Page 81 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“How are the kids handling all this chaos?” I ask, because someone needs to check if she’s taking care of herself.
Her whole expression softens. “Mason’s convinced the food truck is actually a pirate ship. He keeps asking when we’re sailing to ‘treasure island.’ And Crew wants to design our logo—apparently it needs fishing hooks and maybe a cartoon bass. He’s been sketching designs during our staff meetings.”
“What about Tally?”
“She’s been incredible. Taking care of the boys during our evening prep sessions, handling dinner when I’m here until eight testing recipes. Sometimes I think she’s more mature than I am.”
There’s that fierce protectiveness in her voice when she talks about her kids. It does things to my chest that I’m not ready to examine too closely.
“They’re lucky to have you,” I say.
“Are they? Because I feel like I’m constantly choosing between the restaurant and them. Missing dinner because of equipment training sessions, workingwhen I should be helping with homework. Last week during our practice service, I completely forgot about Crew’s fishing tournament signup deadline.”
“You’re building something that will give them security. That matters.”
She looks down at her coffee cup. “I hope so. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just repeating my parents’ mistakes—so focused on providing that I forget to actually be present.”
The vulnerability in her voice makes me want to pull her close and promise that everything will work out perfectly. Instead, I lean forward and say what she needs to hear.
“You’re nothing like your parents. You worry about balance because you care about getting it right. They never worried at all.”
“How do you know what my parents were like?”
The question catches me off guard. “You’ve mentioned things. The way they prioritized work over family.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You pay attention to details.”
“I pay attention to you.”
The words hang between us, more honest than I intended. Her cheeks flush again, and she looks back at her laptop screen.
“We should probably call the food truck company,” she says. “Set up a meeting to see their available units.”
“Right. Business first.”
But as we spend the next hour making calls and finalizing logistics for our New Year’s Beach Walk debut, I catch her glancing at me with this new awareness, like she’s seeing possibilities she wasn’t letting herself consider before.
The food truck is ready to roll. The county permits are finally approved. Our staff knows the mobile kitchen systems inside and out after weeks of training. Everything’s set for our January first launch.
“We should update the staff,” Amber says, making notes in her ever-present notebook. “Final briefing about New Year’s Day logistics before everyone goes home for Christmas.”
“I’ll handle the kitchen crew. You take front of house?”
“Deal. Though after three weeks of training sessions, I think they could run this thing without us.”
We divide tasks with the easy rhythm we’ve developed over months of working together—though it’s taken these past three weeks for us to stop second-guessing each other’s every move. And despite the permit delays and Christmas stress, something settles between us. Not just understanding, but anticipation.
“Brett?” she says as we’re packing up.
“Yeah?”
“About what you said earlier. About paying attention to me.”
My hands still on the papers I’m stacking. “What about it?”
“I pay attention to you too.”
The admission is soft, almost reluctant, like she’s confessing to something she shouldn’t want.
