Page 70 of The Seven Year Slip

“A paintbrush,” James said so very certainly.

Miguel asked, “You’re a painter?”

“It’s just a hobby,” I quickly replied. “I’m a book publicist, actually. It’s a great job. I work under one of the most talented people in my field, and it’s such an honor. I love it.”

On the other side of James, Isa asked, “Why do you love it?”

I opened my mouth—and froze.

That was a harder question than I thought.

The thing was, I loved my job, too, but if I was honest withmyself? I wasn’t sure I was passionate about it anymore—not like Rhonda was, or the person I used to be, six months ago, who just kept climbing higher and higher, and that’s all she wanted, but—

I saw how hungry and excited Drew was about the possibility of acquiring James’s book, how even as she neared retirement, Rhonda was passionate about her job until the very end, and mostly I just felt... tired.

I thought about the last conversation I had with my aunt—“Let’s go on an adventure, my darling.”

And, honestly? An adventure sounded nice.

“I... just do,” I ended up replying. “And it helps that my two best friends also work with me. What made you want to be a chef?” I asked her.

“My mom’s a renowned pastry chef—excuse me,pâtissiere. I grew up in the backs of kitchens,” Isa said. “I think my favorite thing, though? The way a fresh croissant smells. Nothing like it.”

“Or when you get the perfect blend of salt, acid, and fat...” Miguel kissed the tips of his fingers and threw it into the sky. “Makes a dish sing.”

“Or the people who come to taste your art,” James agreed, and then he pursed his lips, and shook his head. “The truth is most restaurant jobs pay shit. You work terrible hours. While you make great food, you usually eat shit when you get home. Or you’re too tired to eat. This business isn’t for everyone. If you’re not pursuing something worthwhile, then why are you in the kitchen?”

“I can’t remember the last time I cooked for myself,” Isa deadpanned, a distant look in her eyes.

Miguel threw back the rest of his beer. “I can’t remember the last time someone complimented my food.”

“I can’t, either, and I’m about to open a restaurant, hopefully tocritical acclaim, so here’s hoping something changes,” James added, finishing the rest of his beer, too, and pushing himself to his feet. He grabbed the empty plates and beer bottles, and went to go throw them away. As he left, a sinking feeling began to settle in my stomach.

Isa sighed, eating another chip. “I’m so afraid he’s going to burn out.”

Miguel rubbed the back of his neck. “I know.”

I watched James retreat to the trash can at the edge of the square. “Burn out?”

“Yeah,” Miguel told me, watching James kick a can down the sidewalk, then pick it up, and throw it away with the rest of the trash. “I just... sometimes think he’s doing too much. Not doing enough for himself.”

“He wants to make his grandpa proud,” I pointed out.

He nodded. “Yeah, well, at what point should he start wanting to do something for himself? If it wasn’t his grandpa, it was Chef Gauthier, if it wasn’t Gauthier, it was whatever he thought he needed to do to get to the next level. Over and over and over again,” he said, rolling his hand to emphasize.

“Maybe it’s what he wants to do, too,” Isa pointed out.

“Maybe,” Miguel replied, “but maybe there’s something in doing the thing that brings you joy, too. Even if it’s not the thing that gets you a fuckin’ Michelin star.”

I finished my beer as James returned, his hands in his dark-wash jeans. He sat down hard between us again, and leaned back on his hands. “Okay, enough complaining about work. Lemon, did you know I probably wouldn’t have survived CIA without these two?”

“He wassucha pain,” Isa complained, and ate another chip.

I eyed James. “I believe that.”

He looked stricken. “Hey...”

“We have a lot of stories,” Miguel agreed.

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