the footage won’t be used for any commercial content?”
Maggie doesn’t look very reassured, but she nods in agreement.
As students begin to enter the kitchen, I chat them up one by one. I like making real connections with my students. Not only does it make them want to come back, but I genuinely love knowing what brings them in.
There’s a mother-daughter pair who hasn’t missed a Saturday class in the past six months. They started coming in because the daughter was moving into her boyfriend’s house and wanted to be able to cook for him without embarrassment.
At the workstation beside them is a newlywed couple who received a voucher for a class as a wedding gift. It’s their first day, and they both seem excited to be here. Admittedly, most of their meals are consumed outside of the home, and they want to change things up now that they’re on a budget.
There are a couple of singles that I paired together based on the interest questionnaire that came with their registration packets. And then there are older married couples looking for new adventures to help rekindle the romance. Every story is different, and I love hearing them all.
I definitely luck out with the students who walk through my door. Most of them come because they want to try something new or get better at skills they already have. And with every single story, I feel honored they chose my kitchen to get that experience.
I’m halfway through class when I catch Maggie flipping through a magazine, looking utterly bored. I spent all my time training her on registration that I didn’t have time to show her what would help me during the actual class.
When Gretta showed up, she was always great about checking on all the students throughout class. If they needed refills on their beverages, then she was right there. If they had questions for me and I was too busy to get to them right away, she would take notes and deliver them to me. And she did her best to cheer on my students as they worked hard through class. I can see why Maggie wouldn’t be comfortable with some of the above, seeing that it’s her first day, so I quickly conjure up something else to help her at least look busy.
“Hey, Maggie,” I call out while everyone’s distracted with my latest set of instructions.
Her eyes snap up, her posture straightens, and her eyes widen. “Yeah?”
That’s all she says. Not “How can I help you?” or “Hey, Desmond.” But “Yeah?” Like I just bothered her by calling out her name.
I stifle a laugh and catch the amused expression on Faye’s face at the exchange.
“Can you help me out with something?”
Maggie narrows her eyes as she slowly slides off her stool and walks the perimeter of the room to get to me. It doesn’t faze me that she’s taking her precious time. But as she’s walking, it’s easy to latch on to the fact that the woman knows how to strut on a runway. She’s a natural, commanding the room with her confidence and her laid-back hip swing. With effortless bouncing hair and a crossover leg technique that I have a newfound appreciation for, I can’t help but wonder what brought her here. Why would a woman with such a unique talent come to live with her sister in Bellevue only to end up unhappy and alone in Seattle?
I’ve already promised myself that I won’t dig deeper into Maggie’s past while we’re at work. She gets so heated when I ask her questions, if not because I’m subconsciously being an insensitive ass, then because something about the wrong subject triggers memories of her father. If Maggie and I have any hope of playing nice together, then I’ll need to try to steer clear of certain subjects. Outside of work, I can’t make the same promises.
She’s nearing my cooking station when she peers down at the pan of gravy I’m stirring and narrows her eyes at it. “I’m here to help.” Then she points at the pan. “But not with that.”
I chuckle and move to the side so she can take my spot. Then I hand her the spoon. “I just need you to stir it slowly while I make some rounds and check on everyone.”
“Nope.” She pops her lips and gives me a fake smile. “Not here to cook, remember?”
Annoyance builds quickly in my chest. “I’m not asking you to cook,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I’m not