The city was waking up outside, cars starting, light pushing through the blinds. An hour later, after I was dressed and ready to leave, there was a knock on the door. I knew it was Cherry before I opened it. I let her in, she observed me quietly.  "Well...you survived, are you feeling okay?" I wasn't in the mood to bare my soul to her or anyone. I've never really been very expressive, so I forced a smile to my face.

"Of  course I'm okay, mission accomplished." I waved the wand of cash in front of her, she gasped.

"Holy shit Sash, that's a lot of greens, what sort of sorcery did you perform last night?"

I smiled and shrugged. "Well let's go get breakfast,  I'm buying." I decided to forget last night ever happened.

I paid my rent, sorted out all my outstanding bills. As I got handed the receipt, something twisted in my gut, it wasn't guilt, it was sadness, for how I was able to make the payment, for what it reminded me of.

Soon after, I started cooking again, not in a restaurant, not for strangers who sent plates back without any acknowledgment. I became a private chef, I catered to people who want something homemade, something that tasted like care, carefully curated just for their taste buds. Word spread quietly and I started getting referrals. A birthday dinner here, a small gathering there.

In other people's kitchen, I found a sense of purpose. The sound of knife against a board, onions softening in butter, the slow rhythm of a meal coming together, it all steadied me, kept me grounded.

Late at night, sometimes, I'd think about him, about that night, I'd touch myself and imagine it was him touching me. How could I possibly forget, when he completely swept me off my feet like a tidal wave. Cherry would sometimes call to ask if I wanted to hang, for a  while I kept politely declining. It wasn't  that I blamed her for my dilemma, she just reminded me of a night that has since plagued me, I would never admit any of that to her though.

It was late afternoon, I was chopping herbs in a client's kitchen, the sun slanting through the blinds, dust catching in the light. My phone buzzed across the counter. Unknown number, but I knew. You can always tell when when it's someone who shouldn't be calling. I steadied my voice and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"                                                               

A pause. Then I heard his voice, low, calm, too familiar.

"Hey...it's Crest."                                               

For a second I didn't breath, that voice brought everything back, all I've been struggling to erase, the dimly lit room, the quiet and the ache I thought I buried under rent receipts and grocery lists.

"I wasn't sure you'd pick up." He said.

"I wasn't sure I should." I replied.                       

He laughed softly, like we were sharing a private joke.

"I've been thinking about you."

"It's been over a month."

I said, but it came out sharper than I meant.

"I'd like to see you" he said. "Just dinner nothing more".                                              

I closed my eyes. Behind me something sizzled in the pan, the smell of garlic filling the air, grounding me in the life I was trying to create for myself. When I opened my eyes I responded,

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because there's no point, I'm not about that life."

The line stayed open for a few seconds, the silence, deafening. I hung up and blocked the number. My hands were shaking but I kept chopping. The knife, the herbs, the sound, steady and rhythmic. That night when I finally decided to have dinner with Cherry at my apartment, I didn't tell her about the phone call. I needed a clear head for work the morning at Mrs. Levin's.

In her late sixties, rich, widowed, elegan in that soft, deliberate way women of her generation seemed to perfect. I cooked for her twice a week, quiet dinners for one, sometimes two if her bridge partner stayed late. She'd taken a liking to me early on. Said I was hard working and industrious, also said she didn't know how she survived all those years without having me as her chef. Mrs. Levin was the kind of woman who believed young women needed companionship. I liked and admired her, so when she said.0 "You're too pretty to be without a man. Let me introduce you to someone," I didn't know how to refuse.

His name was Matthew,  her friend's nephew. "Lovely man, divorced, stable, good job." She had said.The kind of description that sounded more like a tax assessment than a person. Still, I said yes. Maybe because I wanted to rid myself of thoughts of a certain person.

The restaurant was a cozy Italian place in River North , all soft jazz, low lighting, and tables close enough that you could hear snippets of other people's lives between bites. He stood when I arrived. Tall, pressed shirt, too much cologne, the kind that smelled expensive but tired.

"Wow," he said, smiling too wide. "Mrs. Levin undersold you."

"Did she?" I said, taking my seat.

He ordered for both of us before I even looked at the menu. Wine, calamari, something "light." I told myself not to judge too fast. For the first fifteen minutes, he was charming in a predictable, almost professional way. He asked where I was from, what kind of cooking I did. But when I started describing a private dinner I'd hosted for a couple's anniversary, he cut in with,

"Oh, that's cute. My ex-wife used to go through these chef phases. Bought all the gadgets, never used them."

I smiled politely and took a long sip of wine. From there, it was all him. His business, his workouts, his ex-wife's "drama," his plan to buy property in Florida "before the boom hits again." Every few minutes, he'd say, "You know what I mean?" I didn't.

At some point, I realized I'd stopped listening. I was watching the couple at the next table,  a young woman feeding her boyfriend a forkful of pasta, both of them laughing with their mouths full. It looked messy. Real. Alive.

"Do you always cook?" Matthew asked suddenly.

"Yes," I said. "It's what I do."

"That's adorable," he said, nodding. "You'd save a lot of money if we moved in together."

I blinked. "We've known each other forty minutes."

He laughed, "Hey, I'm just kidding."

I didn't think he was.When dessert came, he refused it , "I'm keto," he announced proudly. He looked at my tiramisu like it was a personal attack. By the time the check arrived, I'd already decided I'd never see him again. But he still leaned in for a hug that lasted a beat too long and said. "You should come by sometime. I'll make you my famous protein shake."

"Tempting," I said, smiling with my teeth.

On the drive home in my almost rickety car, I rolled the window down and let the cold air wash the evening off me. It wasn't that he was awful. He was fine, polite, successful, maybe even kind in his own way. But I realized something on that drive, fine wasn't what I wanted. I'd had too much of fine.

At home, I slipped off my shoes, poured myself a glass of wine, and texted Mrs. Levin.

"Lovely man. Perfect teeth. Definitely not my type."

She sent back a single heart emoji and:

"Try again next week."

I laughed out loud, a small, helpless sound that faded into the quiet of my apartment. I didn't want another date. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. Because beneath the disappointment, there was still a part of me waiting, not for Matthew, not for anyone new, but for something that felt real enough to stay.

A new client had reached out through a referral, asking for a private dinner for four. No names just an address in the west loop and a generous deposit. I didn't think twice, most private clients preferred discretion. The apartment was sleek, all marble glass. A woman who appeared to be in fifties let me in, she introduced herself as Lisa and informed me she was the house keeper. She led me to the pristine kitchen, fully equipped and furnished. It was spotless in a way that made me sad to mess it up by cooking in it. Lisa informed me my client was in a meeting and would arrive before I was finished.

Halfway through prepping, I heard the door open behind me, I turned to give Lisa a smile that froze on face when I beheld the person who walked in. His dark hair ruffled like he had ran his hands through it sevrally. His face set in an apprehensive smile. He took two steps forward and leaned against the kitchen highland. Wearing a black t-shirt that hugged his toned and muscled body, a baggy jean that made him appear different yet the same.

"Hey Sasha." He said, still wearing that stupid smile.

I dropped the knife and sneered at him,

"You booked me? How did you find me? I never told you I was a chef."

I was simmering with anger and  confused at the same time. I needed  to keep it together.

He tilted his head observing me. "I needed to see you, you blocked me. I had to do some research. I'm sorry but it was the only way I thought I could see you."

I was dumbfounded. " I blocked you cause I didn't want to speak to you or see you, wasn't that clear enough?"

He recoiled and turned briefly. When he faced me again he just said.  

"Fine, then it's just work, go ahead and finish up, I'll pay for your time." 

The words "pay for your time" stung and it hurt like hell. Something inside me tightened. Anger, hurt, something harder to name. I just turned away and placed a pan on the stove, oil hissing as it met the pan. I was going to finish preparing the meal and get the hell out. He can go screw himself. "Dinner will be ready in forty minutes." I said, with a controlled and calm tone. He watched me a moment longer and quietly walked out the kitchen.

After cooking, I plated  the the food with expertise and set it on the dining, where he was already seated. There was grilled salmon, charred lemon, roasted vegetable, steak and mashed potato. I was about to go clean up, so I could leave when he held my wrist and said without looking at me.

"Please sit Sasha."

 I looked around. "The booking specified four guests, where are your guests?" I  removed my wrist from his grasp and folded my hands behind me.

"There's no one else joining, please seat and have dinner with me." 

The dejected tone of his voice had me obliging. I quietly sat down on the chair farthest from him and served myself.

For a long time he didn't speak. He just ate slowly, like he was savoring the food. The click of cutlery against porcelain filling the silence. Then without looking at me he said.

"It was supposed to be casual, but forgetting you, has proven quite difficult, I can't seem to do casual with you. It's been impossible to shake you off."

I looked at the meal on my  plate, tossing it around.  "I don't date men who treat me like entertainment, I especially do not date married men."

He finally looked up from his plate. "I'm divorced, three years. I have two kids, they live with their mother most of the time, but we share custody."

 I felt my  throat tighten. "You didn't mention that."

He sighed. "That morning...I didn't mean to leave the way I did, I just-"  He hesitated, eyes lifting to meet mine.

 "I didn't know what to do with how real it felt. I've gone a while  just keeping it simple, but there was nothing simple about that night."  

I  crossed my arms on the table, not knowing what to do with this new information.

 "That's not justification for making me feel like cheap trash before you left that morning."

He sighed and and ran his hands across his face. "I really am sorry, please let me make it up to you, let me get to know you."

 This time, when he reach for me, I didn't withdraw my hands. We talked a lot over dinner, I got to know he works as an architect, own a firm actually. I asked if this was his house.

 "It is but I don't live here, I host guests here for private gatherings."

 I slowly nodded.

 He asked about my family, I told him my dad passed five years ago, just when I turned twenty. My mother bailed on Monica and I, my baby sister. I didn't mention that Monica was an addict and currently in rehab. That was too much personal information. At 11pm, I was ready to leave. He offered to drop me off, I told him I drove. He hugged me, we said goodnight and I left.

Crest called the next day and the day after. We were slowly building up a communication routine. He never went to bed without calling to say goodnight. As always, his voice was steady and careful when he called one evening.

"I want to see you, but properly this time, dinner, somewhere nice."

 I  didn't realize how hard I was smiling until he spoke again.

"Please let me show you how much I want to get to know you."

 I told him a was going to think about it. Every other day, he sent little texts, asking about my day, my work, if I was stressed out, what I liked to cook when it was just me. I liked that he wanted to know the basic things about me. When he asked where I lived over the phone, if he could drop by sometime, I stuttered.

The truth was, my apartment was dilapidated, a one bedroom walk up near Pilsen, cracked tiles, a leaky faucet that coughed before it ran. The house was shabby even though it reminded me of my father and a time when my family was whole. I couldn't imagine him standing in my doorway, tall and polished polished in all his glory. The kind of man who lived in spaces that didn't echo. The thought made my stomach knot so I lied.

 "Small mess right now, it's being renovated."

He didn't question it, just said, "then I'll wait till it's done."

I'd find another excuse.

I sat back in the half light of the kitchen, staring at the peeling paint above the stove. I told myself it wasn't shame. It was self respect. But the truth was I didn't want him to see me like this, in this apartment. For weeks, Crest and I solidified our relationship through frequent texts and calls. He was busy most times, but the fact that he makes out time for me made me feel special. I was comfortable, content even.

There had  been men in my life before, a couple of brief relationships that couldn't stand the test of time,  because those men were douchbags. Crest made it feel right and easy. He hadn't officially asked me to be his girlfriend yet, but I was positive I would say yes when he asked.

Crest chose a small restaurant tucked between galleries on a quiet street for our date. Low light, linen napkins, the kind of place where the waiters spoke softly and the wine list had no prices. I almost didn't come. I changed my outfit twice, then three times. Why didn't I shop for something sophisticated?

 I settled on a red dress I bought for my birthday last year. It accentuated my curves. He was already there when I arrived. Standing to greet me, he smiled and I drank him in, he was fine. Grey tuxedo, sleek shiny hair, he looked too good to be real. He stared at me like he was unable to form words, let out a low whistle before saying,

"You look..." he paused, his eyes softened, "breathtaking."

I laughed under my breath just as the waiter poured wine.

For hours, as we ate, we talked about food, music, the city. He asked me questions, real ones, and actually listened. Everything in that moment felt natural. The night had gone perfectly and I was more than content. Dinner had been soft laughter, half finished glasses of wine, a quiet warmth of two people who connected. With a full belly and fuller heart, we walked out of the restaurant.

He opened the passenger door of his car for me, smiling.  "Come on. I'll take you home."

My smile faltered. "No it's fine, I drove." A lie, I took a cab.

His smile remained as he insisted. "You had two glasses of wine, let me drop you off."

 I didn't move.

"I'll have someone pick up your car in the morning if that's what you're worried about." He said it like it was a just simple, kind gesture, which it was.

Under the pressure of his assessing gaze, I snapped. " I said I drove, it's fine I didn't drink myself to the point of being unable to drive."

He frowned, studying me. "Why are you being like this? It's just a ride."

I looked away. "It's not just a ride."

He stepped closer, voice low.

 "You think I'm going to follow you inside? I'm not trying to..."

I bristled and with a sharp voice. "It's not about that, I just don't want you to, is that so complex?"

He blinked hurt flashing across his face. He schooled his features to remain neutral.

"Then let me at least walk you to your car."

I shook my head.

"Why not?"

The question hung there, so simple but impossible to answer. Because my building smells like damp paint, because the elevator doesn't work half the time, because you'd see the second hand furnitures, the chipped tiles. The life I was barely keeping together. Because I can't stand the look you'd try to hide when you saw it. But I didn't say any of that, I just looked away defensively.

"Because  I said no."

He nodded once, jaw tightening. "Alright, drive safe."

He turned and got into his car without another word. The slam of the door echoed louder than it should have. Just like that, a perfect night ruined. I stood there, watching his taillights disappear down the street, two small red glows fading into the dark. By the time my cab arrived, my hands were shaking. I told myself it was better this way. But it hurt badly, being seen and still wanting to hide.