It’s Friday night, and I’m at home watching TV. It’s a terrible night for a television show. It used to be a great time to go dancing or to a bar to hang out with friends and have a few beers. But lately, Friday has become an excellent night to sleep. I don’t work tomorrow, nor do I have class.

I sit on the couch, careful to not spill my cup of hot milk mixed with black pepper, cinnamon, and nutmeg. I settle myself onto the sturdy cushions. My midnight-blue velvet sectional was a good buy. It’s big and comfortable, great for watching TV and falling asleep on when I can’t make my way to my bed.

I bend over to retrieve the remote from the coffee table. A replay of Thursday night’s Head Chef Total Domination started seven minutes ago. The contestants are engaged in the Lightening Chef round where they have five minutes to make a dish to win an advantage in the episode’s major competition. The winner is also given the power to pick someone to disadvantage. If the victor chooses not to handicap one of his fellow competitors, then he’ll lose his advantage, and it will go to the second-place winner. However, if the first-place winner ends up winning the episode’s major cooking competition, then he or she will win immunity from elimination for the following week. Those are the rules of this show, and I used to hate them. I thought the entire concept made a mockery of the fine art of cooking. I almost can’t believe Randy signed up for this ridiculousness. However, it’s the highest-rated cooking show on TV, and just about all the contestants—winners and losers—have gone on to greatness.

I have no idea what Randy’s making, but he just added a taste of what looks like sherry to his sauté. The beautiful hostess with a lyrical English accent, Britta Ho, stops in front of him and tells him that whatever he’s cooking smells good, and in typical Randy Cousivan fashion, he winks cockily instead of thanking her. I take a sip of my sweet and spicy hot milk and close my eyes to relish the flavor.

A strange mood overcomes me, and I look to my left and right as if checking to see if someone’s watching me. I’m rooting for Randy, arrogance and all. The buzzer rings. The chefs are forced to stop plating and put their utensils down and their hands in the air.

The buzzing stops, but I hear a ringing sound. I quickly turn toward my purse, which earlier I dropped in the armchair as I went to my bedroom to strip out of the day’s clothing and put on a cozy onesie. At this time of night, only one, maybe two people could be calling me.

“Shit.” I set my milk on the coffee table just as the judges taste the food, and I rush to my purse.

If it’s Jeremy, I won’t answer.

I study the screen and tap the green button. “Hey, Naomi the Stranger,” I say as I hurry back over and flop down on the sofa.

“I know,” she says contritely. “Things have been crazy busy.”

A picture of her new, sexy beau comes to mind. “I bet they have. You’ve been crazy busy fucking the sexy professor.” I chuckle, beating back a pinch of envy. My best friend is engaged to Derek Valentine, the sexiest law professor in the entire universe. Once upon a time, even I had a crush on the sexy professor, but he was never interested in getting involved with students. So it was pretty shocking when I saw that he was into Naomi.

Naomi chuckles dismissively. “So what have you been up to?”

I snort. “Ah, the master deflector. Are you going to bypass giving me the Derek Valentine report?”

“There’s no report to give. He’s fine. I’m fine. We’re still together. What about you? Any new loves to report?”

I think about my date with Jeremy last week, but the thought is quickly banished by memories of making love to Randy, who’s one of two chefs in the running to win this episode’s prize. Britta Ho asks Pablo Diaz, the guest chef who’s also owner and executive chef of Al Rojo in Los Angeles, to declare a winner.

I rip my attention away from the screen. “Nope. I’m still on the old-maid track.”

“I doubt that. Listen,” she says quickly.

I sit up straight. “I’m listening.”

“How would you like to take the bar on Monday?”

My mouth falls open, and I stare blankly at the TV screen. Randy lost the competition, but the other chef chooses to go for the immunity rather than weaken another contestant. Actually, he sounds just as brash as Randy, declaring he doesn’t need to disadvantage others to win.

“I don’t know, Nom,” I finally say.

Why can’t I just say what I really feel?

“My dad can get you a seat as an emergency test taker.”

“I didn’t know they did that.”

“It depends on who’s asking.”

I sigh forcefully just as Randy and the rest of the cooks run around in a big grocery store, buying ingredients for the dish they are to prepare. I missed the theme of the entrée, but right now, he and a woman are buying beef.

“Oh, I see,” Naomi says.

“You see what?” I frown, not at what Naomi said but at the woman who’s looking up at Randy, red faced. She’s batting her eyelashes and everything. The next shot is of this woman, Chef Deanna Blume, in an interview, saying that she’s always thought Randy Cousivan was hot.

“And I don’t care he’s a bad boy.” She grins sheepishly. “The badder, the better.” Then she looks off to the side. “Is ‘badder’ a word?” She chuckles, all cutesy.

She’s blond. Does Randy like blonds? My hair is dark auburn. My eyes are sometimes blue and sometimes green. I wonder what color her eyes are.

“Gina?” Naomi says.

“What?” I say abruptly, realizing that I haven’t paid attention to a word she’s said.

“What are you doing right now?”

“Nothing. Watching TV.”

“Oh, well, listen—I get it. You don’t love the law, at least not at the moment, but you don’t want to throw your education down the drain, do you?”

I constrain another sigh. “Nom?”

After a pause, she says, “Yes?”

“I don’t want to take the bar, and I don’t want to talk about my nonexistent law career. Is that okay?”

She grunts. “It’s okay. I just worry about you, that’s all.”

“I know, but I’m a big girl.”

“I know that. Okay, I’ll stop nagging and mind my own business.”

I grunt sarcastically. “At least for now.”

Naomi chuckles. We both are aware that she can’t help herself when it comes to finding solutions for everyone else’s life, including her own.

“So are you still working for your Valentine?” I ask.

She chuckles. “Yes.”

“How is it going other than a little afternoon broom-closet sex?”

“Ha, hardly!” Naomi tells me all about how she and Derek are working together. I partially listen to her prattle on about depositions, contracts, and courtrooms. Randy and the other eleven contestants are running around the kitchen like madmen, preparing their entrées. I’m watching intently. There’s a lot of Randy featured on this episode. He’s bantering with the other chefs, smirking cockily, and moving about as though he owns the kitchen. He looks so sexy.

The camera moves to Deanna Blume. She seems to be having a tough time shelling clams, and I’m sort of happy about it. In a talking-head interview, she says that she leaves the shelling to her sous chefs.

“Gina?” Naomi says.

“Yes,” I say, snapping my attention back to our conversation.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just watching TV and listening to you.”

“You’re hardly listening to me. What are you watching?”

My first inclination is to tell her the truth, but that quickly dissolves. “Some Lifetime movie.”

“Oh, really? Which one? Is it the woman who shot her husband who had another family with two sister wives?”

I laugh just as Randy finishes seven dishes. “Something like that.” I wiggle my head. “Anyway, I’m done letting this show distract me from you. It’s been so long since we hung out. Do you want to go for a run tomorrow?”

“Ah, I can’t tomorrow. How about next Saturday?”

My mouth is caught open. Randy declares that he’s already done ten minutes before time, and he rushes over to Chef Deanna Blume’s station and starts shelling her clams at a record speed. Then they cut to a talking head of her.

“Yep…” Deanna grins big. “He shelled my clam. I mean, clams.” She laughs.

I don’t find it funny at all.

“Gina!” Naomi calls.

I jump. “What? Yes?”

“That must be a very good movie you’re watching.”

I sigh hard and turn off the TV. “No, it wasn’t good at all. But yeah, sure, I’ll put you on the calendar for next Saturday.”

“Okay,” she says doubtfully as though she’s wondering if I’ll even remember what I just said.

“Really, I’m okay. Just a little tired. Long shift at the café.”

“Okay. Well, how about we talk sometime next week?”

“I’ll call you on Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday—or maybe Thursday. But not Friday—before then.”

She chuckles. “Any one of those days will do, or two or three days even, and Friday works for me too.”

I laugh. We say good-bye, and I turn the TV back on. Britta Ho and Pablo Diaz, along with two other show judges—Daniel Westerly and Leon Masterson—eat Randy’s food. They’re savoring the flavors as if his Mexican-inspired beef carpaccio is a hit. My eyes are glued to the TV as I watch the other dishes come out, including Deanna Blume’s fried-oyster tacos. None of the judges are impressed and are criticizing her for running out of time because she didn’t know how to shell oysters. However, Pablo Diaz does say that he likes the flavors.

In the containment room with white walls and benches for the contestants to sit and wait for decisions to be made, the cooks are giving Deanna a hard time for requiring help. One of them lays into Randy for making a mockery of the competition. Randy just crosses his legs, sits back calmly, and says, “What are you afraid of? Do you need her to be weak so you can be strong? Oysters or no oysters, outcook her and win on your own merit, bro.”

The guy is fuming, but Randy is still as cool as a cucumber. All the things I used to hate about Randy I love at this very moment until he winks at Deanna, and then they cut to next shot.

“Yeah, she’s cute,” Randy says in his talking-head interview. “That definitely helped me make my decision to help, but hell, I’d do the same for Igor. All I—beep—did was shell some—beep—clams.” Then he smiles. “But yeah, okay, she’s cute.”

Suddenly, my heart takes a nosedive. I guess last Sunday night didn’t mean a damn thing to him. One week later, and he’s winking at “cute” chefs.

“Jackass,” I shout at the TV and turn it off.

I don’t need to know who wins. I hope he loses and not Chef Deanna.

I turn off the lights, take my cup to the kitchen, and then walk to my room. My feet are heavy, and after I climb into bed and pull the blankets over me, my body feels weighted down by grief. I was wrong about Randy. He seems to be enjoying his blossoming romance with Deanna Blume. He probably respects her more than me. They’re both chefs. I would say that they’re both good enough to land a spot on the show, but it’s clear that Deanna’s strong point isn’t her cooking. She’s pretty. She probably made her way through life batting her eyelashes at men. I shake my head. I can’t stand her.

I flip over onto my side and let my mind find ways to forget about Randy. I have to focus on cooking. I want to be a better chef than Randy can ever be. After a short battle to keep my thoughts off that guy, my eyelids get heavy. I slowly let my consciousness drift. Tomorrow, I have to do something I love. That’s what I’ll do.