FreeNovel
Chapter 0151
Abby
The restaurant has long since closed, but the aroma of sauteed onions and garlic still lingers in the air.
The sound of sizzling oil on the stove and the faint melody of a song that I don’t like wafting from a
speaker in the corner mix together to create a tense symphony that I absolutely don’t need to be
hearing right now.
I’m stressed, to say the least. Really stressed.
John stands next to me, his eyes focused as he skillfully dices tomatoes. His posture is rigid, the
tension between us as palpable as the texture of the dough I’m kneading for our homemade pasta.
“How’s the dough coming along?” he asks, throwing a quick glance my way.
“It’s fine. Just needs a bit more kneading,” I reply, my palms pushing and folding as I get lost in the
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇtrepetitive motion.
John grunts in acknowledgment and moves on to chop basil. There’s an air of seriousness around him,
an unwavering concentration that should make me feel reassured.
And yet, it doesn’t.
Instead, I’m hyper-aware of the disconnect, the invisible yet unignorable gap between us. It feels like
we’re reading from different recipes, never quite aligning.
“Could you pass me the olive oil?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I hand it to him, our fingers brushing for a moment, but there’s none of the warmth or understanding
that I used to feel when Karl and I worked side by side in the kitchen.
I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but with Karl, it was natural to work together. Sure, we had our
moments, but we worked well together. I like John and he’s a good cook, but we just don’t have that
same chemistry in the kitchen. What should feel effortless instead feels like a chore.
John drizzles the oil over the tomatoes, then hesitates, looking at the array of spices laid out in front of
him. “I think a touch of paprika would give the sauce a nice kick.”
“I don’t know,” I say, biting my lip. “The recipe is already pretty balanced. Adding more spices might
throw it off.”
I’m being polite so as not to rock the boat, but in reality, I’m thinking to myself: “Paprika? Seriously,
John? Are you crazy?”
He looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “We’re not following the recipe to the letter, are we? I thought the
whole point was to make it our own.”
“Yes, but making it ‘our own’ shouldn’t mean ruining the integrity of the dish,” I retort, a little more
sharply than I intend to.
John puts down the paprika and takes a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in his frustration. “Abby, you
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asked me to be your sous chef for this competition. If you don’t trust my judgment, then why am I even
here?”
The words hang heavy in the air, and I can’t look him in the eye. Because he’s right. Why is he here?
Why is he not Karl? My hands grip the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning white.
“John, it’s not that I don’t trust your judgment,” I finally say, my voice tinged with remorse. “It’s just that I
want this to be perfect.”
He lets out an audibly exasperated groan. “That’s your problem,” he growls. “You want everything to be
perfect.”
“I know, I know,” I murmur, looking down at the dough, trying to keep myself composed. I’ve already
had countless arguments with John since I asked him to be my sous chef for the competition a week
ago and I’m not interested in having another. “Let’s try the paprika.”
John picks up the spice jar again, but the mood has shifted. I expected him to seem satisfied, but he
just seems defeated.
He sprinkles the paprika into the sauce and gives it a stir. “There. Let’s see how this tastes.”
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