His question surprised her. Until this moment, she hadn’t considered there would even be a next time. “I’d slow down, I’d ask questions, have more meaningful conversations.”
“Like what?”
Emily thought for a minute, considering what she thought meaningful. “Like, where do you see yourself in five years?”
The slight lift in his features dropped.
“What?” Had she said something wrong? Had he thought she meanthim?
“I don’t know the answer to that.”
“You don’t have to answer it. It was just a hypothetical question for my hypothetical next boyfriend,” she said.
“Regardless, I should be able to, but my life has started to move so quickly that I don’t know what I want my future to look like. I originally moved here to help Julia and take care of Winston. I had to make money, so I started cookingfor people under my company, Main Course. I gained a pretty prominent client out of Nashville through word of mouth and that spread my reputation from Nashville to LA.” He stopped as if he couldn’t believe it. “People were bombarding me from every direction, wanting to know how to get my cooking. Some suggested catering, but I can’t be in two places at once. My schedule was already full with private clients. So it occurred to me that I could build the recipes and hire chefs to cook them. Before I knew it, I was in the planning stages of The Low Tide Supper Club.
“But I’ll be the first to tell you that all the great success in the world can fall in an instant. I have no idea what my career will look like in five years. I worry that I’ll lose my personal life, miss major events in Winston’s childhood… I’ve been incredibly intentional about including him, but I’m worked to the bone. I’ve just been trying to survive each day.” He frowned.
“I’ve noticed how you react under pressure, and I have no doubt you’ll find a way to fit everything in. You won’t miss out on a thing. You’ll make sure of it.”
He searched her face, so many unsaid thoughts behind those blue eyes. “How about you? Can you answer the question of where you’ll be in five years?”
“Definitely not. The future I’d planned is gone, so I haven’t quite mapped out the next five years. I guess I’ll be in an apartment somewhere around Nashville, teaching, having coffee with Sienna and Blair on the weekends.”
“Is that what you want?” he asked.
“Is that not a good enough answer?”
He shot back quickly, “I wasn’t criticizing it. I was legitimately curious. Is that the life you want?”
“Regardless, it’s what I’ll have, given the situation.”
His expression crumbled. “Says who?”
“Me?”
“You could’ve said, ‘With everything I’ve been through, I’m selling it all and moving to Paris, or I’m buying a boat and sailing around the world; I’m living off-grid…’ It’s your life. You get to choose.”
“So, what kept you from doing those things?” she asked.
“Originally, I didn’t want to do any of that. I wanted to live in a little house in the woods, visit my sister and her kid, and disappear. But when I was presented with a successful business, I had to regroup, change plans.”
His vulnerability gave her courage. “I read the article about you in that magazine. I know what happened to Winston’s dad.”
He visibly clammed up. His shoulders rose and his jaw clenched. “The allure of a private chef to the rich and famous opening a restaurant was pretty strong, and I had people calling me left and right to do interviews. I wasn’t sure how to manage all that, so I hired a PR person one of my clients suggested, Tabitha Reynolds. She’s been relentless about ‘putting me out there,’” he said with air quotes. “She says that emotion sells, and the more people know about me, the more they’ll want to visit the restaurant, so I agreed to the interview, thinking it would be about my cooking. But they didn’t put any of that in there. Instead, they made it a sob story about my life—something I never felt comfortable sharing with everyone. It’s too painful. I’ve regretted that interview ever since.”
He shook his head. “And she wants to do more promotion. She’s got a national morning-news show on standby, but I’m not doing it.”
“I wanted to read the article,” Emily admitted.
He made eye contact. “In print, it’s an inspirational story. But it was real life for me. I heard him scream; I carried his casket…”
“I’m so sorry,” was all she could manage. Seeing his anguish, she regretted mentioning the article. What a stupid idea thatwas. But she was only trying to learn more and be honest with him.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “But it’s why I do better when I keep to myself.”
“Have you talked to anyone about it?”
He scoffed. “Please. None of that ‘deep breath, get in touch with your feelings’ mumbo jumbo is going to help. My best friend is gone, and it’s my fault.”
