Page 106 of Every Beautiful Mile

He slowly pushes the plunger through the dark liquid and grabs two mugs, pouring us each one before sending me to a stool.

“Tell me how you learned to cook?” I ask.

I blow the steam on my mug while Ethan somehow makes chopping bell peppers look pornographic in jeans, a t-shirt, and bare feet.

“I grew up hunting and fishing the way my boys have.” His knife rocks in a steady rhythm across the cutting board. “I realized really young how much I appreciated I could provide food to myself and my family, and that led me to experiment with ways of cooking it.”

He scoops up the pile of diced peppers with the blade and drops them into a bowl.

“After culinary school, I learned a lot of restaurants have no idea where their food is coming from. There’s a lot of ordering from wholesalers with frozen deliveries from some faraway place—it just felt so disconnected to me.” He turns to look at me. “So I decided to open a restaurant and see if I could do it differently. See if I could source things as fresh and local as possible while also building a relationship with farmers. I started out with a menu of five items and was only open for dinner four nights a week while I worked part time with a construction company in town.” He smiles, as if he’s remembering those days in vivid color, and shrugs. “It just kind of grew from there.”

My response is in the form of a quiet nod, surprised at how passionate he is about it. How clear of his purpose.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, whisking eggs in a bowl.

“I don’t know. You light up when you talk about it. Like you are doing exactly what you are supposed to be. It’s… nice. Like you have this special gift and mission that propels you forward with clarity. Everyone doesn't have that when it comes to their career.”

“Don’t you feel the same way about what you do? You’re a helluva bartender.”

“Maybe?”

I rarely let myself think about my career regrets, and I never talk about them.

“I was basically born behind the bar. It’s what I’ve always known. I got a degree in business so I could help my dad. College wasn’t really what I wanted to do, but it seemed to be the natural progression of things at the time, so I just went along with it because I wasn’t really passionate about any other plan. Then, moving back to Key Largo seemed like the next thing to do because that’s where my family was. Once I met Travis, things just kind of fell into place for me there. My career was the easy choice, I guess.”

Butter simmers in the pan as he pours the eggs in.

“I like creating drinks and seeing people enjoy them. I don’t know if I ever imagined I’d be a bartender with a side hustle of managing my dad’s restaurant when I grew up, but I guess that’s how life is sometimes.”

Giving life to those words seems a bit like stepping out onto a tightrope with no net. I’ve thought of them before, but never once have I said them to another living being, not even Travis.

“How do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean, there are people like you, with passion and vision, that know exactly what they are supposed to be doing. I, on the other hand, did not have any idea what that looked like for me at eighteen when it was time to make grown-up choices. I think I just kind of let the easy route guide me for a lot of those early big decisions. My dad never told me I needed to come back and help him, I just always assumed that would make him happy and it would be easier than forging some life on my own.” I sip my coffee as my thoughts start to spiral. “I don’t know. With Travis gone and the kids getting older, I just kind of wonder if I missed the boat somehow.”

“If you could change it all right now, what would you do instead?” he asks, folding the omelet in half in the pan.

“Is a cocktail consultant a real thing?” I laugh honestly. “I like creating drinks and making specialty cocktails. I love that. Maybe I would teach bartenders or work with restaurant owners on creating drink menus. There’s probably no market for that, but I think I’d like it.”

He sets a plate with an oversized omelet in front of me with two forks.

“This smells amazing, Ethan. No wonder all those women hunt you down at all hours of the night,” I tease, picking up one of the forks.

“I haven’t made breakfast for any woman since I was married.”

The confession stops me mid-bite while he easily plucks a forkful of omelet into his mouth.

“I think you should try it,” he says.

“Try what?” I ask, taking a bite.

“I think you should try being a cocktail consultant. I would hire you, and I can think of several other restaurant owners who would love to have someone like that help them.”

I search his face for a joke, but there isn’t one. He’s serious.

“Maybe.” I look down at the plate. “But first, I was thinking I could teach you how to make drinks. I can’t leave here knowing that sometime in your future you’re going to get behind a bar—that you own—and have you replay that scene from last week. Turns out I have two weeks here and nothing to do.”

“What about the puffins and whales and lobsters?” There’s a playfulness in his eyes as he takes his last bite of breakfast.

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