Chapter 0151


    Abby


    The restaurant has long since closed, but the aroma of sauteed onions and garlic still lingers in the air.


    The sound of sizzling oil on the stove and the faint melody of a song that I don’t like wafting from a


    speaker in the corner mix together to create a tense symphony that I absolutely don’t need to be


    hearing right now.


    I’m stressed, to say the least. Really stressed.


    John stands next to me, his eyes focused as he skillfully dices tomatoes. His posture is rigid, the


    tension between us as palpable as the texture of the dough I’m kneading for our homemade pasta.


    “How’s the doughing along?” he asks, throwing a quick nce my way.


    “It’s fine. Just needs a bit more kneading,” I reply, my palms pushing and folding as I get lost in the


    repetitive motion.


    John grunts in acknowledgment and moves on to chop basil. There’s an air of seriousness around him,


    an unwavering concentration that should make me feel reassured.


    And yet, it doesn’t.


    Instead, I’m hyper-aware of the disconnect, the invisible yet unignorable gap between us. It feels like


    we’re reading from different recipes, never quite aligning.


    “Could you pass me the olive oil?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.


    I hand it to him, our fingers brushing for a moment, but there’s none of the warmth or understanding


    that I used to feel when Karl and I worked side by side in the kitchen.


    I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but with Karl, it was natural to work together. Sure, we had our


    moments, but we worked well together. I like John and he’s a good cook, but we just don’t have that


    same chemistry in the kitchen. What should feel effortless instead feels like a chore.


    John drizzles the oil over the tomatoes, then hesitates, looking at the array of spicesid out in front of


    him. “I think a touch of paprika would give the sauce a nice kick.”


    “I don’t know,” I say, biting my lip. “The recipe is already pretty bnced. Adding more spices might


    throw it off.”


    I’m being polite so as not to rock the boat, but in reality, I’m thinking to myself: “Paprika? Seriously,


    John? Are you crazy?”


    He looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “We’re not following the recipe to the letter, are we? I thought the


    whole point was to make it our own.”


    “Yes, but making it ‘our own’ shouldn’t mean ruining the integrity of the dish,” I retort, a little more


    sharply than I intend to.


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    John puts down the paprika and takes a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in his frustration. “Abby, you


    asked me to be your sous chef for thispetition. If you don’t trust my judgment, then why am I even


    here?”


    The words hang heavy in the air, and I can’t look him in the eye. Because he’s right. Why is he here?


    Why is he not Karl? My hands grip the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning white.


    “John, it’s not that I don’t trust your judgment,” I finally say, my voice tinged with remorse. “It’s just that I


    want this to be perfect.”


    He lets out an audibly exasperated groan. “That’s your problem,” he growls. “You want everything to be


    perfect.”


    “I know, I know,” I murmur, looking down at the dough, trying to keep myselfposed. I’ve already


    had countless arguments with John since I asked him to be my sous chef for thepetition a week


    ago and I’m not interested in having another. “Let’s try the paprika.”


    John picks up the spice jar again, but the mood has shifted. I expected him to seem satisfied, but he


    just seems defeated.


    He sprinkles the paprika into the sauce and gives it a stir. “There. Let’s see how this tastes.”