Page 27 of Complete Me

Chef Bouchard nods. “Laughter is as important in the kitchen as any other ingredient. If you aren’t having fun, then you’re doing it wrong. Now, let’s go over the next step. Yes?”

After that, Gunnar and I focus on the recipes, mostly so we don’t get in trouble. Two hours later, when everything is pulled together into a beautiful meal, cooked perfectly, including the caramelized, and not burnt, crème brûlée. We all take our meals into the dining room and sit, enjoying the food we’ve prepared.

About an hour later, I roll myself into the Range Rover, stuffed to bursting with some of the best food I’ve had in a very long time. “That was delicious. And fun.” I glance at Gunnar. “We should do another one.”

“I’m game. I had a great time tonight.” It’s said with such sincerity that I get a little choked up. Gunnar and I are going to be okay. I can feel it in my bones. “So, would you want to do that as a career?”

I shake my head. “Nah. It was a blast, and cooking is one of my favorite hobbies, but I think if that was my job it would take all the joy out of it and I’d end up hating it. And that would make me sad.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Do you think volunteering with animals might be an option?”

Putting on my blinker, I turn onto the ramp and merge into traffic. “Maybe? I could see myself working with animals all day, though not in any medical capacity. I don’t want to be a vet or a vet tech. Too many sad things happen.” My throat starts to close up, and there’s stinging behind my eyes as I think about all the pets who… nope! Not going there. I clear my throat. “Dog groomer might be fun though.”

“I think Jules is right. You really ought to look into dog training.”

With a snort, I quickly glance at him to see if he’s serious. “Why, because I’m doing such a fine job with my own dog?”

Gunnar chuckles. “Well, you’d have to be trained to be a trainer. But you love working with Pita on stuff. I think it’s at least worth investigating.”

He’s not wrong. I do love it. And when Pita finally learns a new skill, the rush is incredible. I should absolutely investigate the option. “It could turn out to be like the cooking, but yeah, you’re right. What do I have to lose?”

Gunnar squeezes my shoulder. “Nothing. And you might even gain a new career.” I pull off the highway and weave my way through the streets of Gunnar’s neighborhood, enjoying the cozy feel of the warm lights coming from the houses. I pull into his driveway and barely have the car in park before the front door swings open and Jocelin appears. I can feel the energy pouring from Gunnar. “Do you want to come in?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Not tonight. I’m beat, and I want to get home and put on some less restrictive clothing.” I pat my belly. “I definitely ate too much, but it was sooo good.”

“It really was.” His grin is all the proof I need that he means it. “Thanks for asking me to go with you. I had fun. And, Bjorn?” At his tone, I give him my full attention. “However things work out with you, Kaino, and Xander, I’ve got your back. If it makes you happy, then I’m one hundred percent supporting you with this.”

Jesus, when did my baby brother grow up? Shit. My vision gets blurry, and I lean over and haul him into a one-armed hug. “Thanks. I love you.”

“Love you too, Bjorn.” He squeezes me once and then hops out of the Rover, hurrying up the walk to his boyfriend. Jocelin flings his arms around Gunnar, kissing him like they’ve been apart for years, and I grin, so happy for them both. They turn and wave before stepping into the house and closing the door behind them.

I put the SUV in reverse, back out of the drive, and head home. Alone.

11

Xander

With an audible exhale, I press play on the voicemail. “Xander, dear, it’s your mother.” Her pristinely practiced Mid-Atlantic pronunciation hides most of her native New York accent, though it slips out now and then. “I believe you might remember me. I’m the woman who suffered through seventeen grueling hours of labor to give birth to you. I was hoping to have a few minutes of your time to chat and find out how you are, darling.” And people wonder where I get the drama from. “It’s been three weeks since we last spoke, and I know it’s an awful hardship to converse with your parents, and utterly unreasonable that we always want to know how you are and what you’re doing, but regardless, we love and miss you.” Ouch. Direct guilt hit to the heart. “If you could spare a moment to call, we’d appreciate knowing our only child is alive. Dad says hello, and he loves you. I love you too, sweetheart. Call us.”

I toss my phone onto my desk and pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the headache that’s been threatening ever since my conversation this morning with that asshole, Alfred Koontz. Was that only four hours ago? God. I’ve been walking on eggshells around the jerk since last spring, and I’m exhausted. As Dean of the Humanities Division, Koontz is someone whose approval I need, if I want my tenure application to have a favorable rating with the provost. I’ve already submitted my application and received approval from the division committee. The deadline for having everything to the provost is this Friday, and as my division head, Koontz’s accompanying letter will be make or break, and he knows it. It’s rare for the provost to go against the recommendation of a division dean. And Koontz has been riding my ass all year. Not in the fun way. Not that I’d want him to. Eww. I shudder at that mental image.

He and I have never seen eye to eye. He’s old school. A veritable dinosaur when it comes to anything academic. I assume it’s the same with his personal life, but I’ve successfully avoided finding that out by keeping our conversations strictly professional. It hasn’t stopped him from conveying his disapproval of me, my appearance, and my lifestyle. I don’t flaunt my sexual orientation, but I’ve also never hidden that I’m gay. And he’s never hidden his disapproval of that. The only thing he seems to like about me is my teaching style. Adherence to strict rules of testing for actual knowledge regarding course subject matter, and not giving extra credit, are things he’s completely on board with. And that, hopefully, outweighs the rest, because his endorsement of my application would greatly increase my chances of achieving tenure.

And tenure is why I’ve been avoiding calling my parents. They’ll ask about it, and I don’t have anything to tell them. The outcome has been out of my control since I submitted the original application months ago. I’ve tried explaining that to them, but they’re excited and impatient. Just as I am. But there’s nothing new to report.

Groaning, I pick up my phone and dial.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Who is this?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s Xander, Mom. Your only child.”

“Xander? I had a son named Xander once. He disappeared long ago, and we haven’t heard from him since.”

“Funny, Mom. Is this how the entire call will go, or have you chastised me enough?”

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