Page 68 of The Cost of Love

I can’t keep the smile off my face as I know that using that money actually paid off. Walking back out with my grin, Chef points a finger.

“Don’t get too happy yet. You have to actually show me your skills. Anyone can make something at their own pace in their own kitchen.”

“Not my mum,” Jorge calls out, causing us both to laugh.

“I’m going to create a dish while you watch, and then you are going to replicate it. Understood?”

He doesn’t wait for my answer and just begins. Moving at his normal speed, he doesn’t stop or explain anything he is doing. I watch him so intently that my hands start to move mimicking his actions. While I know I’m not up to his caliber, I feel a sense of pride at the fact that I have at least seen or done most of what he is doing now.

Alongside that is a passion that I buried years ago, coming to life again, fueling me on. When it’s my turn, that feeling pushes me to be my best. Every step feels like breathing as I inhale the movement and exhale the product. I chop, sear, and fillet like it’s second nature. Confident in every move I make, I don’t let it get me down that it takes almost twice as long as it did him to complete the dish. Passing the plate to him, the whole kitchen stills as we wait to see what he thinks.

Just like earlier, he doesn’t say anything while tasting each component. Chewing and closing his eyes, he makes his way through some of the food.

“Well, did she do it?” Jorge asks, sounding more nervous than me.

“You have the job,” Chef finally says.

People start clapping, and it feels like something from a movie. I fight the urge to jump up and down, instead pressing my hands to my chest.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, you did it.” He bows his head a little in respect, and it feels like the thing I absolutely needed.

“I’ll email you an offer letter and schedule. I do want to let you know that, starting out, you don’t make much more than the servers. It’s great for your resume, though.” He pats me on the back and walks away.

I’m happy that he is gone, so he doesn’t see the way my face falls. What I thought was a solution to my problems is actually just a hard choice. Take the job and follow my dreams, or keep searching for the one that is going to support us all.

I know what I should do, but the reckless twenty-three-year-old that is in me wants to do what will make her happy. At this point, the choice is between two wants, and I will always choose them.

Jessie walks in just as I accept my fate.

“Girl, this is going to be brilliant. This is a gala for some sort of charity for the refugee resource center, but all the key players should be making an appearance.” She has her face beat and her hair pinned like she is going to the gala instead of working it. Determined to finally snag her man, she is ready to be a distraction.

“What’s wrong?” Looking at me, my lack of excitement for her gives away how I’m feeling.

“I thought I got a job in the kitchen, but I can’t take it.”

She bats her brown eyes at me, confused.

“The pay isn’t different, and I need to find something that will pay more than I make now.”

She follows me to the bathroom as I go to get changed.

“You’re telling me you got a job where you can cook and be paid, and you’re turning it down?”

“I don’t have a choice.” I step into one of the stalls and pull off my street clothes. Stepping into the work pants, I button up my too-tight top.

“Are you mad? You can’t turn this down.”

When I come out, she is staring at herself in the mirror, touching up what is already perfection. I stand next to her and tuck my hair into a bun. Edge control makes it look more presentable than just the normal puffy attempt. Passing me her lipstick and mascara, she waits for me to put the final touches on my effort.

“The kids and I are about three weeks away from being homeless. I know I can make the extra £350 a month to stay, but not without working more. I got an interview at a call center, and it might be my only option.”

“You have other recourses. You can ask that man for the money. Based on what you’ve told me, he really cares about you, and would be willing to give you the world. Will it kill you to just take a slice of it?” Crossing her arms, she leans against the counter.

“I have taken money from him. I’m more open than I was originally, but I don’t know if I can have him give me funds monthly.” I play with her makeup, twisting the cap open and closed as I stare at the floor.

“You are giving him your goodies. What is he giving in return?”