Chapter 36

It takes a couple of weeks for things to start feeling closer to normal. All the roads are plowed and clear, though mini snow mountains still border the sidewalks. Christmas break comes and goes, and I don’t hear from Liam even once. I eventually stop jumping when my phone rings. Marcus and Kathy come to hang out and watch movies, Hope is a permanent fixture in our living room. A couple of days after my discharge, my father returns home to his second family. I hug him before he goes. My mother watches from the kitchen but doesn’t comment, and I don’t make excuses. I tell him that I’m looking forward to spring break. He gives me a grateful smile.

When the door closes behind him, I walk over to my mother and give her a silent hug, a longer one than I gave my father, just in case she’s counting. I wish she didn’t look so wounded, but I hope, with time, that she’ll get used to this new reality. The love her husband gave to another was stolen from her heart, and I understand why she can never accept that. But my love for them has nothing to do with that. I think, if I try hard enough, I can make her feel that.

We go back to school after New Year’s and try to settle back into our routine. At home, things have fallen into place. At school, though, nothing feels the same. Liam is still there, but he’s separate from me now. You wouldn’t know it from the way he flushes when a new boy in class tries to flirt with me, or the way I stare at him when he isn’t looking, but we barely speak to one another.

I try to speak to him once—I try several times, actually. I experiment with the “maybe we can still be friends” thing for a few days. He’s always sweet and responsive. He answers my questions about our homework assignment, he listens patiently to bits of silly gossip, he nods encouragingly when I tell him about a new idea for my blog. I admit I’d secretly been hoping I could somehow salvage what I’d destroyed, that maybe we could slowly find a way back to each other. But he’s shut himself off from me. I may have broken up with him because I was scared of getting hurt, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’d actually hurt him. And he was protecting himself now, just as I had tried to protect myself.

He tells me random details about his life, when I ask him. I know that his dad is still away and that his heater is fixed. He’s accepted the scholarship and is leaving Montana forever in a few months. But I don’t know how he feels about anything. When I press him, he tells me he’s excited. But his eyes give him away.

There isn’t much I can do, I realize. I was the one who’d pushed him to go. What can I say to him? I can’t destroy his dreams—again. So I stay quiet and try to focus on other things. I bake obscene amounts of cookies and record the recipes in a journal. I’m searching for the perfect chewy/chocolaty combination to post to my page.

There was an old message waiting for me on my blog, sent by a new reader while I was in the hospital. I don’t see it until I’ve been home for a few days, and I disregarded it as spam until a follow-up message pops up a few days later.

Dear Rain: A college buddy sent me a link to your blog, and I’ve been following your column for a while now. Your recipes and serving suggestions are both inventive and fun; I’ve tried several of them with excellent results. I was wondering if you’ve had formal culinary training. If not, I’d like to recommend some of the evening courses at our culinary program. I think you could learn a lot from our instructors. My contact information is below, and I’ve attached a brochure. We’ve trained some of the best chefs in the area and have placed our students in some of the finest restaurants in the country. I hope we will hear from you soon.

There are about a thousand things wrong with the letter, so of course I don’t believe it. What are the chances that the head of a culinary program would find my obscure blog? How did he even know that I live in the area? And how do I know that he is who he claims to be and not some creepy sixty-year-old dude who gets off by triggering useless cooking fantasies in teenage girls?

Still, I can’t help daydreaming. Cooking classes with actual experts! Talking to classmates about unusual food and not getting puzzled (or disgusted) looks! Sharing ideas, swapping success (and horror) stories, bringing in edible homework assignments!

What excites you, Rain? my father had asked me.

I knew the answer; I’d known it forever. It had always been there, dangling at the tips of my sugar-coated fingers. For years, my mom had pushed me in a direction that ran parallel to my dream. She had the right instincts, maybe, but her plans for me were too concrete. Yes, I wanted to help people. But I was excited about working with food. So why couldn’t I do both? Maybe I could invent new recipes that were a cross between gourmet and healing. A menu tailored to a customer’s medical history, lifestyle, or mood—their choice. A groundbreaking eating experience. A restaurant that merged Rain’s rules of cooking with customers’ dreams of health and happiness.

I start working out the menu in my mind. But I don’t answer the blog message. It seems too good to be true.

A few days later, I get a suspicious submission to my blog:

Dear Rain: I plan to visit my daughter in Montana next month and I want to make her something special. I know she’s partial to unusual recipes and chocolate. Can you help me?

—Lawyer from DC

Dear Lawyer: Why do people keep hijacking my blog for their own personal agendas? If you want a recipe, Dad, you can just ask me.

The reply comes a few minutes after I post.

Dear Rain: I just wanted to make sure you were still checking your blog messages. Just in case important people write to you. Also, I really do want to make you something.

—Dad from DC

Dear Dad and Important Cooking People Stalking my Blog: Rain’s Chocolate Chip Cardamom cookies, because nothing says love like cocoa and spice.

After I post, I look up the number of dad’s important chef friend and tap it into my phone. I don’t call him right away though. There’s an experiment I’ve been working on, and I haven’t perfected it yet. It involves a plate of nachos, an artichoke head, sage, cheddar, and a large blowtorch. (Next blog post: Blowtorches! They’re not just for crème brûlée!)

I can’t wait to heat up the kitchen and present the culinary master with my perfect charred creation.