Chapter 0209


    The audience murmurs. A smattering of apuse ripples across the small crowd.


    Sarah flips her cue cards. “And when did you start cooking, Abby?”


    “I was eight. My mom loved to cook, and I was her little sous-chef. Cutting, stirring, making a mess


    mostly,” I chuckle. “But the love for cooking stuck, long after I learned to clean up after myself.”


    Peopleugh; even Sarah chuckles. And for a moment, the stage doesn’t feel too big, the lights not too


    bright. I can do this.


    “So, what would you say is your signature dish?” Sarah leans in, interested.


    I feel a flicker of excitement. “Oh, that would have to be my rosemary-infusedmb with a side of garlic


    mashed potatoes. It’s rustic, hearty, and incredibly vorful. The rosemary and garlice together to


    create a sense of home, no matter where you are.”


    Sarah’s eyes light up and she looks over at the crowd. “Doesn’t that sound delicious?” she asks, to


    which the crowd murmurs in response.


    “It’s a customer favorite for sure,” I beam. “It’s actually adapted from one of my mother’s recipes. I love


    to give my customers a taste of home.”


    “Of course,” Sarah says, smiling.


    The interview continues in a myriad ofughter, awws, and light apuse. With each passing minute, I


    begin to feel more and more rxed, like I’ve done this a thousand times. I almost forget that the


    audience is even there, and it feels like it’s just me and Sarah having a conversation about food.


    But then, Sarah throws me the one question that I was most dreading.Please check at N/?vel(D)rama.Org.


    “So, Abby, what is your biggest inspiration?”


    I freeze. My eyes involuntarily flicker to where Vanessa is seated on the sidelines with the other judges,


    her afro a glorious halo under the studio lights. It would be so easy to point at her, to say her name.


    She’s the woman I’ve idolized for years, the dream I’ve chased in my sleep, and she’s right here.


    But then, like a flickering montage, faces start appearing in my mind.


    John, my sous-chef who’s always got my back, even when we have our disagreements; Ethan, my


    restaurant manager who has never missed a day of work, no matter how many times I’ve begged him


    to take a vacation; Daisy, the ever-smiling waitress who uplifts everyone’s mood despite the weather;


    Chloe, my best friend in the entire world; Anton, the homeless man who turned out to be like an uncle


    to me; and then, finally Karl.


    Karl.


    My ex husband, the man who I thought I would never see again. The man who almost took a dozen


    bullets for me, all over a bag of truffles.


    Tears begin to well up in my eyes. My crew—my family—who’ve stood by me, who’ve celebrated every


    small win and endured every big loss. How can I not mention them?


    I look back at Sarah, then into the camera, into the eyes of whoever is watching this—be it one person


    or a million.


    Sarah’s eyebrows go up, intrigued. The audience leans in, as if they’re collectively holding their breath.


    Even Vanessa seems to perk up from her seat.


    I pause, and time seems to stop. I nce up across the crowd, and my heart does a flip.


    Because amongst the crowd, I see one familiar pair of brown eyes, sitting all the way in the back,


    looking down at me.


    Karl.


    I pause, letting my words hang in the air. A smattering of apuse erupts, growing louder and echoing


    in the studio.