Page 12 of This Is Who I Am

I’m not someone who puts much thought into their outfit. If it’s blazer weather—which, in NorCal, it is more often than not thanks to the wind off the Pacific—it’s jeans and a blouse, usually white or baby-blue, topped with a blazer. It’s a look I perfected in academia and never felt the need to evolve beyond.

I should make a return trip to Berkeley to pick up some more of my clothes, but, up until today, I haven’t felt the need to wear one of my swankier blouses. I have a green silk one that would have worked well tonight—although for what purpose exactly, I’m not even sure—but here I am. Dressed in a crisp white blouse and a beige check blazer, as if it even matters.

I study the menu, always a fun exercise because it changes every week. The special with clams and a broth made with Metaxa sounds intriguing, mostly because I have no idea what Metaxa is.

When I glance over to the kitchen, I smile inadvertently. I tell myself it’s because I’m well on my way to making a friend in town, and I could do with a friend in Clearwater Bay. The other day, after surfing, I didn’t even recognize Suzy Ireland, that’s how long I’ve been away. She’s someone I could get back in touch with, although I have no intention of joining her support group—yet.

I don’t see Cass in the kitchen. I’ve yet to catch my first glimpse of her tonight. My stomach flutters in anticipation. Sometimes I think that what I lack in physical desire, my brain tries to compensate for by developing instant, ill-advised crushes. It’s ridiculous. But there’s something about Cass. Although I’ve barely spoken to her. I’ve tasted her food. But I’m not that foolish to become infatuated with a chef simply because of their tasty dishes.

When the server comes over, he says, “The chef has asked if she can serve a surprise menu tonight. Just for you.”

“Really?” How delightful. There’s that flutter in my stomach again.

When I glance at the kitchen now, I see Cass very clearly. She stands there in her whites beaming. She gives me a small nod. How bossy—and utterly charming.

“Of course. Please thank her from me. I can’t wait.” I order a glass of champagne because why the hell not? I only wish Cass was sitting opposite me so that we could enjoy this together. But she’s got work to do. So do I, but tonight, I don’t feel so inclined to work on my dad’s problem. I’ve pretty much resigned myself to the fact that it’s unsolvable, and I just want to take in every moment of being here.

I want to watch the other diners and study their faces when they taste their first bite of Cass’s food. I want to revel in the view of this ocean that stretches as far as the eye can see. And I want to catch glimpses of Cass as she works, as she’s in her element, as she does what she was born to do.

The two amuse-bouches are to die for, and then out walks Cass herself, straight toward me, carrying a plate as if it’s the most normal thing in the world for the head chef to be serving a customer. She did do it last time as well with that divine dessert, but I haven’t seen her give that special treatment to any other customer.

She’s so deliciously tall and confident. She looks in control and not at all like the flustered woman I walked home after a hot flash earlier this week.

“Good evening.” She sets the plate in front of me. “How’s everything so far?”

“To fucking die for,” I say, feeling suddenly brazen.

“Exactly what I was going for.” She wants to say something more, I can tell, but it’s as though her lips are unavailable for speaking because she can’t stop smiling. Then she composes herself.

She gestures toward the plate. “For your starter, I wanted to keep things light but full of flavor. Local Dungeness crab with a touch of citrus and a little heat.”

The dish is beautifully plated—delicate shreds of crab nestled atop something smooth and pale, tiny flecks of red scattered across like an artist’s final brushstrokes.

“I assume the red is the heat?”

Cass smirks. “A little Aleppo pepper, just enough to wake up your palate.”

I pick up my fork, hyperaware that she’s still standing there, watching me. The moment stretches, charged with something I can’t quite name, until she clears her throat and steps back.

“I’ll let you enjoy your dish in peace.” Her voice is decidedly lower than before—and I have no idea what’s really going on here. As she turns, I catch myself watching the way she moves, the way her chef’s coat fits just right over her broad shoulders.

Then I take my first bite. The flavors hit instantly—sweet crab, bright citrus, the silkiness of the emulsion underneath. Then the heat lingers at the very end, not overpowering but persistent, teasing my tongue just enough to make me want another bite.

I put my fork down for a moment. It’s unfair, really, how good she is at this. At making food that doesn’t just taste amazing but makes me feel something.

I glance over at the kitchen again. Cass is at her station, focused, moving with the ease of someone who is exactly where she belongs.

I take another bite, savoring it. I don’t know what’s happening here. But I know I don’t want it to stop.

When the server clears my starter, I sit back, letting the hum of the restaurant wash over me. More tables have filled, voices blending into a pleasant murmur, glasses clinking in celebration. I sip my champagne slowly, aware of the way my body feels—loose and relaxed.

When I look toward the kitchen again—I can’t keep my eyes off it tonight—Cass is nowhere in sight. I tell myself I’m not waiting for her—that I’m not expecting every course to be served by the head chef. That I’m just here to enjoy a good meal, like I have every Friday since coming back to Clearwater Bay. But when she heads toward me again, carrying a deep bowl, I know that’s a lie.

She moves differently this time. Like she’s bringing me something really important. She puts the dish down carefully in front of me.

“Your next course,” she says. “Clams in a Metaxa broth, with saffron and citrus.”

Steam curls upward, carrying the scent of the ocean and of something rich and complex beneath it.

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