Charles is standing in the office when I enter and dump the boxes of dragonfruit and lime in the office.

“Tonight’s the night,” he says, standing with his hands behind his back, making me wonder if he waited for me like that.

“I know,” I say, pulling out a pocket knife and cutting one of the dragonfruits down the middle. “I don’t care.”

I scoop some of the fruit out and try it.

“You don’t care?” Charles says, in the mildly-humored way he asks questions. “Apparently it’s the biggest film premiere of the year—there will be photographers here, you know.”

I look at Charles as I make my way back behind my desk, putting the fruit down on it—it’s good enough.

“Well, Hollywood people are customers just like everybody else,” I say nonchalantly.

The truth is, I wasn’t even talking about the premiere’s private after-party. Something a million times more dramatic and emotionally charged is going to be happening just a couple of streets away from those flash-lit celebrities: Chow’s opening night.

“You want some of this?” I ask in an attempt to try and change the subject, offering the other half of the fruit to Charles, who shakes his head.

I continue eating the fruit, taking a couple of bites and then looking up at him, still standing there as if he’s waiting for something more, a vaguely concerned look on his face.

“That’s strange. Usually you know when a conversation has run its course, Charles,” I say, my misdirected irritation about Chow’s opening night now coming to the fore.

As if reading my thoughts, Charles’ next words are, “That new restaurant a few blocks away is called Chow, I heard. And it’s opening tonight.”

“Is that so?” I say, leaning back, noticing how he’s carefully not mentioning Willow by name.

“I don’t know how, but apparently it’s causing quite a buzz already. Got a lot of people excited.”

I feel my jaw clench. “Mm-hmm.”

“But then, I’m sure you already knew that,” Charles says, clearing his throat. “Just let me know if you need anything above and beyond the usual, to keep things running smoothly tonight. Since this…after-party…could be stressful for you.”

“I’m sure whatever comes up, I can handle it,” I practically growl.

Charles seems to take the hint, leaving the office quickly and closing the door behind him.

I cut another chunk of fruit but I can’t eat it with my gut tied up so tight, so I get up from my chair to pace a little, try and shake the anxious energy from my limbs.

All I can think about is Chow, and what’ll happen when it opens its doors tonight. I picture Willow moving around the kitchen like a dervish, barking orders and exhibiting more kitchen skills in a minute than most people learn over a lifetime. That determined, focused expression on her face—the same one I saw when she cooked for me…

They say if you love someone then you set them free, but I know that’s bullshit now. I’m beyond trying to delude myself into thinking I don’t love her anymore, but love unfulfilled can burn you from the inside. It can harden into a steel knife that twists with each memory, that digs into you constantly until the whole world becomes a collection of reminders of what you need so badly.

There’s a dark, twisted part of me that wants Chow to fail. Not for revenge over the betrayal Willow committed, but so she’ll come back. I know it’s wrong, and every time I think of her going through the same hardships I went through to build Knife, I want to root for her the same way I rooted for myself when I was attempting the impossible. But then what? If Chow succeeds and Willow gets everything she’s ever wanted in life, I’ll be just another chapter in her past, a stepping stone toward her happy ending. There’s no winning someone back when they’re doing so well without you.

I look up when I hear a knock at the door, striding across the office with a frown on my face to yank it open.

“Hello,” the young woman behind it says, beaming an innocent smile. It’s Maggie.

She steps back and Chloe shuffles forward, the girl looking up at me with her gap-toothed smile.

“Hi Cole!” she says excitedly, running into the office.

I turn back to the woman.

“What’s going on? The young chef program is done.”

“Yes I know,” Maggie says, with teacherly softness. “But Chloe finally competed in the finals of the statewide cooking competition, and she wanted to tell you how it went.” I nod, still bemused. “Plus, we were in the neighborhood and I really needed to run to the ladies’ room—do you mind? It’ll give you two a few minutes to catch up.”

“Of course,” I say, pointing down the hall, and she zips away from the door, leaving me alone with my former mentee.

“Cole, you’ll never believe it! Look at this,” Chloe says, holding something out toward me.

I look down to examine the bright blue and gold ribbon she’s got in her hand.

“Third place?” I say, trying to hide the disappointment I’m feeling for her.

“Yeah! Isn’t that great? I’m soooo happy!” Chloe says proudly, looking back at the ribbon and stroking it tenderly. “Thank you so much, Cole. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

She launches herself at me, hugging my side tightly while I give her a few careful, mentorly pats on the back and try to process the insanity of everything that’s going on right now. When she finally lets go I stand and rub my brow.

“Why not first place?” I say. “What happened?”

“Well, first place was amazing,” she says, without a hint of envy or anger. “It was this mustard and tar… tarregan—”

“Tarragon.”

“Mustard and tarragon chicken—so delicious. He deserved it. He was really nice too, and he gave me his e-mail so we could trade recipes! Plus it’s not really about the trophy or the ribbons anyway, it’s about showing everything we learned, and making friends with the other chefs, and seeing how other people cooked. The competition was the most fun ever.”

I suppress the urge to stop her, to look her in the eye like a bad chef and tell her third place is meaningless, that it is all about winning, all about the food, all about who’s best. That friends and learning don’t get you anywhere in this world, that only being better than everyone else will do that.

But she’s smiling so much, happiness expressed the way only a child can, without restraint or cynicism. Big brown eyes aglow, glancing constantly at her ribbon to remind herself over and over that she went, she saw, she conquered—and she had a great time doing it.

Seeing that kind of joy so vividly, I suddenly feel like I’m the ridiculous one. Like being disappointed that she didn’t get first place is the wrong perspective, rather than the other way around. Twenty years of hard standards, of having it all figured out, of pushing people aside to get to my goal—and all it takes is a kid with a third place ribbon to make it all seem shallow and frivolous.

I laugh gently, partly at the infectiousness of her elation, and partly because I don’t even know what to think anymore. Stepping back to the desk, I cut up the remaining pieces of dragonfruit and offer them to her on a napkin.

She gasps, eyes wide. “This is a fruit? It’s so pretty!” she says, taking it from me.

“You should try it. Careful, it’s got a lot of juice.”

“You have to come to celebrate with me tonight,” Chloe says, still eyeing the fruit as she takes it slowly with both hands like it’s a small animal.

“I can’t, I’m sorry to say. I’m busy here with a private party.”

The supervisor reappears in the doorway. “You guys done?” she says.

“We are,” I say. Chloe nods, popping a piece of fruit into her mouth and grinning.

“Come on then, Chloe. Let’s leave Mr. Chambers to his work. What’s that?”

“Dragon’s fruit,” the girl answers happily. “Bye, Cole. Thanks again for everything.”

“You’re welcome,” I mutter as they walk away, Chloe still waving over her shoulder.

A profound, deflated emptiness permeates the office now that her round cheeks and musical voice are gone. A feeling of being proven wrong about something settling deep inside my chest.

When the dinner shift starts there’s a sense of urgency and importance more elevated than it usually is on a typical night. Before the first diners even arrive, the prep work is done hurriedly, chefs hunched over their work with complete focus, communication curt and efficient, none of the usual banter that’s flung around during the pre-opening lull. This one is different, a calm before a storm, warriors readying for a siege. Everyone is tense, and I wonder if it’s my vibe they’re picking up on, or if Charles is more of a gossip than I realized.

I perform the final checks and preparations as best as I can, though the crew is well-whipped by this point, and my inspections are mostly perfunctory. I enter the freezer and check for the third time that we have more than enough of everything—if only to distract myself from the growing impression that something is wrong, manifesting itself as a slight feeling of nausea in the pit of my stomach.

“Doors are open!” Ryan calls as he passes the kitchen, and backs stiffen, hands move a little more quickly. The orders start coming within minutes and the kitchen whirrs to life like some giant mechanism in which we’re all playing our part. Rich aromas of baking pastries, fresh herbs, grated citrus, and seafood all take their turn assaulting our senses before they blend into one giant masala of heat and energy. The sizzle of meat hitting hot pan, the clang of whisk against bowl, the thud of knife against wood forms a constant backdrop of sound for the chef’s dance, the music that we have to sing over in frenetic calls and requests.

And the sense of something awfully, terribly wrong gets bigger and bigger, until it’s threatening to make me double over in pain. An hour passes, then two, the orders coming in faster, my senses full but my consciousness somewhere far away—or perhaps not that far.

I fuck up a seared tuna steak, throwing it into a pan that’s not hot enough. Ordinarily that would be a major event the chefs wouldn’t let me forget for weeks, but this time they’re too busy to notice. I get the acidity of a tomato sauce completely wrong, which sets the grill chef behind precious minutes, but the kitchen is too hectic to stop and think about it.

“Chef?” Katy asks, breaking me from my rhythm. “Are you ok?”

“What?” I say, almost offended, without stopping what I’m doing. “’Course I’m ok. Keep your eyes on your filet and stop wasting my time.”

“It’s just that…” she continues, tentatively. “Well…maybe we don’t need that much.”

I look to glare at her, and notice a few of the other chefs look away quickly, but not quickly enough to hide their concern. I look back down again at the counter, a truffle in one hand, a grating board in the other, and in the middle a giant mountain of what must be half a dozen fully-grated truffles. More than anyone could ever eat, way more than we need for the recipe, and more than we could even use in a week.

I drop what’s in my hands and lean against the counter as I breathe in deep, recognizing once again the feeling that’s settling inside of me. Katy quickly turns back to her station and leaves me to try and regather whatever pieces of myself are still functioning.

I whip the towel from my shoulder and turn to the frantic kitchen.

“Can you guys handle everything here? I’ll be back in about half an hour.”

“Absolutely.”

“Yes chef.”

“Katy, maybe when you’re done with those you can handle the egg whites.”

“Sure, boss.”

“Good,” I say, scanning the place one last time before striding out of the kitchen.

My veneer of composure disappears as soon as I’m out of view. I stumble out of the rear entrance, straight through the parking lot. Down a path I’ve been walking in my head for the past several hours, a path filled with inevitability, and an answer to what’s twisting inside of me.