my chest. I’m not in the mood for meaningless prodding from strangers. They don’t need to know my business, no matter how good-looking they are. Best to keep my answers short if I have any chance of steering us back toward safe ground. “I was visiting someone in Dallas. I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.”
“Ah, handsome and mysterious. I’m sure the ladies love it.”
My mouth opens, ready to tell her that’s not all the ladies love, but we’re interrupted by a male figure leaning toward us.
“Sir, your drink.”
“Thank you.” I’m grateful for the interruption. While the mile-high club has always been on my bucket list, mindless banter is the last thing that will take my mind off of the situation I just left.
Red and blue swirling lights.
The cold, unforgiving jail cell that smelled of piss and bad decisions.
The small courtroom and the sympathetic eyes of the judge as she passed her sentence.
It’s been the longest week of my life, and I can’t wait to get back to Seattle.
I take the plastic cup of ice and Bloody Mary mix first, set it down in front of me, then reach for the vodka shots. For the next few minutes, I sit in silence. I mix my drink, tip the cup against my lips, and let the spicy liquid glide down the back of my throat before sinking back into my seat with contentment.
Numbness is my goal. That’s the state I want to be in. Anything is better than reliving the past four days in my hometown of Dallas. It was where I grew up, physically and literally. It was where I met my best friend, who would, for some miraculous reason, take me under his wing and give me an opportunity I never deserved. And it was the home that never really felt like home to begin with.
I reach into my bag at my feet and pull out my camera to start flipping through the most recent photos, a habit when I’m lost in my thoughts. I tap through an entire series of pictures I took in the kitchen of a family friend who I stayed with in Dallas where I made an herb-roasted Cornish game hen with rice pilaf and pan jus.
Cooking is the number one love in my life, so much so that I need to photograph every detail of my finished meals in their most vulnerable form, with steam still billowing from the pan, plated, and in the midst of being decorated with fresh herbs and seasonings.
When I capture a photo, I need it to tell a story in a way that captures all the senses, as if the viewer can taste the meal on his tongue with just one look. I click through a few more photos, freezing on the money shot, the one I’ll edit, print, frame, and hang with the rest of my favorites in my cooking school’s kitchen back in Seattle.
“Did you take those?” the woman beside me asks.
I power off my camera and turn to her with a lift of my lids. My photos, for the most part, are private, like a journal, but I like to capture the food I create. “I did.” I respond to her slowly, hesitantly, unsure if I want her to dig deeper.
Her mouth parts like there’s something she wants to say about it, but instead she reaches for something safer. “Now I’m even more curious about you.” She narrows her eyes. “You obviously don’t want to tell me about where you came from. How about you tell me where you’re going instead?”
I laugh, a flicker of irritation sparking inside me—at myself, not the stranger sitting beside me. It’s gotten to the point that my discomfort about where I came from is so bad that I can’t even talk about it anymore. I wave my anxious thoughts away.
“I’m heading home to Seattle.” I toss her a look. “And you?”
Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Business. Maybe a little bit of pleasure too. We’ll have to see.” She eyes me curiously. “What is it you do?”
“I’m a chef.”
She leans back, an impressed look replacing her curious one. “That explains the photos.”
I’m not surprised by her reaction. Chicks dig a man who can cook. But I’ve found I only enjoy it when I’m at work, experimenting and teaching. When I’m at home alone, I stick with takeout and leftovers. In fact, I usually eat propped up in my man cave, watching sports. It’s simple. Simplicity dissolves when there are expectations.