Chapter 0220


    “John, finally!” I call out, stepping through the turnstile. “Are you ready? I’m about to hop on the


    subway, on my way to your ce. I’ll be there in ten minutes, max.”


    “Abby,” he croaks, and instantly, I know something’s not right. I freeze in my tracks. The life and


    vibrancy in his voice are gone, reced by something that sounds a lot like misery.


    “John? You sound awful. Are you okay?”


    He coughs. “I... I was up all night, throwing up. I feel terrible, Abby.” His voice sounds like a poker being


    raked over hot coals.


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    Instantly, the scolding mom in me surfaces. “Oh my God, John, did you drink too muchst night? We


    talked about this—today is important! I told you we could only have a couple drinks each, no more!”


    “No, no, you don’t get it,” he interrupts, his voice shaky. “I only had one drink, nothing more. I swear,


    Abby. It’s not that.”


    “What is it, then?” I asked, my heart practically pounding out of my chest.


    He sighed. “I think it’s food poisoning or something. Look, I’m really, really sick, Abby. I might even


    have to go to the hospital if this doesn’t let up.”


    My blood runs cold, my hand tightening around my phone until my knuckles go white. “Hospital? Are


    you sure?”


    “Of course, I’m sure. Do you think I would joke about something like this? Especially today?”


    The despair in his voice cuts through me, and instantly, I feel a little bad for scolding him. He coughs


    again and clears his throat, and I can practically hear him wince from the pain.


    “Oh, John,” I murmur, clutching my coffee cup so tight I might crush it. “Shit.”


    “I’m really sorry, Abby, but I think it goes without saying that there’s no way I can be your sous chef for


    thepetition today.”


    My mind races, flipping through a whole host of emotions—worry for John, frustration at the situation,


    and fear for what this means for me and thepetition. I need a sous chef. All of the contestants


    have to have a sous chef.


    “I... I don’t know what to say,” I call out, more to myself than to him. “What do I do now? I have to be at


    the studio in two hours.”


    “Listen, why don’t you call Anton?” John suggests after a beat. “He’s really good and he knows the way


    you operate. He could fill in easily.”


    “I’ll be fine, Abby. Just worry about the cook-off,” John’s voice trembles through the speaker. “I’m really


    sorry, Abby.”


    “I will,” he repeats, and then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the dial tone and my spiraling thoughts.


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    Anton. And I just hope, beyond all hope, that he’s not just as sick as John.