Page 61 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“That you’re not going to change your mind and decide this is too complicated. That you understand what you’d be signing up for with me and the kids.”
Brett studies my face for a long moment, and I can see him wrestling with something deeper than just my question. The late afternoon light catches the silver in his hair, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks uncertain.
“How do I prove that?” He asks quietly.
“Time,” I say simply. “Show me that you stick around when things get difficult.”
He nods slowly, understanding passing between us without more words needed. This isn’t about grand gestures or promises. It’s about showing up, day after day, choosing us over the easy exit.
Maybe being brave isn’t about diving in headfirst. Maybe it’s about taking small, careful steps toward something that could be wonderful or devastating, and trusting yourself to know the difference.
FOURTEEN
BRETT
The door swings open hard enough to rattle the window frames. I don’t even have time to look up from the supply invoice I’m reviewing before dress shoes click across our newly installed floors with the kind of stride that’s trying too hard to look important.
I’ve never met Chad Peterson, but I know who he is the second he walks in. Off-the-rack suit that he’s trying to pass off as tailored—the shoulders don’t quite fit right. Watch that’s shiny enough to catch attention but probably came from a department store. Hair gelled with the kind of precision that says he spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror this morning practicing his “successful businessman” look.
He looks like every mid-level manager I’ve everworked with who thinks watchingSuitsmakes him Gordon Gekko.
“Amber.” His voice carries that particular tone of someone who’s rehearsed this conversation. “You haven’t been returning my calls in a timely manner.”
She straightens slowly from where she’s been arranging sample place settings on the bar counter. “You called once, Chad, yesterday. And left a thirty-second voicemail saying you ‘might have some time this week.’ That’s not exactly urgent.”
His gaze sweeps the space—taking in our worktables, the sample menus taped to the walls, the obvious signs of a business being built from the ground up—and I can practically see him calculating how to position himself as the expert in the room.
“I see you’ve expanded your advisory team.” The pause is deliberate, like he thinks it makes him sound thoughtful instead of condescending.
Amber moves slightly, and I notice she’s positioned herself between us without even thinking about it. “Brett’s my business partner. We’re renovating this space together.”
Chad’s laugh is the kind that’s meant to sound knowing but comes across as patronizing. “Business partner. Interesting choice of words.” He adjusts his sleeve—probably checking that fake Rolex—and continues. “I have to say, I’m curious about the financial structure of this venture. Are we talking about equalinvestment, or is this more of a... charitable arrangement?”
The words are meant to sound casual, but there’s calculation behind them. Like he’s fishing for information he can use later.
I set down the invoice, keeping my movements deliberate and calm. “The financial arrangements are between partners.”
His smile has the practiced quality of someone who’s spent a lot of time in front of a bathroom mirror. “Of course. I’m simply concerned about the stability of ventures that blur the lines between personal and professional relationships.”
“Our business relationship is completely appropriate,” Amber says, but I can hear the edge creeping into her voice.
“I’m sure it is. Absolutely sure.” Chad straightens his tie with the exaggerated gesture of someone who thinks it makes him look authoritative. “I’m just thinking about the optics. The kids’ friends, other parents. Small communities can be unforgiving when it comes to certain types of arrangements.”
Something dark and protective flares in my chest before I can stop it. The urge to explain exactly what kind of arrangement involves a deadbeat father questioning his ex-wife’s business decisions is almost overwhelming.
“The kids are proud of what their mom’s building,” Isay, keeping my voice level despite the anger building behind it. “They should be.”
Chad’s assessment of me shifts slightly, like he’s trying to figure out which approach will work best. “Of course. Community development is admirable. I just hope Amber understands the risk factors involved in restaurant ventures. The failure rate is substantial. Particularly for establishments without significant capital backing or established market penetration.”
He’s throwing around terms like he’s presenting to a board of directors, but they don’t quite connect. Like he memorized phrases without understanding what they mean.
“Every business involves risk,” Amber says, and I can hear her trying to stay calm.
“True. But not every risk affects my children’s stability when it goes wrong.” Chad’s voice takes on that patient tone of someone explaining basic concepts. “Their education, their housing, their security—all of that becomes collateral when personal aspirations override practical considerations.”
And there it is. Underneath all the business speak, he’s still doing what he’s always done—making her feel like wanting anything for herself makes her a bad mother.
The anger that’s been building in my chest since he walked in finally finds its voice.
