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Sydney
Preston sat at one of the stools at the bar in my parents’ kitchen, watching me as I dropped a half a stick of butter into a large sauté pan. When I’d told him I needed twenty minutes to bring the dish together, he’d pulled his phone out like he was going to give it all his attention and leave me to work in silence.
But he hadn’t.
His iPhone sat on the counter, completely forgotten from the moment I put on an apron. It was an old one from my first job as a line cook. The black apron had lasted much longer than the restaurant—the little upstart Italian place, Vesuvio’s, had shuttered its doors just six months after opening.
“I learned so much at that place,” I told him. “It’s just a shame a lot of it was what not to do.”
As I waited for the deep pot of water on one burner to come to a boil, I gathered the rest of my ingredients for the sauce. Cream, parmesan, garlic, chicken stock, and a lemon for acidity. I felt Preston’s gaze on me as I moved with efficiency. Salt was tossed into the pot of water, and then I retrieved a cutting board and knife from my section of the kitchen.
His focus went from one side of the counter to the other. Was he wondering why there were two knife blocks? Two different containers of utensils like spatulas and spoons?
I gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m kind of protective of my stuff. Especially my knives.” Because my parents didn’t cook much, and when they did—they were careless. “I don’t know when the last time was they had theirs sharpened.” Not to mention, mine were much higher quality.
Practically all the money I made went into building my collection of tools and specialty items. For Christmas, I’d gotten the pasta machine I’d asked for, and since we were running low on cabinet space, I’d had to bring it down from my bedroom this morning to roll out the dough for the raviolis.
I smashed the cloves of garlic under the thick blade of my knife, peeling away the skin, and got to mincing them. As the sharp edge of the blade rocked back and forth, making quick cuts, his focus dropped to it.
Or maybe he was looking at my hands. Did he notice the two scars dotting my fingers? I’d burned and nicked myself more than a few times over the last three years while doing prep work, but only two had been gnarly enough to leave scars. I wasn’t ashamed of them—I wore them with pride. Every decent chef had them, along with desensitized hands from grabbing hot pans.
I’d earned my hands of steel after working many nights as the expediter at the window. The heavy plates waited under powerful heat lamps to keep the dishes warm, and sometimes they sat too long, baking the ceramic to well above one-hundred-fifty degrees.
He seemed fascinated as I worked, and it caused an excited flutter inside me.
Cooking was the only area of my life where I wasn’t shy. The head chef at Vesuvio’s had seen to that. He hadn’t wanted to hire me, but no one else had applied, so he made me pay for it every time I stepped on his line. He’d screamed and shouted and told me there was no fucking room for timid people in his kitchen, least of all a girl who was a high school senior.
It was fun getting to be confident in front of Preston, and it made me wonder. Was that how he’d feel when he gave me his lesson tonight? I was anxious to find out.
There was a tray in the fridge, covered by a damp towel, and beneath it were the raviolis I’d spent several hours crafting this morning. I’d had to make the dough, cook and portion the filling, and then seal each pillow closed while trying not to trap air in the pocket between the two sheets of pasta. I’d crimped the edges, then laid the raviolis out on the baking sheet so they’d be ready to go.
I took off the towel, dumped the pasta into the water, and turned my attention to the sauce.
I didn’t use a recipe or any measurements because I’d made this dish many times before, plus I had a good sense of ratios. After adding the garlic to the bubbling butter, I estimated how much stock, cream, and parmesan to add. I seasoned, but when I used a spoon to taste the sauce, it wasn’t quite there, so I added a touch more salt.
“Do you want some wine?” I used a mesh skimmer to fish the floating raviolis out of the pot and add them to the sauté pan, because they needed to finish in the sauce.
When he didn’t answer, I glanced over and saw his confusion.
He was wondering how I, not yet twenty-one and with strict parents, had access to wine.
I quirked a smile. “My dad bought it for me. I told him I needed it for the recipe.”
Now it was his turn to smile. It was just a little white lie I’d told my parents, but he approved, and wanted to participate in this rebellious act.
I jerked the pan to coat the pasta and nodded toward the fridge. “It’s in there. Glasses are in the cabinet next to the sink.”
He got up from his seat, retrieved the bottle of Pinot Grigio from inside the door, and then pulled down two wine glasses.
“Corkscrew?” he asked.
“Over here.” I tugged open a drawer and plucked one out, holding it up for him to take.
We made a good team, him opening the bottle and pouring glasses while I halved the lemon and squeezed it over the ravioli, then pulled the garlic bread from the oven. He handed me the plates when I asked for them, I divided up the ravioli and bread, and then we carried our dinner and wine glasses to the kitchen table.
I was confident in my dish, but it didn’t matter. My heart was still lodged in my throat as I watched Preston take his first bite.
His eyes widened as he stared at me. “Holy fuck, that’s good.” He went in for a second bite as if he needed confirmation the first one wasn’t a fluke—which it wasn’t. He sounded awestruck. “Jesus.”
