Natalie smiles at me from her seat in the dining room. It’s so strange to see her in clothes that aren’t meant to get sweaty. “You got this,” she mouths as Maggie sets down a plate that Jameela prepared, the poor woman relegated to a small corner of our kitchen. I nod, my smile tight. I’m more grateful for her presence and her belief than I’m able to articulate right now. Somehow my knife hand doesn’t shake, nothing burns, and soon I’m putting the finishing touches on my plates.

And this? This might be the best food I’ve ever made. There wasn’t a lot of skill involved. They’re simple dishes, some elevated, some not. It’s so cliché to think it and I smile to myself as I lift my eyes and meet Amy’s gaze across the restaurant. But this food was made with love. Love for my job, for this restaurant. For her and for myself.

As I set the dishes in front of her, Camilla’s lips twist and I can’t tell if it’s a face of distaste, disappointment, or confusion. But it’s not positive.

“What is this?” she asks, the echo of her accent smoothing her words even if her tone is skeptical.

“It’s a little...”

“Messy?” she asks.

“Rustic,” I counter. A smile pulls at her lips. “I know. It might not be the fanciest dish you’ll see but it tastes...”

“Good?”

“Amazing.” You’re the best of us. “I think so, at least.”

She leans back in the booth that runs the length of one side of the dining room, and props her elbow in her palm, tapping her finger against her lips. It’s a defensive, nervous pose—one that I would read too much into if I was standing on the Pop-Up Kitchen set, but a smile remains on her face. “Tell me about it.”

Amy shifts beside me. She’s been quiet since I stepped up, and it takes everything in me not to turn to her, to give her this speech. “This dish is inspired by Amy and me.”

She straightens.

“Amy was born and raised in Boston. I’m from Montreal. One of the things that we’ve struggled with...” I grin ruefully. “Is agreeing on what should go on our menu. Amy leans toward classic menu items, especially ones that stay true to her hometown. Cuts of red meat, potatoes, and...crustaceans.” I laugh when Camilla makes a funny face at my intentional misuse of the word and feel Amy’s gaze on my face. “Montreal food—in my opinion—lends itself to experimentation. It’s a place where many different cultures come together, to learn from each other, and turn into something new. So that’s what I did here. It’s a love letter to our homes but also to...us.”

I look to Amy and she’s staring at me, her eyes intense. My hands shake at my side and I open them, just a bit, hold one out, just a bit. I don’t expect her to take it or even see but she looks down and looks at me and looks at my hand again, short nails that can never keep a polish for long, scars from burns and knives gone rogue. And she takes it, her palm warm, and a little sweaty, but then so is mine.