Page 31 of Filthy Chef

“It’s not that big. You should see Cuban’s house.”

Sure, sure. He’s been to that guy’s house, because of course he has.

“No thanks. Not a Mavericks fan,” I say, embarrassingly, through a mouthful of salmon. I immediately apologize.

“Sorry for inhaling everything. It’s so good.”

“Don’t apologize. Watching you eat my food is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Stop.”

“Has no one ever told you that?”

I shake my head and sip my wine, swallowing back the emotions that threaten to form a lump in my throat.

“Other than friends and friends’ parents, no one’s ever made a home-cooked meal for me without a lecture.”

Jason sets his glass of wine down and leans across the glass table. “What do you mean, a lecture?”

“It’s nothing,” I say.

“Journey.”

I sigh. “When you grow up with locks on the cabinet doors and are scolded for eating than what your dad can afford to feed you, you don’t come to expect a lot of generosity.”

I wait for the “what the fuck” expression, but Jason’s hard mouth is even, his eyes calm.

“Locks,” he repeats.

I swear to god, the fact that he’s not reacting at all is making me more emotional than if he started raging.

“Yes.”

“What else did that man do to you?”

Oh god. “Jason, I don’t need you to be my therapist.”

“No, you don’t. But I’m gonna be your husband at some point so I would hope you’ll tell me everything.”

I laugh. “Sure. Okay. He would keep track of how many slices of bread I ate per day, how much milk was missing, how many slices of cheese. He would take any opportunity to remind me what the daily recommended calories were for a girl my age. On the rare occasions we could afford to eat at a restaurant, he’d always comment on the portions being too big, and that I should save some for later. Everything about the way I ate and how much was unladylike. It all came to a head at my sixteenth birthday party. It was just a few high school friends at one of those pizza buffet places with an arcade in the party room. I was so happy to be with my friends and eat pizza, and I thought it was so nice to get a break from all the judgment. There’s no way he would say anything shitty with my friends there. Oh, but I was wrong. When the manager brought out the birthday cake, I blew out the candles. My friends sang Happy Birthday. And then my dad took the knife away from me when I was about to slice up the cake for my friends. I thought maybe he was being nice. He cut me the smallest sliver, and cut everyone else a big slice. It was so uncomfortable, because everyone knew exactly what was up. It was then and there that I decided I would grow up and become a famous chef, and when I did, I would never, ever cook a meal for my father.”

I’ve never said any of that out loud to anyone other than my best friend at the Culinary Institute. Jason’s stare bores a hole in my heart, but I’m staring at the pool and noticing how the still surface reflects the little lamps illuminating the deck.

Finally, when he says nothing for too long, I look up.

“Be right back,” he says.

Moments later, he returns with the biggest slice of key lime pie I’ve ever seen.

“Don’t even try to tell me you’re full,” he says.

Jason sits across from me, picks up one of the two spoons, and feeds me.

“I can feed myself,” I tell him, then quickly follow this up with, “Oh my god, this pie is so delicious. What is this crust, this isn’t graham crackers.”

“No, it’s Girl Scout cookie crust.”

“How dare you. This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. No offense.”

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