“I know, Allie. This is just...huge for me. Huge for us. The press is going to be here tonight.” He wipes some sweat off his brow.

“And my parents,” I whisper.

“Oh god, them, too.” He releases the tension by cracking the bones in his neck. A poor substitute, I imagine, for his true preference: a shot of whiskey.

But even a slug of 120 proof wouldn’t take the edge off the fact that Benji’s pop-up dinners are the new It Thing. People salivate at their screens just waiting for him to Tweet out the next time and place he’ll be cooking. Why? Because he’s the hottest chef in Chicago and you can’t taste his food at any restaurant. So when he announces a dinner, it’s a mad, server-crashing race to claim one of only twelve spots at the table. And when everyone wants to see how the reformed addict is faring, they’ll cancel all their plans for the day on the off chance they’ll be one of the first to submit a reservation request, followed by prompt prepayment—which all goes to me, the fan-favorite girlfriend of Benji Zane.

I can’t blame his followers for the obsession. Our flash-in-the-pan love story was covered by the most-read food blog earlier this spring, and since then, there have been myriad articles chronicling his love-hate relationship with hard drugs and high-end cooking. Between his unlikely relationship with me, his checkered past and his unmatched kitchen skills, Benji’s managed to divide people like we’re talking about health-care reform or immigration.

Half see him as a prodigy in the kitchen who was given a second chance when some no-name poster child of millennial living suddenly inspired him to get clean. The other half of Chicago views him as an all-hype hack who uses the media attention to rob his patrons of their hard-earned money so he can get his next score.

Fuck those people. Because the Benji that I know, that I live with...well, he’s a stand-up guy whose brunch—and bedroom—game happens to be on point.

“Listen, babe,” I say. “What did I tell you? I’m not going to let you down tonight, okay? I’ll pace the seating however you need me to. I’ll greet the press and spot the critics, too. We got this, okay? I believe in you.” And I do.

I don’t always agree to help Benji at his pop-ups—usually I just accept the reservation requests and keep the books straight. But tonight is different. Benji told me yesterday that he’s got an outstanding dealer debt to pay off and so he’s oversold the dining room by about twenty-five chairs to try to make a little extra cash. Without me here to help host a guest list of this size, this highly publicized dinner would look and feel more like a dysfunctional family reunion. Something I’m sure the piranha-like press would love to write about.

I wanted to be pissed about this little “oops” moment. How careless could he be? Now, by over-inviting a horde of geeked-out foodies, and in the past, by racking up a $2,000 coke bill. But he assured me it’s just one of those things that needs to be handled in order for him to move on with his sobriety. And that’s what I signed up for by being his girlfriend: unconditional support and a back that would never turn on him.