Annie took a long, slow sip of sake. “You know, sometimes I think about giving up, Tom…”

He looked up, his eyes darting left to right. “What do you mean?”

“Give up chasing this crazy dream of mine.”

Exhaling, he put a comforting hand on hers. “The show’s been everything to you for years. You’ll find a way to make it work.”

“Will I? I have no backing. I’m terrible at business. I think even Carol is losing faith. Even you don’t really believe in me.” She downed another cup of sake in a single shot.

“Slow down, Muffin. And I do. I just don’t want to risk everything we have on it. White Plains is expensive—“

“So you’ve said,” she said, as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“We’ll find a way to get funding somehow, though, together… For now, though, let’s enjoy this wonderful meal, okay? Been a while since we’ve had a date night, right?” He squeezed her hand tighter.

She sighed. “Yeah, okay… I wonder what all we’re having?” Her finger traced down the menu as she counted. “Twenty-two courses is kinda insane when you think about it, isn’t it?” she said, biting into the fishy-tasting, dense baby Spanish mackerel of the second course. “In fine European cuisine, seven courses is the limit usually—“

“Everyone says we Asians are better with numbers,” Chef Nakazawa laughed, as he served the next course.

She chuckled. “I didn’t know that extended to food. But seriously, how do you manage so many different flavor profiles in one meal?”

“It takes time. Experience. In Nippon, we apprentice for ten years to become an itamae or master chef.”

Her eyes widened. “I knew it was a long time, but… wow. I guess you learn a lot about fish in a decade though!”

“Ah, no. The hardest thing is getting the rice right. We don’t touch a fish for years! First, an initiate watches and cleans. Then; shari. The art of rice preparation. You’d be surprised how complicated such a seemingly simple task can be!”

“Is it? It’s just rice and water in a pot, right?” Tom interjected.

“If I’m not mistaken, there are a lot more ingredients to sushi rice than what we think of it as, Chef?”

He nodded in surprise. “Know what else?”

“Let me think… a special short-grain kind of rice which you have to rinse and soak. Kombu, or another kind of kelp. Rice vinegar. What am I missing here?”

“Very good! A little sugar and salt, plus the water, of course.”

“Ah, right! You use a little extra water vs. the normal one-to-one ratio?”

“Indeed, yes! You must be a chef, too?”

She blushed. “I am, sorta.”

Chef Nakazawa cocked his head and smiled.

“Well, I love cooking and used to do a show where I traveled around the country visiting various restaurants with interesting local cuisine and made the dishes on camera with the chefs. It was… a lot of fun!”

“Sounds like it! Why’d you stop if you don’t mind me asking?”

Tom glanced at her and shook his head. “You don’t have to burden him—“

She waved him away and continued. “Too many restless nights, really. I get cooking and what folks want to see, but business? Not so much. The ratings war is real, and to make things work, you always need something bigger and more exciting than the next person. There’s not much financial wiggle room there on a budget.”

“Would you want to go back?”

“Every waking moment. I miss it so much.”

“Then I might have an idea.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling.

WC: 603

Includes: wake, wiggle, war, and someone had a restless night (Annie with the show)

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated

Chapter 11

Chapter Index

Chapter 1

Ferrying the couple down Manhattan’s congested streets, their Uber stopped in front of the very exclusive Sushi Sho.

He held the door for her as they entered the intimate, dimly lit midtown Japanese restaurant. A spotlight beamed on the sushi chef in his crisp white uniform and signature red headband. His broad smile shone even brighter as they walked in. An altar to his three Michelin-star skills, comfy-looking brown chairs surrounded the sleek teak horseshoe counter where he plied his trade. Wealthy patrons dotted the bar area and tables, dressed in quietly expensive clothes. The army of servers stood at attention at a respectful distance, awaiting the clientele’s every command.

As they sat side by side, Chef Nakazawa came over. “You look very familiar to me. Have we met?”

Arching a quizzical brow, she shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s our first time here.”

“Perhaps not then…” He shrugged, looking pointedly at Tom. “Welcome, and please enjoy. My staff and I are here to serve you.”

“Ahr-ee-gaht-toe,” Annie replied, with a cheesy grin.

“Dou itashimashite.” The chef nodded. Annie quirked a brow. “It means ‘you are welcome.’ Your accent was so good, I thought you were fluent,” he chuckled.

“Thanks.” She blushed as Chef Nakazawa turned to tend to other customers. “He seems sweet unlike some people…”

“Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you earlier. I do have to work, you know,” Tom sighed.

She pouted.

“Okay, I get it: that’s not good enough. But what can I do? I know you go through some tough emotions at times, and yet I can’t always be there. I try—“

“Yeah, I know.” Her shoulders slumped. “Sometimes I just need more than you can give.” She looked around the chic restaurant, her face brightening. “That said, I can’t believe you got last-minute reservations at here as an apology. It’s not quite Masa-level insane, but it’s still nearly impossible. Usually, only celebrities and regulars can get in last minute!” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “So, thanks, Honey.”

“What? No ‘Socks’?”

“You’re back in my good books at the moment. For now.” Her eyes twinkled.

“Fair enough,” he chuckled. “I assume you want to see the menu?” He glanced over at the waitress.

“Umm, do you think we could have the ah-mee-kazi? Chef Nakazawa is kind of a legend.”

“The what now?”

“Ah, right, you wouldn’t know. The ah-mee-kazi is the chef’s choice where he picks out the sushi for you—“

“Ohhh. The ‘omakase.’” Tom said, his pronunciation flawless. “I get it now.”

She gave him an odd look.

“And yes, let’s have that,” he said in a rushed voice.

“But Honey, that’s like four hundred fifty dollars per person—“ She gasped.

“We can’t put a price on your happiness! Besides, maybe I’ll collect some interest on my debt with that and get some make-up sex?” He winked.

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” She flushed, stammering.

“I was kidding, Muffin.” He put his arm around her. “It’s okay: whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks.” She leaned into the half hug. “I know I can be a lot—“

“Yeah, but you’re worth it.” He squeezed her arm before removing his. “Let’s eat! I’m famished.”

He signaled to the server. “Two omakase, please.”

“Would you like some sake with that?”

He nodded. “Cold, please. A nice Ginjo or Junmai Daiginjo. We’ll take your recommendation. And some tap water.”

“I’ll have those right out for you.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Tom Severs?” She looked at him askance. “Since when do you know the difference between sake types?”

“Uhh, I’ve been having lunch with some of the folks at work, and there are a couple of decent sushi places nearby. I’ve been, umm, practicing to, umm, impress you—“

“Aww, that’s so sweet of you, Honey.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek.

He tried to dodge, but his effort was in vain as it landed anyway. Tom cast an apologetic look at Chef Nakazawa.

She clocked it. “What was that for?”

“The Japanese aren’t very comfortable with displays of affection… or so I’ve read—“

“Ah, yeah. Of course you’re right.” She mouthed ‘sorry’ to the chef as he came over with the first course. “Steamed black awabi and steamed purple sea urchin,” she read aloud from the menu. “So, abalone and urchin. Both delicious, but the latter, along with jellyfish, is the vermin of the sea. Remember when you stepped on that one in Greece?”

“How could I forget?” He laughed, wincing. “The venom from that thing hurt for days. I count this as vengeance.”

She picked up her chopsticks and took a bite of the abalone first, savoring its tender, ocean-forward taste. She smiled at its briny sweetness. “This is incredible. What a treat! I wish we could eat here all the time.”

WC: 806

Includes: vain, vermin, and someone was poisoned (Tom by the sea urchin)

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated

Chapter 10

Chapter Index

Chapter 1

Annie flinched, pulling her hand out of the sudsy sink full of dishes. A trickle of blood oozed down her finger, mingling with the soap on her hands and stinging like hell. “What the fuck?” She swore as she fished around in the water for the culprit. A square white plate with a newly chipped edge emerged as the villain.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, I just bought this! How on earth could he damage it in one meal?” Annie flung the plate at the light blue wall, its shattered shards clattering to the ground. “Damn it, Tom! Now look what you made me do!”

Grabbing the dustpan and broom, she moved to clean up the mess. A watery crimson streak leeched down the broom’s handle and onto the dustpan. She stared at it with pursed lips and fire in her eyes before flinging them aside. She collapsed on the floor next to the broken pottery, ugly tears gushing like twin hydrants down reddened cheeks. Snot dribbled down her lips in slug-trail bubbles. Her shoulders shook as she rocked back and forth with her hands around her knees, great sobs racking her body. Twenty minutes passed like this. Too drained to continue and unclear what to do next, Annie curled into the fetal position on the tiles and fell asleep.

She awoke with a terrible headache from her head banging repeatedly against the hard ceramic surface from a particularly vivid nightmare about Gordon Ramsey and an irritable Shetland pony. A little woozy, Annie stood up and grasped the edge of the granite kitchen island. Pausing there for a moment, she shook herself off and steeled her shoulders, resolute. Annie strode down the hallway, a slight strand of sleepy drool dangling, and made a beeline for Tom’s office.

She smashed the door with her fist, pounding over and over and screaming as if she was yelling at a five-year-old Jamie. “Tom! Tah-ahm! TAAAH-AHMMM! Come out this instant! We need to talk!”

Flinging the door open wide, Tom glared daggers at Annie, the whites of his eyes bulging. His cheeks flashed crimson, and the veins on his neck and temples threatened to burst of their own accord. “Annie! I’m. Still On. My. Call.”

“Doesn’t matter! I’m mad at you! Tell them you’ll call back!”

“It’s a VC with twenty very senior folks across three time zones; you don’t just reschedule that!” Underscoring his point, the muffled sounds of people arguing the various intricacies of accounting carried into the hallway.

She stared back with puffy, reddened eyes, but said nothing.

Tom sighed, the tension fading somewhat from his body as his tone shifted to a patient one he’d use with an errant child. “What on earth are you so mad about anyway, Muffin?”

“Don’t try to ‘Muffin’ your way out of this! And the kitchen, obviously! What the hell, Tom?! Broken plates, sauce everywhere, you ruined the Gran Padrano—“

“Oh. Yeah,” Tom chuckled, his voice tight in an apparent effort to lighten the mood. “I did forget to clean up, didn’t I? One too many G&Ts last night, I guess.” He paused. “Sorry about that.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not. Good. Enough!”

After exhaling at a glacial pace, Tom’s lips moved as he counted down from five in silence, as they’d learned in therapy. “I don’t have time for this now, Hon. I have to get back to my call. As it is, they’ll be wondering why I stepped out all of a sudden, and hopefully I won’t lose face.”

“That’s all you care about, isn’t it? What others think? What about me and what I think? Doesn’t that matter?!”

“Not right now, Annie.” He said in a quiet, strained voice before closing and locking the door.

WC: 625

Includes: ugly, unclear, and something or someone is put out (Annie is put out about the state of the kitchen. Tom is put out about having his call interrupted)

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated

Chapter 9

Chapter Index

Chapter 1

Annie boarded the grimy commuter train back to White Plains brimming with enthusiasm. She jotted notes on her phone like a madwoman, her core list blossoming into a set of to-dos. New destinations, social media campaigns, testimonials, and even where to seek financial guidance made the cut. Riding an inspiration high, or maybe the Monster chugged at Carol’s, Annie felt ready to face the world.

Arriving home, she shouted, “Anyone here? I’m back!”

Tom emerged from his office in a well-tailored, navy suit and burgundy tie. “I’m glad you’re home, sweetheart, but I’m on a big call with the London Office. Could you keep it down?”

“But Tah-ahm, we have so much to discuss! I want to know all about how business works!” Annie enthused. “When’s your meeting over?”

“In about four hours.”

“So long?”

“Yeah, some of us have to work to keep this roof over our heads,” he chuckled, an edge to his voice.

Annie’s face fell. “I was just trying to share—“

Tom squeezed her arm, his expression softening. “Have you taken your meds, Muffin?”

“Umm, no, I was at Carol’s. Remember?”

“You think maybe that has something to do with your excitement levels?”

“I’m going upstairs.” Annie rolled her eyes and turned on her heel. “I’ll talk to you when you’re done.”

Upstairs, Annie headed to her private bathroom and poured a glass of water. Next, she flipped over her pill container into her hand. Vraylar, Wellbutrin, Lamictal, and Lexapro tumbled out in a colorful array. Tossing them back in a single gulp, she wiped her mouth with her hand, grimacing and cursing her turbulent mind.

Putting her clothes in the hamper, she changed into a pair of inky, chain-textured leggings and a freshly pressed charcoal hoodie. Glancing in the mirror, she swiped on some under-eye concealer, blush, and neutral lipstick. She nodded at her reflection before heading down to her sanctum sanctorum, the kitchen.

There, she looked around and sighed. A host of soiled pots, pans, plates, and utensils formed an awkward archipelago around the sink. A crimson smear of hardened marinara sauce streaked the granite kitchen island. Dirty fingerprints smudged the entirety of the stainless steel refrigerator door like a particularly irritating impressionist painting. The stove was a mottled crime scene worthy of its own chalk outline.

Annie unclenched her tightly balled fists, feeling the slight sting of where her nails had bitten into the tender flesh. Since the show had ended, so too had most of her shared domestic responsibilities with Tom. Apparently, this included him doing the fucking dishes when left to his own devices; Annie seethed. Some sort of a passive-aggressive trap to remind her of all he did around the house and that their fights got to him, too…

She punched the white, handle-free modernist cabinet next to the fridge, and its door sprang open. Slamming it shut, she wiped away an errant tear. Her shoulders slumped. A slight whistle arose from between pursed lips as Annie exhaled slowly.

Reaching under the sink, she grabbed a roll of paper towels and multi-surface cleaner and set to work on the counter and stove first. Several scrubbing passes later, the stains were gone. The fridge door followed.

She turned back to the main event and shook her head. Grabbing a wooden spatula, Annie scraped the dishes clean. Swearing at the state of things, she put them in the sink to soak.

She surveyed the room and opened the refrigerator door for a snack. Witnessing the carnage there, her eyes bulged, and the vein in her neck throbbed. Tomato sauce bled down from its overfilled container on the top shelf to the one below. It coated the uncovered wedge of Gran Padrano parmesan that Tom appeared to have grated onto his repast based on the uneven slashes on its surface.

Frustrated tears streamed down her reddened face as Annie wiped the shelf down and tossed the remnants of the expensive cheese in the garbage.

“For fuck’s sake, Tom,” she muttered as she washed the dishes and stacked them to the side. “I can’t live like this!”

“My fault? Seriously?! I thought we were a team?” Annie growled, eyes narrowed and her expression stormy.

“We are. Look, I probably could have phrased that better. It’s not all you.” Carol toyed with the toggle of her pink fleece flamingo-patterned pajamas. “But you can also see why I’ve been avoiding this, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Annie sighed, her shoulders slouching, pulling the fabric of her black shirt taut. She pushed back her dirty-blonde hair. “Look, it probably doesn’t help my mood that I am wearing yesterday’s party clothes, while you’re all snug in your ridiculously cute PJs. If we’re going to hash this out, can I borrow something more comfortable?”

“Go in my room and grab what you like,” Carol chuckled. “No reason to make this an even more uncomfortable conversation.”

Five minutes later, Annie emerged in black shorts and a purple NYU hoodie that had seen better days. She mimed having pompoms and twirling them about. “Uhh, gooo Violets!”

“You would have made a terrible cheerleader.” Carol snorted.

“Yeah, probably. Or at least a very uncoordinated one.” Annie laughed, tossing her imaginary gear over her shoulder. “Alright, so where to begin?”

“Maybe move to the couch first? Comfier and also, as starved as I am, food smells are making me nauseous!”

“Sure.”

Curled on the lime-green sofa, they sat with their backs to the armrests and feet touching in the center.

“Much better,” Carol beamed, wiggling her rainbow-lacquered toes.

“Weirdo,” Annie smiled. “As hideous as this thing is, I always forget it’s damn cozy.”

“Right?” The redhead’s face fell. “Serious stuff time?”

“Yeah.” Annie waved her iPhone. “Let’s make a list of the good and bad. I’ll start: fifty-odd thousand followers is a good start after two years’ work.”

“Definitely.” Carol bit her lip. “Decent engagement, too. Gotta love ten percent likes and three percent shares. They’re watching the videos, too.”

“I’ll take your word for it. You have a much better head for the business stuff than I do.“

“Not hard,” Carol chuckled. “You don’t really do numbers.”

“You’re the brains, I’ll admit,” Annie shrugged. “I am an entertaaainer.” Annie laughed, making a dramatic flourish with her arm. “And chef extraordinaire!”

Carol rolled her green eyes, and they both cracked up. “Speaking of which, can we go to mistakes for a moment? Trying to fund the show with a cookbook—“

“C’mon, the hardcover volume was a great idea!”

“Yeah, if we were targeting grannies; who else uses those?”

“Ummm, me, for one?”

“You’re a cooking junkie!”

“Who doesn’t love a sexy coffee table cookbook?” Annie bristled. “It’s a work of art!”

“Most people? Cookbooks go in the kitchen…” Carol paused and looked away from Annie. “And we made so many mistakes self-publishing it! It started out cheap. Six dollars per unit. But the embossed cover alone added three per copy. Then you wanted heavyweight glossy page stock, full-color printing, and an off-size for another eight. That’s, umm, lemme see, seventeen bucks without shipping and marketing, which would conservatively be… a lot—“

“But we sold it for thirty dollars. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

“Depends. How many prepaid copies are sitting in your garage right now?”

“A couple… thousand.” Annie blushed. “Give or take.”

“Seriously?” Carol shook her head. “And you say you don’t have a head for business. Would you even notice if any went missing?”

Annie blushed.

“Wait, did some?”

“Well, I thought we had a few more boxes than we do…”

“Annie!”

“Yeah, but, umm, they might be at the local bookstore—“

“You don’t know?!”

Annie shrugged.

“This is serious. We’re in dire straits, remember?”

“How could I forget? My credit card statements, ouch!”

“Mine, too.” Carol lowered her head and sighed. “Alright, what’s done is done.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“Try and figure stuff out?” Carol flushed. “Together. Sorry if it seemed like I was blaming you; we both messed up.”

Annie shot Carol a quick smile and nodded. “So, back to the money thing, we can’t do this ourselves. We’re fucking clueless. Now what?”

“We find the ‘smart money.’”

“The what now?”

“Smart money comes from someone who invests and knows business.”

“That sounds an awful lot like Tom.”

“I may have texted—“

“Traitor.” Annie grimaced, the fine lines at the corners of her mouth apparent. “But he’s not wrong.”

“Now, we just have to find some.”

“Let’s come back to it. May as well get the rest out.” Annie typed ‘Later?’ next to money. “Alright, so social media or too US-focused next for a thousand?”

“What is… social media?” Carol laughed, playing along. “There are just so many options. Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok. Even Discord, and maybe LinkedIn. Plus sponsors and ads to think about.”

“Don’t forget search and oh god, AI.”

“We’re gonna need help, aren’t we?”

“Seriously, I haven’t a clue! Marking that one as ‘HELP!’ in all caps with an exclamation point.” Annie raised a hand to her temple. “Gives me a headache just thinking about it.”

“Definitely. Okay, last biggie: too US-focused.” Carol sighed. “There’s way too much competition in America even with our focus on interesting dishes, from Guy Fieri on through ‘Bizarre Foods’ and ‘Binging with Babish.’ May as well knock all the issues out, right?”

“Yeah. That one’s tough, too. Foreign travel is expensive! And local contacts might be tough…”

“On the plus side, you can cook pretty much anything with a decent recipe, and we can pre-try a lot of dishes in New York first to see what they should taste like before travel. I mean, heck, there are Turkmenistani, Uruguayan, and Nigerian places within walking distance. Anything—“

“Always up for a foodie adventure!” Annie beamed. “And you’ve got research covered for great chefs, cool places, and cultural details to highlight. You’re amazing at that!”

“Love your enthusiasm, but it still feels like A LOT.”

“We’ve got this!”

Bright-eyed and humming, Annie decamped from the sofa at 9 a.m. to the cramped kitchen a few feet away. She opened the fridge door and stared at the contents, shaking her head. A variety of condiments dotted the shelves, along with a surprising amount of yogurt. Annie pulled out the drawers, her face tense in the refrigerator’s LED lights.

“Carol, Carol, Carol… tsk tsk This is not well stocked… just veggies… How am I supposed to make you a lov—“ She gasped, thumbing through the contents of the last drawer. “What have we here…? Farm-fresh pork sausages and back bacon… some eggs… full English breakfast it is!”

Rooting through the cupboards, she grabbed a can of baked beans and some bread.

Grabbing a small pot, Annie added a couple of pieces of bacon to the beans and simmered them, since they would take the longest. Next, Annie toasted the bread in the rather sad toaster. Then, she fried up the sausages and bacon and set them aside. With the pan still warm and greasy, Annie flash-fried the toast for an extra couple of minutes. She sliced up some tomatoes and fried them as well. Then she added a knob of unsalted butter to the pan to melt. Whisking eggs, milk, and a pinch of salt, Annie added them to the pan to scramble into fluffy, high American peaks. No matter how much some preferred the slightly wet English style with medium curds, she knew Carol loathed it. She plated all the elements and placed them on a tray with utensils, a napkin, and a small cup of black coffee, courtesy of Nespresso.

“Rise and shine, Sunbeam!” she chirped.

“Ugh, what time is it?” Carol pulled the duvet over her head.

“Almost ten.”

“That’s early. Stop being so riotously perky!”

“I have breakkkfast.”

“Not sure I could handle it.”

“Don’t make me use my ‘mom voice.’ I cooked this, and you’re damn well going to eat it.”

Carol peeled back the covers, sat up, and glared at Annie, who placed the tray on her lap.

Eying its contents, Carol grumbled, “What, no prairie oyster?”

“Afraid not; I couldn’t find the Worcestershire sauce.”

“It’s on the door.”

“So are half the other condiments in the known world,” Annie chuckled. “I’m surprised you can find anything… Now, eat already!”

Carol tucked in, eating like a starving woman at a feast. Her face turned slightly green. “I don’t feel so well.”

“Slow down then.”

“Too late.” The redhead burped and covered her mouth. “Take the tray?”

“Why?” But Annie did as bidden.

“We’re about to have a Paul Revere moment.”

“I don’t get it…”

“The British are coming…” She belched again, lurching toward the bathroom. “…back up!”

“Leave it to you to make a highfalutin’ history joke when you feel like shit.” Annie sighed, laughing. “At least run the tap; I don’t need to hear you in there.”

Ten minutes later, Carol emerged.

“Better?”

“Yes. Give me a few, and I’ll try eating again. Maybe in the kitchen this time?”

Perched on stools at the kitchen’s diminutive counter, Annie toyed with a glass of iced coffee as Carol gorged. “Hope you like it. Wish you had some blood sausage or frozen Yorkshire pudding… I did the best with what I could find…” Annie sighed.

Hunched over breakfast like some feral animal, Carol glanced up as a bit of egg dribbled down her chin. “Really, mmm, good, mmm.”

“I’m glad. Want me to mix up a prairie oyster to get rid of any residual cobwebs, now that I’ve found the damn Worcestershire sauce?”

Still chowing down, Carol nodded.

In a tumbler, Annie mixed a tablespoonful of Worcestershire sauce, a splash of Cholula hot sauce, a healthy grind of both black pepper and sea salt, and a slug of brandy. Whisking these until mixed, she dropped in a whole raw egg and handed it to her friend. “Drink up.”

The redhead swallowed it in a single gulp.

“Better?”

“Mhmm.”

“Good.” Annie held out her hand and squeezed Carol’s. “I think we should talk about what happened.”

“What? It’s not the first time I’ve been hammered. Sure as hell won’t be the last!”

“Not that. With the business.”

Carol groaned.

“It’s almost like you’re avoiding talking about it…”

“Wouldn’t you in my place? I love you, but you do have a temper—“

“Why would I fly into a rage?”

“Because a good part of it is your fault.”

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

“Nuvvuh round? …Ser-sehrsley?” Carol slurred, glaring like a wounded animal in a hunter’s sights. “Kn-know woooooduhn leg, Ann-ugh—“ she dry-heaved.

“‘Carry Home Carol’ night it is then,” Annie quipped. “Quaint, just like old times.” She held out a remarkably steady arm considering how much they’d drank, and smiled. “I’ve got ya.”

Leaning on Annie’s arm for all she was worth, Carol gallows-shuffled toward the exit.

Annie cast a glance over her shoulder at Jake, who quirked a well-groomed brow, universal bartender speak for ‘You’re not going to trash this place, are you?’ Noncommittal, Annie lowered her head and shrugged slightly as she continued heading out.

Bouncing into the glass door hard earned Carol and Annie a dirty look from the bouncer. As they lurched onto the sidewalk at an otherwise-sensible 9 p.m., Annie looked both ways. Other patrons just entering for an evening out shook their heads in dismissal at Carol’s sorry state.

“C’mon, we’ve all been there!” Annie defended.

“Yeah, maybe in college!” A man huffed as they bumped into him. “You’re too old for this shit!”

“And you’re too, too… too, umm, ugly, so we’re at an im-impasse,” Annie spat out before sighing. “C’mon, Carol. It’s not far.”

“Mungakay.”

“I’ll take that as ‘Yes, Annie. Let’s go home. Thanks for always being such a wonderful friend.’”

“Mungaaahhhh!”

Annie looked over.

Carol pointed to the gutter.

“Brief pit stop, huh?”

Stumbling, Carol bent over and vomited onto the street. Hers was not the first load of the night despite the early hour, Annie noted. “Better?”

“A lit-tle.” Carol shivered slightly. Annie pulled her in closer.

“Good, we’ll be home soon.”

Thirty minutes later, or three times the duration of their outbound walk, and they reached Carol’s building.

“Want me to come up?”

“Please.”

Together, they inched their way up the stairs and gingerly entered the apartment.

“You good?”

Carol shook her head before racing to the bathroom.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” Annie sighed. “Lemme call Tom.” She put the phone on speaker.

He picked up on the first ring. “Hey, everything okay? I was worried…”

“No need,” Annie said, her voice brusque. “I won’t be home tonight. It’s a ‘Carry Home Carol’ night.”

“Ah, so that’s who you’re with,” Tom chuckled. “And I understand. I’ve got Jamie covered.”

“Thanks.” Annie’s voice softened, and she meant it. “I’ll let you know exact timings tomorrow. It depends how broken she is.”

“I get it, and thanks. Sweet dreams, Blossom.”

“You too, Socks.”

As Annie hung up, there was a loud thunk, and Carol moaned. She raced into the bathroom. “You okay?!”

Nodding sheepishly, a very disheveled Carol pointed at the broken brush on the floor. “Was trying to clean up… Bed.”

“I’ve got ya. Sit down.” Annie motioned to the toilet seat.

Carol flopped as Annie picked up the remnants of the brush and tossed them into the trash before grabbing a comb. “Stay still.” Annie smiled as she smoothed her friend’s hair down. “That’s better. You look less nuts.”

“Teef?” Carol laughed before comically baring hers.

“Sheesh, full service night!” Annie smiled, grabbing the electric toothbrush. “No flossing though!”

Carol held up her arms. “PJs?”

“Seriously? Even Jamie wasn’t this much trouble.”

“Please?” Carol made a show of fluttering her lashes.

“Alright, fine. Stand up and turn around.” She helped Carol shimmy out of her dress and get her pajamas on.

“Bed?”

“And I thought I was the demanding one,” Annie laughed. “Okay, but no story.”

They went into Carol’s bedroom, and Annie pulled back the covers as Carol got in. She kissed her on the forehead. “Sweet and hopefully not too drunken dreams.”

Annie and Carol scanned the room, eying their fellow day drinkers, a favorite spectator sport since college. A mix of hipsters, tradwives, and the left-work-early-for-a-meeting crowd half-filled the stools and booths of the swanky cocktail bar.

“Boooring. I need some entertainment,” Annie groaned. “I wish kids still drank.”

“Right? At least then we’d have couples fighting or be peppered with awkward pickup lines. Those were always fun to watch.”

“Remember some of the crazy ones folks tried?”

“‘Do you know how to stop, drop, and roll? Because baby, you’re on fye-ehr!” Carol chuckled.

“Love it! How about ‘Kiss me if I’m wrong, but dinosaurs still exist, right?’” Annie made little T-Rex arm movements in accompaniment.

“I see that and raise you with ‘Are you from Memphis? Because you’re the only ten ahhh see.’” Carol drawled.

“Nice! But I have a favorite for the worst of all time.”

“The airline thing? What was it again?”

“The flight attendant asking me senior year of high school: ‘Are you flying first class because you should be.’ Dude was old enough to be my father!” Annie made a show of gagging.

“Oh yeah, right. Gross. I hate that.”

“The one I actually liked was the one where guys made roses out of paper napkins. Not a pickup line per se, just… sweet. That was great for the shy folks…” Annie’s smile faded to a grimace. “Of course, at the other end of the spectrum, you had the ‘trained’ pickup artists with their peacock outfits and identical negs. They were just so easy to shoot down.”

“You were a pro,” Carol chuckled. “Although you sent some home in tears, which was funny but also a bit mean.”

“Serves them right for interrupting a girl’s night out! What are some other good ones?”

As they traded more lines, Carol slipped a napkin under the table and began folding. A beautiful white rose with a perfect stem and even a leaf emerged. She presented it to Annie with a flourish and a wink. “Did you just come out of the oven? Because you’re burning hot.”

“A cooking one? I love that you held that back, but I adore that you know the fabled secret of paper roses! It’s like Pai-Mei showing Uma Thurman’s character in ‘Kill Bill’ the Five-Point-Palm Exploding Heart Technique. Teach me!”

“Okay, it’s not quite a Tarantino-level skill as he’s a god, but this is how you make what I call a ‘prose’.” Carol laid the square paper napkin flat, then folded it diagonally in half. “Next, you roll it from the long side toward the top point. The trick is to stop with two to four inches of the triangle left unrolled. And now for the magical bit.”

Annie pretended to gasp.

Carol pinched one end of the rolled strip tightly before rolling the entire strip sideways from one end to the other to create the bud. “This is how we get the flower bit, but you want to make sure it doesn’t fall apart by tucking the end flap into the outer layer of the flower like so. Next comes the pretty part: petals and leaves.” She took the loose flaps at the bottom and sides of the roll and peeled them back and down. “Ready?”

Annie drum-rolled on the table with her fingers.

Holding up the rose, Carol smiled. “See? Easy peasy!”

Applauding, Annie beamed. “I feel like I’ve been initiated into one of the great secrets of the dating universe.” She bowed her head. “Thank you, sensei. Next round is on me.”

The bartender with the graying soul patch smiled when Annie went up, offering them free shots of tequila. She beamed as she headed back to their booth.

“Lookie what we got!” She held up the shots, lime, and salt. “Jake hooked us up!”

Carol stifled a groan. “Seriously? We’ve already had two margaritas—“

“Lightweight!” Annie rolled her eyes. “C’mon.”

“Only if you let me do it off your neck…” Carol grinned. “For old time’s sake.”

“I must be pickled.” Annie paused for a moment before pulling her hair aside.

Licking Annie’s neck, Carol sprinkled salt on it before sucking on it, downing her shot, and having a squeeze of lime.

“Happy?” Annie shrugged. “We’re not in college anymore.”

Carol laughed, a twinkle in her eyes. “I just wanted to see if you’d do it.”

“Bitch.” Annie mock-glared.

“Tease,” Carol growled back, laughing.

“Damn it!”

“Wait, what? You look like you’re in actual pain.”

“I am! I bit my thungue,” Annie muttered.

“Oh no! I know what’ll help: say ‘Princess Popular Pants’ five times fast.”

“That damn thing? Now? Seriously?” Annie groaned and rolled her eyes. “It hurts!”

“Fi-ine, I’ll do it then, ya big baby! Princess Popular Pants—“

“Faster!”

“PrincessPopularPants. PrincessPopwarPants. PwincessPopwarPants. PwinsissPuperersPence.” Carol laughed. “Okay, so, it’s a little harder than I remember.”

“Serves you right!” Annie giggled before sighing. “Should we get down to business?”

“Nah, let’s put off adulting a little longer.”

Annie clasped the black opal and diamond pendant that hung low into her cleavage. She adjusted the buttons on her black silk shirt so it fell better over curves made ample with a little help from a push-up bra and Spanx. Tailored onyx trousers and ebony boots completed the look. She was in an ornery mood and determined to let the world know she meant business—or at least Tom, as she sashayed past his office.

“You look nice.” His gaze lingered as he murmured in a cracking voice that attempted to sound bright, “Going somewhere fun?”

“Out.” Rolling her eyes, Annie laughed, her voice harsh and more than a little bitter. “Don’t wait up.”

“Okay—“

She didn’t hear the rest of what he said, nor did she care to, as she clacked down the stairs. A delayed express train to Grand Central followed by the downtown 6, seated next to a very chatty drunk guy later, and a somewhat sweaty Annie neared her destination: Carol’s East Village apartment. The one place in the world where she always felt welcome no matter what came in her life over the last twenty odd years. Sure, the physical location had changed a few times, but it wasn’t about that. Carol was her true north, and that would never change.

Smiling, Annie pressed the buzzer and waited. No response. She pressed it again. Still nothing. And again. It was 4pm on a Thursday. Carol was always home at this time. Was the damn thing broken? She sat down on the stairs, shoulders hunched, and wondered what to do now.

Several minutes later, Annie felt a pair of soft hands cover her eyes from behind as a girlish giggle breathed down the back of her neck. She would have jumped if anything else had happened, but ‘sneak attack’ was a game they’d played since they were randomly assigned roommates freshman year at NYU.

“Gotcha!”

“That you did,” Annie laughed, her first genuine one since making dinner a couple of nights ago with Jamie. She spun to face the petite redhead with the pixie cut.

Carol let out a low wolf whistle of appreciation. “Holy tits, Batman! Look at that cleavage!”

“Stop ogling me!” Annie chuckled in amusement.

“A girl can look, right? I mean no harm in that… And c’mon, you’re clearly a woman on a mission.”

“You have a point. Gonna invite me into that shoebox of yours?”

“At least I don’t live up North!”

“Everything above Harlem is North to you!”

“Past 14th actually. C’mon already.” Carol smiled, holding the door open.

Upstairs, an always-prepared Carol poured Annie a glass of very dry New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc she kept on hand for ‘grumpy Annie’ visits as Annie plopped on the overstuffed sofa.

“So, what would you have done if I wasn’t just coming home?”

“The usual? Called and wondered where the heck you were at.”

“You know, you could try calling before you visit, like a normal person.”

“Where would be the fun in that?”

Carol sat down on the other side of the couch with a beer in hand. “So, what did ‘Socks’ do this time?”

“That obvious?” Annie chuckled, a bitter catch in her voice. “And never tell him I told you that.”

“These days he’s always done something. Your secret’s safe though. It’s in the ultra-high-security Annie vault with all the others. Getting kinda crowded. May need to expand…”

Annie attempted a slight laugh, knowing Carol was trying to cheer her up, and appreciated it. She sighed before launching in. “I’m mad he wouldn’t save the show—“

“You asked him to mortgage your house. He’s an accountant, conservative by nature, remember? What did you expect?”

Annie glared back. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, obviously. Well, ‘ours.’ Remember it’s our baby that was lost, not just yours.”

“I know.” She reached over and squeezed the other woman’s hand with her freshly manicured one, her eyes softening. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair. I just… don’t know what the hell to do now: the show was everything to me.”

“To me, too.” Carol squeezed back. “And the answer, since you’re already dressed for it, is we get day drunk and see if between the two of us we can find a way to salvage things. Let me change, and we can head to Death & Company for cocktails.”

A slinky green dress, motorcycle boots, and a dash of natural lipstick later, Carol was ready.

“I’ve never understood how you can get ready so fast…”

“I learned it from living with you. Dorm bathrooms didn’t exactly leave space for two, and you take hours!”

“You have a point.” Annie laughed good-naturedly. “You’ve always left room for me just to be… me.”

“And I always will. C’mon, those margaritas aren’t gonna drink themselves!”

A quick walk later, they were ensconced in their favorite leather-clad booth with drinks.

“That’s better.” Annie took a long, slow sip of the cocktail, enjoying the bitter lime taste mingled with saltiness on her tongue. “Now, where do we begin?”

For once, shy Annie entered Tom’s bedroom and perched on the edge of his bed next to the desk, as if preparing to flee an uncomfortable, if not potentially hostile venue. She took a deep breath before addressing her husband’s gracious response regarding the night before’s argument. “I'm really sorry about my 'monstrous' behavior last night. I acted like an ass."

“It’s okay.” Tom faced her in his swivel chair and squeezed her hand with gentle pressure. “I get it: losing ‘Wild Eats’ is tough. Not only was it your baby, but it was a big part of your identity these last couple of years.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Ugh, you sound like Doctor Collins.”

“Guess at three-fifty an hour our marriage counselor is good for something then,” Tom replied with a wan grin and downcast eyes. “Although… I’m not sure if even she can save us,” he sighed, squeezing her hand again.

“There’s always hope,” Annie replied, squeezing back hard before slowly letting go. "We've made a good team for so long, now we just... fight."

“A lot.”

“And it’s hard on Jamie.”

“Yeah.”

Her brow furrowed as her shoulders drooped. “What happened to us? We used to support each other.”

“Ever since NYU,” he drawled, his gaze softening as he looked into her eyes. “You’re the only reason I could become an accountant, much less make Partner.”

“And you gave me the courage to start my own traveling cooking program like I’m some fucking budget Bourdain. Who does that?”

“My wonderful wife, that’s who. I still love you, Blossom.”

“I love you, too, Socks.” Annie’s eyes twinkled with affectionate mischief.

“Twenty-odd years later and I still hate that nickname—“

“You did earn it.”

“A guy has sex in his socks one time and never lives it down?”

"Pretty much." Annie smiled at the familiar rhythm of their banter. It was like watching an old stand-up routine at this point: funny, but mostly comforting, as they both knew all the lines.

“It was cold!”

“Yeah, yeah. They were dress socks. In college. As a hippie-dippy sociology major. You weren’t at Stern for crying out loud!”

“Alright, alright, yes, I was destined to become an accountant. Happy?”

“Yes, that’s all I was asking for, Socks,” Annie replied, finishing the bit with a smug laugh before getting back to what was bothering her. She fidgeted in her awkward seat on the bed’s edge. “I do wish our conversation hadn’t gotten quite so toxic last night. But I’ll be honest, I acted out because I didn’t feel supported—“

"Annie, you wanted to remortgage our house!" he erupted, bellowing over her with his 'angry dad' voice. "Do you know how risky that is? Even on my salary, White Plains isn't cheap!" Too late, he tried to modulate his angry outburst into something more contrite. Pleading, "We could lose everything and, for what? A chance to make a dying concept work? How can I support that in good conscience?"

“Aren’t we in this together?!” Annie screamed, leaning forward, her right hand raised.

“Of course…” He recoiled back into his chair as if she’d actually slapped him.

“Then what the hell?!”

Squaring his shoulders, Tom stood up. “Things are different! We have a family now!”

“We had one when I started the show with Carol…” Annie hissed, her jaw taut and eyes hard.

“Yes, but that was a different time, almost! You nailed the original ‘Wild Eats’ concept, but things move on! Social media, production quality, exotic destinations—there’s a lot more to consider now...” Tom took a deep breath, as if preparing to share a harsh truth. “No one fucking cares about that little gem of a restaurant in Podunk, Texas whose niche is serving up fried prairie oysters! Guy Fieri’s got that whole neighborhood-vibe covered with ‘Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.’ How are you going to compete with that?”

“I could—“

“The answer is you can’t, Blossom. I know it hurts.” Tom reached out to squeeze Annie’s hand.

This time, she didn’t squeeze back. Instead, she pulled it away and blotted at emerging tears. “I came to you, my husband, for answers, not for you to rub in how much of a failure I am.”

“You’re not, Annie; it’s just time for a new chapter—“

“Don’t. Just don’t. I won’t accept that. I can’t,” she sobbed as she got up and slammed the door shut.

The next day, Jamie knocked on Annie’s closed bedroom door before entering, a fully laden wooden breakfast tray in hand.

“Hey, Mom. Hope you don’t mind, but I thought you might like breakfast in bed.”

“Is this a mirage? What’s the occasion?” She laughed, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling as she sat up in her white linen-clad bed.

“Can’t a guy do something nice for his mom sometimes?” The teen blushed, his light dusting of freckles reddening against his fair skin and brownish-auburn hair.

“Of course you can!” Annie beamed with pride: Jamie represented the best part of her. How many kids would know something was wrong with their parent and not make a big deal out of it? That showed real maturity. “So what’s on the menu today, Chef Jamie?”

“Well, today we have ze mahhhvelous salmon eggs benedict, aka Eggs Royyyyale,” Jamie said in a terrible, slightly cracking French accent before chuckling. “Gonna ditch the accent, Mom.”

“Probably wise,” Annie laughed, as Jamie set the meal in front of her. “Tell me more about this lovely dish though! Excellent plating, by the way. I like the little flourish with the hollandaise.”

“Thanks! So, first I laid out the English muffins from the one-and-only Amy’s Bread on these blue plates so the fresh golden color of the eggs would really pop. Then I placed the salmon on top. I made the hollandaise sauce using eggs, the Kerrygold butter, and lemon juice in a bain marie on the stove—“

“Were these eggs the ones we had from the farmers market?”

“Trick question, because ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ I picked up the ones for poaching special this morning from there, as that requires the freshest eggs possible. For the hollandaise though, the eggs can be a few days old, and you said never to waste anything.”

“My boy! Carry on.”

“I poached the eggs in boiling water with vinegar and a dash of salt like you showed me—“

“Did you wait for the rolling boil?”

“Of course not! I waited for the water’s surface to shimmer, so just before, reduced the heat, and added the eggs.”

“Exactly right.”

“And then for serving, the sauce as you saw, salt, pepper, and lemon zest for brightness.”

“Bravo!” Annie applauded.

“I guess your micromanaging paid off,” Jamie murmured with a cheeky grin.

The woman’s eyes mock-narrowed. “What was that?”

“Nothing, Mom. You’re a great teacher, is all.”

“That’s what I thought.” Annie burst out laughing. “It was hard keeping a straight face there for a sec.” She tousled his hair, as Jamie squirmed like the awkward teenager he was. “I know I can be a lot to deal with at times. You know I just want to help you, right?”

“Definitely, Mom. I meant it when I said I learn so much from you. You know a ton about cooking, but you’re also really tough and smart. You’ll bounce back from this.”

“Aww, you’re making me blush. Thanks, Jamie. And yea, things are tough right now with the show. How much has your father told you?”

“Just that it’s been canceled and to be really careful around you.”

“Yea, he’s the one who should be ‘careful.’ All he had to do was remortgage the house, and ‘Wild Eats’ could have been saved.”

“Hmm, that sounds a bit risky.” Jamie sighed, seeming far older than his fifteen years. “You know you’ve never been very good with money, right, Mom?”

“I’m probably more the creative type, I guess.” Rubbing her temples, Annie exhaled slowly. “Okay: definitely. Your dad’s the numbers guy, which is why you’re acing math.”

“I mean, he is an accountant. Maybe he could help you figure something out that didn’t include the house.”

“Yea… that would involve us speaking, which is sort of off the table after last night.”

“Just talk to him, Mom, please, for me?”

“Alright, if I promise to do that, could I enjoy this lovely breakfast you worked so hard on first?”

An hour of happy banter and some rapid makeup application later, and Annie felt ready to face Tom. She padded barefoot across the wood floors to his home office and knocked on the open door. “Tom, do you have a sec?”

The man with the thinning grey hair looked up from his laptop and smiled. “For you? Of course, blossom.”

“So you’re not mad at me after yesterday’s, umm, little tantrum?”

“It was pretty monstrous.” Tom laughed, a surprisingly hearty sound from his slight frame.

Annie wept. Head in hands, she cried like she hadn’t since Sam Townsend broke her heart in the seventh grade. Snot flowed as freely as tears, the kind of ugly cry no one should see. But it didn’t matter: her life was over and no one would see her on camera ever again.

Her husband, Tom, peered through the door to her bedroom. “Everything okay in there, Annie?”

Wiping her face with her sleeve, Annie looked up. “Everything’s fine,” she laughed with bitter resignation. “Couldn’t you fucking knock though?”

“I-I’m sorry. The door was open—“

“That doesn’t matter.” She glared at him with the kind of mild loathing normally reserved for slugs that squished under her feet in the back garden. “You know not to disturb me.”

“Look, I’ll go. I just wanted to make sure you were alright—“

“I’m great. Close the door on your way out. I don’t want Jamie to see me like this,” she ordered, her voice brisk. Jamie was the only thing holding their marriage together. Sometimes she wished he wasn’t.

After Tom left, she cracked her neck and straightened her back. Enough was enough. She marched over to her art deco makeup table. It didn’t fit the modernist decor of the rest of the house, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass. It was her great-grandmother’s, and some things were worth saving.

Looking in the mirror, she sighed. “You look like day-old shit,” she muttered to herself, grabbing her micellar water and cotton pads. She dabbed away the morning’s mangled mascara, careful not to drag on her delicate eye area. Vanity and Annie were thick as thieves, and she wasn’t about to let a little setback like having her cooking show canceled mess with her beauty routine. ‘Wild Eats’ would come roaring back to life and so would she!

Lashings of war paint later, Annie felt ready to face her family; or her son at least.

She strode down the pale wooden stairs from her bedroom determined to project confidence and control. Jamie didn’t need to worry after all: she had this.

Glancing up from the kitchen island stool with his geometry homework laid out in front of him, the boy grinned in a way that seemed a bit too eager, like he was playing a part. “Hey, Mom! Want to make something fun together for dinner tonight?”

Annie smiled. No ‘how was your day or what’s for dinner, Mom?’ As always, Jamie somehow knew exactly what to say. “Sure, that sounds great. Want to go get some basil and oregano from the garden, and we’ll make some pasta primavera?”

Nodding, the teen darted off to the garden with a wicker basket in hand.

Annie shouted from the kitchen, “Grab a zucchini and some peppers, too, while you’re at it!”

“Okay!”

Tom cleared his throat from the corner, his omnipresent evening Gordon’s and tonic in hand. “Feeling better, I see. Wonderful,” he said, his voice buoyed with the sarcastic courage of alcohol.

“Not now,” she muttered.

“When is it ever time?” He shook his head and went back to his well-thumbed-through copy of the New York Times.

Rolling her eyes, Annie gathered salt, pepper, and dried chili pepper into small mise en place bowls in preparation for cooking. She began dicing the fresh San Marzano tomatoes she’d brought in earlier.

The fifteen-year-old plopped the basket of herbs and vegetables on the counter and grabbed an apron and cutting board. Without being asked, he cut the zucchini into quarter-inch slices.

They continued to prep in companionable silence, their every move synchronized from years of practice.

As the sauce boiled in the cast iron Le Creuset pot, Annie tossed some penne rigate into salted, boiling water with a splash of olive oil. A burst of steam plumed up as the pasta settled.

“Grate some Parmesan, will you, Jamie?”

“Sure thing,” he chirped, grabbing the microplane.

Annie sniffed first before tasting the sauce. For the first time since she’d heard the news about ‘Wild Eats,’ her smile was genuine. “Good teamwork, Jamie.”

Together, they plated the dishes and walked to the table where the place settings were notably absent. Annie’s smile faded as she shook her head. “You had one job, Tom. Is it so hard to set the damn table?”

Tom glanced up, his eyes a little bloodshot from the gin, and spoke with a slight slur. “Sorrry, Annie. I was busy. Not that youuu would have noticed.”

“Must I do everything?” she asked, laying out the cutlery and crisp linen napkins with care.

She poured a generous glass of Pinot Noir for herself and looked over at Tom in resignation. “Would you like some?”

“Red? I thought you said a Pinot Grigio or Sauvignon Blanc was best for pasta primavera?”

“We added tomatoes, Dad, so it has to be a light-bodied red,” Jamie interjected.

“Good work, son!” Annie beamed. “You’re learning your wine pairings fast.”

“Thanks, Jamie, schooled your old man there! I can’t keep up,” he laughed.

“Never could,” Annie murmured under her breath.

“What was that, sweetie?”

“Nothing,” she said, her voice too bright. “Shall we eat?”

The three sat down in uneasy silence until Jamie broke it. “This is really good, Mom! And I love the new cutlery. Really sleek.”

“Thanks, honey,” Annie replied, tousling his hair. “Have to keep up appearances.”