“I love you.”

Sophie shifts in my arms but I hold her tighter. This is a balancing act and the slightest shift will send me crashing to the ground. “And I...wanted you to do what I thought was best for you and I know,” I say quickly. “That you hate it when I make decisions for you. And I’m sorry. I did the one thing that you have repeatedly asked me to stop doing.”

Sophie says, her voice muffled by my shirt, “Can I move now?”

“Oh. Yeah.” I step away, brushing casually at my own eyes. “Sorry. Again.”

If I didn’t absolutely have to be here right now, I might go sit in front of my mom’s house.

She lifts up on her toes and presses a soft kiss to my mouth. I don’t move, my whole body on alert, every cell has its ears perked toward her like tiny golden retrievers.

“What you said? About me being the best of us. That’s...” She shakes her head. “No one has ever believed in me like that before.”

“Well, that’s dumb of them.”

She laughs.

“Do you trust me?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, without hesitation. It feels like I’ve swallowed something warm, light.

“Then go out there and cook whatever you want. Because I trust you, too.”

The door opens and the frazzled PA sticks her head in. “There you are. We need you to start prep.”

Sophie looks from her to me. “Let’s do this.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sophie

Camilla Vargas is gracious and kind but she’s also an internationally recognized executive chef and her entire demeanor changes when filming starts. Butterflies go wild in my stomach just watching her; she’s powerful and a little scary and exactly the kind of chef I want to be. But that doesn’t make it any less vomit-inducing to cook for her.

My friend Cara had a baby last year, and I expected her to talk about the pain and how terrible delivery was. She’d refused all the drugs. But when I visited her and the new baby, all she talked about was how wonderful it was, how she couldn’t wait to do it again. The pain and the fear of the pain that she’d been obsessed with before birth was gone. All she could remember was the joy.

That’s how it feels, to cook for myself again, even if it is on camera, under a deadline, for entertainment. I forget the fear in the form of sweat down my back, the nerves that make me want to throw up. My brain must have made me forget in order to allow me to agree to do this at all.

The premise of the show requires Amy to seat Camilla like any other guest and Camilla is encouraged by the producers to walk around the restaurant after she’s seated, to explore the space, to speak to “guests”—our own friends and family—and to enter the kitchen. She peers over my shoulder, her mouth turned down in a speculative frown. She silently tastes sauces with a disposable spoon, studies my knife skills, pausing my chopping once to run her finger along the puckered red scar on my hand. Once her first beverage is served she sits back down again; she chats with Amy and I strain to hear what they’re saying.