Page 39 of A Scoring Chance
“I told you I didn’t know what you like to eat, so I asked him to bring at least one of everything on his menu. I definitely overestimated the amount of food that would be.” Cooper smiles sheepishly at me, grabbing his own container and popping the lid.
“I don’t mind. I have no idea when I’ll have another chance to eat the cooking of a world-famous chef.” I giggle before gently placing the container on the blanket and grabbing my bag.
I rummage through my bag, searching for my most prized possession. The panic builds the longer it takes for me to find it. I pull items out, my wallet, cell phone, and keys and place them on the blanket but still come up empty.
“I know it’s here. It has to be here,” I mutter, my chest tightening as I feel another panic attack coming on.
But then my fingers brush against the metal spirals, holding it together, and I sigh in relief, pulling a light blue notebook covered in different restaurant stickers and souvenirs I’ve collected over the years. This is the only piece of my old life that I’ve kept. A memory of the person I once was before that night.
“What’s that?” Cooper asks, taking a huge bite of some type of sandwich, probably a grilled cheese, based on the string of gooeyness that stretches from his mouth to the remaining piece in his hand.
“My recipe notebook.” I flip open the worn notebook, searching for a blank page.
I used to pore over this book for hours, looking for the perfect combination of herbs and spices to make some of my favoritedishes into something I could call my own. I used to call it a new spin on comfort food. I planned on getting the proper training and opening my very own café in Redwood Falls. The residents of the town deserve something other than greasy diner food from The Pit Stop or having to drive no less than twenty minutes to get anything else.
My fingers trail across the pages filled with my design ideas for the café. I wanted something open-concept, with a wall of windows to let all the air in. The floor-to-ceiling windows would be a moving glass system, opening onto a patio in the summer to allow the breeze and fresh air to fill the space.
I planned to call it Glow. That’s what my dad said I looked like every time I came up with a new idea for a recipe. He gave me my love of cooking at an early age. I just wanted to show him that all the time we spent in the kitchen, perfecting recipes, wasn’t in vain. Too bad there’s no way this will ever become a reality. It will remain one of my closely guarded secrets. A dream that once was my driving force to keep pushing forward has become nothing but a distant memory. Memorialized on the page of this notebook.
“Care to elaborate?”
“No.” I sniffle, searching through my bag for a pen. I find it quickly, jotting down all my ideas and combinations of flavors I can turn into a soup. Something unlike anything anyone has tasted. Something that is specifically only mine.
“I was going to go to culinary school after I graduated high school, but that didn’t work out.”
“That’s why you were so enthralled with Ollie, isn’t it?”
I nod my head, not bothering to look up from my notebook. For the first time in months, my mind is full of new ideas, and I want to get them down on paper before they disappear into the monotony of life again.
“Yeah. I read in an article that Oliver didn’t even know culinary schools were a thing. He made his mark on the culinary world, carving out a space for himself that only he could occupy. And now he’s one of the most famous chefs in the world.”
“You can be, too, you know.”
“It’s not that simple, Cooper.” I drop my pen into the notebook, marking my place. As always, the inspiration has disappeared, bringing me back down to reality when I remember how things are now.
“Because of Darius?”
I practically recoil at his statement. It’s because of me I had to give up my dreams. Because of my selfishness and desire to want something more than I deserved. If I’d just stayed and listened to what Dad and Imani had to say, I could be where Oliver is today. Lofty dreams and beliefs don’t always get you what you want. Sometimes they take everything you never appreciated away from you in an instant. I made my bed, and now it’s time to lie in it. And that has not a damn thing to do with Darius.
“I love Darius with every fiber of my being. Everything, and I mean everything, I do is for him. To make sure he never wants for anything. As long as I draw breath, Darius will have anything his heart desires,” I respond with conviction, pulling my legs to my chest and curling my arms around them.
“But at what expense, Beauty? You don’t have to give up on your own dreams in the process of helping him reach his own.” Cooper reaches for me, his hand outstretched, ready to take hold of mine, but he hesitates.
I don’t want to talk about this. Not now, not here. Memories of that night filter through my mind, making it almost impossible to focus on anything else. Tears stream down my cheeks as every detail of that night flashes through my mind. I clench my eyes closed tightly, praying to the powers above tohelp me put them back into their box. A box I keep tightly shut for 90 percent of the year but has slowly creaked open. It’s all too much for me to take. I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m suffocating from the inside out. “I-I have to go.”
I’m gasping for air as I clamber to my feet, my head swiveling back and forth as I search for a place to escape. I can hear Cooper saying something, but I can’t focus on what he’s saying. The next thing I know, he’s on his feet, creeping toward me. His arms are outstretched in surrender as he moves toward me as if I’m a caged animal, ready to bolt the moment anyone gets too close. I try to keep myself rooted in place. Every muscle in my body is tensing, trying to will myself not to move. But the moment I feel his fingers brush against my hand, I bolt, running back the way we came in.
I can hear Cooper calling my name, but I don’t stop. I need to get away from all of this. From him. From the feelings of guilt and shame that are about to envelop me whole. I don’t think—I just run. Thankfully, there aren’t too many people walking around the gardens, probably because of the now-ominous clouds filling the sky. No matter how far I run, I’ll never be able to escape the memories.
I can see it clearly in my mind, like it was yesterday. I applied to the Culinary Institute of America in New York on a whim, against my parents’ wishes, I might add, so when the acceptance letter came, they understandably had questions.
My mom was indifferent to the whole idea of me going to culinary school, wanting me to do something more meaningful with my life, like becoming a lawyer or doctor. But neither of those professions suited me. Not only did I used to have a hard time following rules, but being stuck behind a desk wasn’t my idea of a good time.
My dad got to the mailbox before me and snagged the letter. “I thought we talked about this, Ramona. You are only eighteenyears old. You may love cooking now, but who knows if that will still be your passion in a few years.”
He waves the envelope in the air to make a point, but it doesn’t matter. I want to make something of myself to follow my dreams, and heading to New York is the fastest way to get there. The culinary scene in New York is unparalleled. I’d have to start at the bottom and probably work my way up the ladder while I attend the institute, but once I graduate I’ll be set and on my way to opening a restaurant.
“Dad, it’s been my passion since I was five years old when you showed me how to crack an egg on my own. It’s in my blood like it was in yours until you gave up.”
