Yes, Chef

by Waitlyn Andrews

A run this morning is again out of the question, but I bundle up, all the same, to go for a nice walk. Fall is my favorite season, and while everyone would claim there’s no time in Paris quite like springtime, I disagree. I think fall in Paris has a superior charm all on its own. Late August barely classifies as Fall, but coming from California, it feels plenty festive to me.

“I promise you, Claire Richards, that you won’t mess anything up. You are incapable of messing anything up. You are a badass—if you don’t mind me saying—and what you do, you own. I’ve never met someone more capable. And if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to kiss you right now. We can pretend it never happened when we enter the new year, and back in Paris it might be a good idea to do that until you’re ready. But I promise you, I won't let it mess anything up. I won’t.” It’s the finality in his voice that pushes me over the edge

swore off workplace romance for a specific reason, but how long can I maintain that promise to myself when the most perfect, supportive man in the world keeps looking at me like I’m a gift?

had about myself. When you victimize yourself, you put yourself in the most dangerous position: in another person’s hands, reacting to their actions. When you determine you’re the victim, you lose control of your ability to act on your own. I spent a long time with my therapist, working through that discovery.

I’d miss every flight, I’d take every crowded train, I’d shop every market, I’d do every tourist activity Paris has to offer four times over, and I’d even go on those runs you do every other morning if it could convince you how badly I’ve wanted you all these months.”

“I love you, you weirdo.” “You love me?” “Are you going to believe anything I tell you?” “I love you too, chef.”

“For what it’s worth, I love you,” he says as if it’s my consolation prize. As if he doesn’t realize it’s winning the whole damn thing. “I love you too, chef.” “Dance with me?” “Always.”

“You're the best thing to happen to me. Baby, I love you so much, it’s almost painful. I love the way you laugh at something that happens in a book and don’t realize you’re reacting out loud. I love the way you always add an extra spice to a recipe . . . even if the recipe didn’t ask for it. I love the way you treat everyone like they’re important, no matter who they are. I love the way you tease me for being a little over-prepared at times, and you don’t let me get away with being a dictator in the airport. I love the way you dream, that you can look at something and see it for what it could be. And most of all, I love that you’re so damn independent that you found your way into my life by flying across the globe to earn a star of your own. I love you, Claire Sullivan, and I think I’m the luckiest man alive to get to call you mine forever.”