translation.

“You’re right. No sense crying over it.”

Akili spins in a circle, digging at the pillow to fluff it up, and curls back up beside my right ear. I’ll take the rest of the day to lick my wounds, but tomorrow I’ll be back on the hunt.