instinct & taste | part two
TWO WEEKS LATER
SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD., & ASSOCIATES
The Lowcountry is bracing for a storm.
The windows in Sebastian’s office face the west where heavy, thunder-gray clouds are gathering for the evening onslaught. Rain in the forecast is never good for business; no one wants to drive downtown and take the chance that the roads will be flooded when they leave. Such are the perils of living in a city built on a spit of land below sea level.
Poor weather will drive down the walk-in crowd: the impromptu diners and tourists without reservations. Jensen’s not as worried about profits as he is the amount of prepped food that could go to waste if-
“Jensen?” Sebastian sighs. “You’ve drifted.”
“Sorry, just thinking.”
“I realize that,” his therapist says, “but it would help me if you could say those thoughts out loud once in a while.”
Jensen’s fourth month of therapy hasn’t brought any startling revelations-or revelations of any kind, actually-but he hasn’t stopped coming. There’s a covered plate on Sebastian’s desk, holding Riverside’s famous gourmet take on Southern chicken and waffles, but Sebastian wouldn’t be distracted. He’d thanked Jensen for the food and pointed the chef to his usual seat.
“Were you thinking about the restaurant?”
“There’s not much else for me to think about.” It’s a lie. Sebastian doesn’t call him on it.
“You feel that your life revolves around the restaurant?”
Jensen scrambles for a polite way to say duh. “It means everything to me. I spend my life in that kitchen-keeping it running smoothly, creating the best food possible. If Pierre was still involved, we’d have the best restaurant in the city.”
“So you’re not in favor of Miranda’s changes?”
At work, Jensen tries so hard to keep his opinions on Miranda from impacting his cuisine, but his shell is wearing thin. The restaurant continues to be popular, but Miranda’s ‘reinvention’ hadn’t brought the boom in business she’d expected. And Jensen’s not surprised. No restaurant worth its salt-and every other seasoning-needs to re-image itself as quickly as Riverside had under Miranda’s control.
Careful with his phrasing, Jensen admits, “She needs to understand I’m in charge of the kitchen, and that she and I are not a team.”
“You don’t trust her ability to run a kitchen.”
“Because she’s never worked in a kitchen in her life!”
Sebastian’s pen moves quickly across paper in the wake of his outburst. Jensen stews in silence, watching the ballpoint dart and wiggle, translating his reactions into therapist shorthand.
With a Lowcountry storm comes humidity and Jensen feels the weight of the air on his shoulders. He sighs, asking, “Could we talk about something else?”
Sebastian’s smirk is punishment for Jensen’s earlier remark. “Something else on your mind?”
“I don’t know,” Jensen grumbles. “Nothing specific.”
“Can I try something with you?” Sebastian sets his notebook aside and leans forward. “Close your eyes and take a deep breath.” He waits for Jensen to resettle himself in the chair. “Relax for just a moment and try not to think about anything. Let it all go until your mind is blank.”
Jensen manages to clear his head of everything except the idea that this would be a great time for a pre-shift siesta.
“Take another deep breath-yes, like that. Now, open your mind and tell me the first thing you think about.”
He waits for a thought to hit, letting half-formed ideas and inklings pass by. The one that sticks isn’t what Jensen expects.
He opens his eyes. “Jared.”
“Jared.” Sebastian hums. “He’s your dog-walker?”
“Dog-walker, house-sitter, landscaper,” Jensen ticks them off one by one. “He’s the reason I haven’t lost my mind.” Sebastian looks up, lips lemon-tight. “No offense,” he quickly amends. “It’s just that Josh left me with a lot of responsibilities, and with Jared around I can focus on the restaurant.”
“How long has he been working for you?”
Despite the exchange of money, Jensen hates to think of Jared’s help in those terms; it’s not that simple. “About three months.”
“Do you spend a lot of time together?”
“Our schedules are different, but sometimes he’ll stick around until I get home, or he shows up in the morning to take the dogs for an early run before his classes.”
“So you and Jared are friends.”
“I guess,” Jensen says, trying to keep his voice neutral. No sense giving Sebastian too much insight. “It’s good to have someone around.”
“The way your brother was.”
“I’m not using Jared to replace Josh.” Jensen folds his arms across his chest, body language impossible for Sebastian to misinterpret. “He’s a good guy, and he’s easy to talk to. We keep it simple.”
“Simple,” Sebastian repeats. Jensen wonders if he used the wrong word. “So you don’t see your relationship with Jared progressing?”
“Into what?” he asks, trying not to be frustrated when Sebastian keeps his mouth shut. God damn therapists-always pressing for you to explain or ‘dig deeper’ but never giving one inch in return.
Jensen changes directions. “I’m worried about him, actually,” he says, watching Sebastian write. “He’s been stressed lately. I think he’s having a rough time with his roommates and his classes.”
“And it’s affecting his work?”
“No way,” Jensen insists. “He does more than he needs to, trust me. But if it comes down to choosing between his friends, his classes, and me, then I know I’m going to lose him. To another job, I mean.”
Setting his pen on his lap, Sebastian looks over, dissecting Jensen’s words with a weighted silence. Jensen thinks back over what he said, trying to decide what sent up the red flag.
“You’d be upset if Jared quit?” Sebastian finally asks.
“Obviously.”
“Because he’d leave you with more responsibilities than you can handle.”
“That’s-no, wait.” Jensen shakes his head. “It would suck if he quit, but I’d understand. I’m just not ready for that.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll find something within the bounds of your relationship that will allow you to help Jared with his situation,” Sebastian says.
“Such as?”
“You’d be amazed by how many people find talking to be therapeutic. Not you, of course,” Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Everything is more difficult with you.”
RIVERSIDE GRILL
Jensen has to push his chair backwards to avoid the desserts currently being thrown across his desk. Mark Sheppard, pastry wizard, is shaking like a pot left boiling for too long as he rants in front of Jensen and three of Riverside’s other chefs, Dominic, Saban, and Libby, who’d piled into Jensen’s office for an impromptu bitch-fest.
“If that tosser touches my tarts one more time, I’ll cut off his nads and toast them with the rest of my nuts.” Mark flings another tart at Libby’s feet. She curses and kicks the cherry mess off of her shoes. “He asked if he could ‘fiddle’ with my recipes,” Mark gripes, “to see if there was any room for improvements.”
“I’m shocked you didn’t filet him on the spot,” Dom says. By his tone, he’s considered it. “You don’t mess with another chef’s recipe, for fuck’s sake.”
Jensen could add an entire menu of the things Dawson’s done to piss him off lately, but he lets his staff get their punches in.
“Why the bloody hell is he allowed anywhere near our kitchen?”
“Miranda wants her own man back here,” Dom says, adding a filthy twist to his voice. He’s leaning against the grimy little window that is Jensen’s only porthole to the outside world when he’s working in the back of the house. The view’s obscured by the same dark clouds he’d seen earlier during therapy. “God knows the rest of us won’t go anywhere near her.”
DeSean Saban, Riverside’s burly meat guy with shoulders as large as honeydew melons, groans. “My balls would shrivel up if I got within five feet of her.”
“Like your balls aren’t all wrinkled and old already,” Libby deadpans from where she’s slouched against Jensen’s filing cabinet. She’s a fierce little thing who might weigh a hundred pounds dripping wet, but she’s been toughing it out around dicks like Saban and Dom for years. Plus, she’s got an uncanny talent for cooking seafood.
Saban’s fingers drop to his belt. “Sounds like you wanna see ‘em, Lib. I don’t mind.”
“Hey,” Jensen finally jumps in. “Everyone keeps their pants on in my office, okay?”
Dom snorts. “That wasn’t the policy when I walked in here and saw you with Renner-”
“Everyone keeps their pants on in my office today!” Jensen amends. “And seriously, I’ve tried working with Miranda on this Dawson thing, but she’s not moving.”
It’s true-Jensen has come at the issue from every conceivable angle. He claims Dawson isn’t a match for the environment; his resume lacks the necessary experience; his dishes aren’t up to par with the rest of Riverside’s menu. No matter what Jensen says, Miranda waves it off with prickling nonchalance. Worse, she takes Jensen’s requests as a challenge, proposing little ‘competitions’ between Jensen and Dawson like they were pets circling for a treat. So far, Jensen refuses to take part.
“Do we have a plane?” Saban asks.
Jensen smirks. “You’re telling me that y’all have no idea how to run someone out of a kitchen? Come on.” He points at Saban and says, “Back at Sienna, I remember you sneaking up behind me and covering my nose and mouth with dried pepper.” Then to Libby: “I know you’ve got some nasty fish parts stashed somewhere that you can get creative with. And Dom, don’t even tell me you’ve forgotten about what we did to Vance when he started back at Red Coral.”
It’s pointless to remind them what Mark’s capable of. The Englishman has reduced each of them to tears at some point. Though the idea that his pastry chef is this rattled over Dawson’s continued employment tells Jensen just how bad the situation’s gotten.
Dawson-and again, Jensen laments the stupidity of the guy’s name-has got to go.
Already scheming, Jensen’s staff files out of his office with deviousness in their hearts. Only Dom hangs back, hitting Jensen with a sharp gaze.
“You doing alright, Jen?”
“Yeah, man. I’m fine.”
“Sorry about dragging ‘em all in here, but I made sure Sheppard wasn’t armed.”
Jensen laughs. “He could have been deadly with those tarts.”
Jensen had met Dominic years ago when they were both working as apprentice chefs in a kitchen South of Broad. Instead of trying to bury each other like most up-and-coming talents, they’d cooked up an easy camaraderie in the kitchen. Their friendship didn’t translate as well outside the kitchen-Jensen and Dom were too different to hang out like regular guys-but that didn’t mean they couldn’t party together. They’d drink from shut-down to sun-up, and come back to do it all over again the next shift.
Those raunchy times are behind them. Dom had done the last thing anyone expected and settled down with a bartender they’d met before they joined up again at Riverside. Jensen likes the way Dom’s mellowed over the last year. He still has Jensen’s back, and he’d never let a shit like Dawson get in his way, but he’s built a life outside the industry.
Jensen wonders if his jealousy is something he should mention to Sebastian.
“You know,” Jensen says, “we wouldn’t have this Dawson issue if you’d taken the job when I offered it.”
Dom grins, wide teeth yellowed from years of smoking. “Yeah, I could’ve, but Stacy likes seeing me more than once a week.”
“I don’t know why she wants to see your ugly mug. I thought I was doing her a favor.”
“Never said it was my face she likes looking at.” Dom thrusts his hips towards the desk. “You know what I mean?”
Jensen groans. “I wish I didn’t. Now get outta here-make sure Mark’s not planning on doing anything that might involve felony charges. I’ve got work to do.”
Dom tips his head back through the door before he leaves. “Where do you stand on misdemeanors?”
Weighing Dawson’s infuriating existence against a little hassle from the Charleston Police, Jensen figures it’s a no brainer.
“Go get him, Dom.”
Jensen is right about the weather. The rain hasn’t let up in hours and the kitchen’s not as busy as it should be for a Thursday night. But he’s not letting his crew slack off, calling out prep lists in between the orders popping up on the printer.
Speaking of which…
“One filet, medium rare, and one salmon,” he shouts to his line. Saban and Libby are in motion as soon as Jensen stops talking. The last item on the ticket is their made-from-scratch pasta, so that’s Jensen’s to handle.
Jensen can oversee the entire kitchen from his sauté station. Black rubber mats on the floor, eight-burner steel cooktop at his fingertips where he sets three pans and starts gathering what he needs for the Strozzapreti along with the ingredients for the salmon’s blanc sauce. As head chef, he finishes every plate-sauces and aesthetics-before it leaves his kitchen. Everything gets his signature touch.
On nights when the kitchen is slammed, Jensen functions more as a referee than a chef. The stress is more likely to give someone a coronary than the ten sticks of butter Mark goes through every night. Food (and sometimes a knife) goes flying, pulses are pounding, and Jensen passes off plate after plate of perfect cuisine to a line of servers who are more likely to mess up a dish in the time it takes to go from kitchen to table than any member of Jensen’s crew.
Orders are coming in at a steady pace but there’s room for Jensen to hear himself think, and that’s never a good sign. He was drawn to the hustle and noise of a full caliber kitchen in the first place in order to lose himself-to get as far away from his thoughts as possible. After graduation, his dreams changed from aspirations of a quiet bistro where he’d be able to enjoy his food and his customers, to the incessant throb of a world-class restaurant where chefs never sleep and there’s no time to think of anything but the food.
Jensen adds finely grated Italian sheep’s milk cheese, loaded with peppercorns, to his sauce, stirring around English peas and mushrooms. Libby’s passing the salmon off to Dom, who’s ready with the roasted vegetables. By the time the plate reaches Jensen, the white butter and apple sauce is finished, and the pasta’s al dente. The filet, finished with leeks and fingerling potatoes, is in Jensen’s hands a few seconds later.
Genevieve’s there to pick up the order and on her way out of the kitchen while the food’s piping hot and exquisite. Another ticket’s printing up when Miranda slinks through the swinging door, zucchini-green eyes fixed on Jensen. Her square-necked, red dress clings, an onyx choker wrapped above the divot between her collarbones. Miranda’s taste in fashion and jewelry has risen considerably in price since the divorce.
“You’ll never guess who’s being seated right now.”
Jensen’s not particularly interested. Ever since Riverside’s reinvention, he and Miranda have maintained different notions of VIPs. “If it means another order, I’m happy.”
She laughs. “Reid Canton! I know he’s moved on from the newspaper scene, but he could still write us up somewhere. I’ve heard rumors about some new project he’s trying to develop. Drop by his table,” she orders. “Find out why he’s here and try to work in a bit of publicity.”
“I’m busy back here,” Jensen tells her, thanking the gods of coincidence that another ticket pops up. “Cold apps! Full oyster plate, two field greens, and one Caesar.” Turning back to Miranda, he says, “You can talk to him.”
“Foodies like Canton want to see chefs, not owners,” Miranda insists, visibly put off. “If you think shouting orders like a drill sergeant is more important than good press, I’ll send Paul.”
Jensen doesn’t know who she’s talking about until Dawson appears at Jensen’s station, beaming. Jensen tends to forget that his sous chef has a first name that isn’t Fucking.
Paul Dawson is shorter than Jensen’s six-foot-one, with a celery-stalk body that goes straight up and down. A break that never healed correctly turns his nose to the left, and there’s a dent across the bridge. With tepid blue eyes, buzzed brown hair, and an onion-shaped face, Jensen’s new sous chef isn’t particularly good looking. But it’s Dawson’s grating personality and obnoxious attitude that are losing him points day after day in Jensen’s kitchen.
“I don’t mind,” Dawson tells them. “I think we can spare one chef for a few minutes.”
“Hold up.” Jensen’s not about to let Dawson vomit his lack of personality all over one of Charleston’s most recognized culinary authorities. “I’ve got it. Dom! You’ve got tickets and sauté.”
“Right on,” Dom says, hurrying over and seamlessly fitting himself behind the four pans Jensen’s got working.
Miranda and Dawson protest at the same time.
“Jensen-”
“Wait a minute-”
“I’ve known Reid for a while,” Jensen says, untying his apron and smoothing his coat. “Let me take care of him.”
Walking into the dining room is like entering another world. Gone are the efficient lines of stainless steel and clean, white walls-no décor to distract from the tasks at hand-and in their place are dark chairs with enticingly curved legs that promise comfort but don’t quite deliver, a lighting scheme that’s neither flattering nor particularly well-thought out, and scorched copper walls lit up with unnecessary sconces. Jensen’s happy to see that the hostess is seating one couple while two other tables are perusing open menus. Maybe the night’s not a loss after all.
In one of the corner booths, Jensen finds Reid Canton sitting cozily next to another well-dressed man. “Reid, I appreciate you coming out in the rain to give us some business.”
“It’s a special occasion,” the writer explains, standing and returning Jensen’s cordial handshake. He indicates the man sitting beside him. “This is my partner, Andrew.”
Reid is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome with cocoa colored hair that’s frosted at the temples, and deep brown eyes. His regal forehead slopes to a proud nose, topping a full mouth and prominent, European chin. He’s dressed in a narrowly cut black shirt and charcoal pants, whereas his sandy-haired boyfriend sports a silver-gray suit paired with a sky blue shirt to enhance the color of his eyes.
“Tonight is our second anniversary and there was no way we were giving up our reservations because of a little rain.”
Jensen’s glad he chose not to let Miranda force her way into their dinner. If Reid’s here to enjoy himself, a constant grating presence would curdle the mood. On the other hand, Jensen only wants to do what he does best, and that’s to make superb, unrivaled dishes that his customers will remember.
“Listen,” Jensen says, “I don’t want to get in the way of your evening, but if you’ll indulge me, I want to create a special menu for the two of you.”
Reid’s speechless and Andy says, “Wow, Jensen. That would be amazing. Reid’s told me wonderful things about your food-”
“And only your food,” Reid jokes, curling an arm around his boyfriend’s waist. “I tried not to mention how good looking you were.”
Jensen laughs. “Just relax and I’ll take care of everything.”
He excuses himself with their thanks, assembling dishes in his head based on what he recalls about Reid’s tastes. While he wrote for the Post & Courier, Reid had reviewed a number of Jensen’s old employers and Jensen had devoured every critique when they went to print.
Snagging Genevieve by the bar, Jensen tells her to bring two glasses of Prosecco to Reid’s table. “Tell Julie to throw them on my tab,” he adds, knowing that Riverside’s bar manager keeps a tight lid on inventory, regardless of Jensen’s intentions to comp the ticket later tonight.
Miranda’s waiting in the kitchen for his report and she’s unhappy when Jensen explains that Reid’s not here to be worked over. Dawson throws hostile glances at Jensen over the sherry and celery leaf emulsion he’s making in accordance with Jensen’s recipe.
Let them both stew, he decides.
By nine o’clock the kitchen’s winding down-weather getting in the way of the late crowd. Jensen’s crew has worked through more than half of their prep list and is well into clean up when Riverside’s weeknight maître d sticks his head into the kitchen and informs them the waitstaff’s been cut to one. That’s Jensen’s cue to leave the kitchen in Dom’s capable hands, even though Dawson’s been nipping at Jensen’s heels for a chance to run late-night. As sous chef, it should be Dawson’s prerogative, but Jensen enjoys his little coups.
Escaping to his office, Jensen bares his teeth at the unshrinking pile of paperwork on his desk. Running orders and drafting schedules means he’s not cooking, and if Jensen’s not cooking, he’s not happy.
“Jensen?” Genevieve’s slim figure curves around the doorjamb. Her generous smile tells Jensen the tips were good tonight. “Someone’s back here to see you.”
Reid appears behind her and Jensen waves him into the office.
“Amazing, Jensen,” Reid responds to Jensen asking how dinner was. “Andy won’t be able to stop talking about it for a week.”
“Y’all deserved a great night.”
“You didn’t have to take care of the bill though,” Reid says, faint liquor flush in his cheeks. “I left the ‘food critic’ at home tonight.”
“That’s why I did it. You’re less of an asshole when you’re off the clock.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what Andy tells me.” They both laugh, Reid less inhibited as if he hasn’t stopped celebrating yet. Jensen’s too much of a cynic to expound on the way Reid lights up when mentioning his boyfriend, but his mind takes a note or two. “But thank you again for tonight. I owe you one, Jensen.”
That’s not a favor Jensen intends to waste. Charleston’s food and wine scene is expansive and famously diverse, and there are plenty of food writers out there, but Reid Canton is the best.
“In fact,” Reid says, tapping at the doorframe, “maybe you could take a look at something I’m putting together.”
“Right now?”
Reid’s gaze sweeps over Jensen’s messy desk. “Oh no. I don’t have anything ready to print yet, but I’d love your opinion once I get to that stage.”
“Are you going to give me a hint about what it is?” Jensen asks.
The writer smiles and shakes his head. “You’ll appreciate it, I promise. I’ll make sure you get a proof when it’s ready.”
Reid thanks him again and finds his own way out of the kitchen, leaving Jensen wondering what sort of project would entice Reid away from the glamorous title he’d held with the city’s newspaper.
Keeping an ear out for any emergencies, Jensen divides his paperwork and attempts to conquer a small stack, adjusting his orders for the weekend. The paperwork leaves the unoccupied portion of his mind free to think about what Sebastian had said during Jensen’s session.
It was absurd for Sebastian to imply that Jensen was trying to replace Josh. His brother can’t be replaced, and even if he could, Josh isn’t gone. They talk through email at least four or five times a week, phone calls whenever the ridiculous twelve hour time difference allows, and Skype when their schedules sync up. Jensen gets everything except for Josh’s physical presence, and since they haven’t lived together in years, Jensen likes to think he’s managing that loss.
Jensen wishes he’d never mentioned Jared during therapy. That way, he wouldn’t have to overanalyze Jared’s impact on his life. Being with Jared is effortless, and with all the crap Jensen’s forced to put up with here, he needs someone to pull him off the stove when he starts to bubble over.
His cell phone rings and startles him. After a search that sends orders flying, he palms his phone and looks at the screen.
Jared.
HOME
The rain has weakened to here-and-there showers by the time Jensen gets home. He pulls two beers from the beverage fridge in the butler’s pantry-the one Josh insisted he’d never use, but was always stocked with beer and wine whenever Jensen came over-and carries them to the counter. The snap of the caps is lost under the hum of another car pulling up in the driveway.
Jensen meets Jared on the front porch where the gas lamps are flickering in the humid air. Through his neighbor’s open shutters, Jensen can make out the opening splash of the local news. He and Jared exchange timid smiles; Jensen’s not sure what to say and he imagines that Jared doesn’t know where to begin. Silence reigns until Jared drops his bags in the hallway and accepts the bottle Jensen offers.
“Thanks for letting me come over so late,” Jared says after downing a quarter of his beer in one go.
Jensen checks the clock on the microwave and shrugs. “We actually wrapped up pretty early because of the storm. I think we only did about half the business we were expecting.”
“Oh, that sucks.”
“It happens,” he says, more interested in Jared.
Jared is fidgeting, eager to talk, but a sudden scratching startles them both.
“Shit, I let the dogs out as soon as I got home.” Before Jensen can move, Jared crosses to the sliding door, letting Scout and Paisley inside. The dogs pay no attention to Jensen, skittering around Jared’s shins as if starving for his attention. And Jared indulges them for a moment, long fingers rubbing behind their ears in a manner that looks way too comforting.
Jensen shakes himself out of it.
“Back,” Jared commands softly, and the dogs obey. “Sit.”
“I can’t believe how well you’ve got Paisley trained. She was never this calm before.” He watches Jared pour more food into their bowls, down to half a beer by the time Jared’s in front of him again, shifting from foot to foot.
“So what happened?”
Jared’s sigh is long and painful. “God, I’m so pissed off. Matt I could live with-he’s only really annoying when he drinks.”
“Which is, like, every other night?” Jensen asks, feeling bad when Jared winces at the amount of sarcasm. “Sorry.”
“It’s kinda true. Anyway, I told you before that Federico and Rich have started to bring home these really creepy people, and they’re always high or something.” Jared wrinkles his nose in distaste. “I swear they don’t even go to class anymore which, hey, it’s not my problem, but when they’re hanging around the place all day and I’m not there…”
“Yeah, that’d freak me out, too,” Jensen says. He grabs another beer for each of them, pausing at Jared’s shoulder to give him a friendly nudge.
“Tonight I came back from my late class and this guy was just hanging out in my room. Fed and Rich weren’t even there. I have no idea how he got in my room since I locked it, but he was going through my books and my notes.” Jared’s breaths are coming faster and faster, throat tense as he talks through the anger. “I kicked him out and waited until Rich got home, but he just”-Jared stops with a huff of pure frustration-“he just laughed and told me it wasn’t a big deal. Like, I shouldn’t mind as long as the guy didn’t steal anything.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know! I just packed up my valuable stuff and called you.”
Ever since he’d answered Jared’s call at the restaurant, Jensen’s been wondering why Jared thought of him first. In the last three weeks, they’ve spent more time together-sharing leftovers if Jared’s around late or getting dragged to the park whenever Jared’s in a “force-Jensen-to-be-athletic” mood-which has inevitably strengthened their friendship. Truth is, Jensen’s been thinking of Jared as his pseudo-roommate for a while now, something much stronger than a casual employer/employee relationship. Maybe that bond goes both ways.
“I barely know these guys anymore,” Jared is saying. “Rich and Matt are the only ones on the lease, so it’s not like I can ask them to move out or anything.”
“You can’t live there anymore.” Jensen’s a straight-shooter in the kitchen as well; nothing gets done without a clear directive. “I know you’ve been stressed out for a while, and it doesn’t seem like your buddies are gonna turn themselves around anytime soon.”
Jared’s shoulders are slumped, the normally broad line wilted into a frown. “Yeah, I’m kinda resigned to couch-hopping at least until graduation. Starting with yours,” he adds with a gaping yawn.
“This isn’t a frat house, Jared. You get the guestroom.”
“Seriously?”
Jensen eyes make the long journey up from Jared’s toes to his eager gaze. “If you want to contort yourself on the couch, feel free. But it wasn’t built for a colossus.” It’s satisfying to know he can get a genuine laugh out of Jared even when life kicks him to the curb.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” he tells Jared. “Paisley won’t be able to resist sleeping in a new bed, which means I’ll wake up without dog breath in my face. That’s a win-win.”
Jared reaches down to give the spaniel a soft pat on the head. “Aw, she’s not so bad.”
While Jared’s getting settled in the guest bedroom, Jensen retreats to the master under the absurd pretense of picking out towels. He’s not questioning his decision to let Jared stay for the night, but he’s worried about the fact that he could so easily offer more. Wants to. Jared’s been the most stable thing in his life for the last few months, and Jensen knows not to let go of a good thing.
Jensen imagines how they’d get along if they lived together. There’d be no wondering if Jared was going to swing by and spend more time at the house than his obligations called for; no need to worry about Jared surviving in his crazy housing situation. And Jensen knows he’s thinking in selfish terms, but he misses having someone around-someone to look for when he comes home.
But he can’t get ahead of himself-Jared’s only staying for one night.
He drops the two largest towels he could find off in the guest room, startling Jared who has already plugged in his cell phone charger and set his laptop on the dresser. Paisley’s sniffing around Jared’s bags, snubbed tail wiggling back and forth. Scout’s there, too, stretched out on his side at the foot of the bed.
“Anything I can grab for you? I think the bathroom’s stocked with whatever you’ll need.”
“It’s great, Jensen. Thanks.”
Yeah, Jared is definitely more chipper now that he gets a bed instead of a couch. He needs real sleep to erase the shadowed rings under his eyes, ease the lines around his mouth.
Nodding towards his room, Jensen says, “I’m gonna change and then head back to the kitchen. I stay up pretty late, but feel free to crash.”
He’s tempted to stay in the doorway and watch Jared strip out of a few of his layers. (Jensen never stopped to consider how having Jared sleeping under the same roof-and changing, and showering-is going to affect his jerk-off fantasies.) Instead, he slips away quietly. Because the absolute last thing Jared needs is for someone else to infringe on his privacy.
Back in the kitchen, Jensen scoops out some of Mark’s made-from-scratch cherry and walnut ice cream and sits at the counter with one of his moleskins. It’s as close to a nightly ritual as Jensen has; starting with one flavor or one ingredient that had popped into his head during the course of dinner, he lets his thoughts wander. He samples with his mind, discarding tastes and combinations when they don’t work, and notes what he thinks will work in his messy scrawl. It’s free association using food, and it’s helped him create more than one spectacular plate.
He hasn’t wandered very far when Jared startles him.
“Is there any ice cream left?”
“Thought you were going to bed,” Jensen says, scratching his chest through his t-shirt.
“I’m tired, but my mind’s still working through everything, so I might as well be productive. Right?”
“Pull up a stool and I’ll grab some for you.”
“I’ve got it, you don’t need to wait on me,” Jared says as he pulls out a bowl and he scoops the ice cream. Jensen’s thrown off, he’d honestly forgotten that Jared knows his way around the house better than he does.
“Oh my god, this is amazing,” Jared says, slurping rivers of cherry and vanilla from his spoon. “Did Mark make this?”
“Yup, and he doesn’t know I took so much home, so let’s keep this between us.”
They lapse into a comfortable silence; Jared’s got his cell phone out, thumbs quietly tapping out text after text. Jensen pretends to brainstorm but he’s going nowhere, too focused on the clink of Jared’s spoon against his dish, soft taps on the touchscreen, and sharing the quiet with the rhythm of someone else’s breath.
“My mom keeps texting me,” Jared says when Jensen’s staring becomes obvious.
“This late?”
“She was worried about me, you know how moms-” he cuts himself off. “Shit, I didn’t mean to say-”
Jensen drops his pen then rubs the side of his face. “It’s okay. My mom was the same way-always checking in.”
“Yeah, I…anyway,” Jared coughs through his own awkwardness, “I told her I was here and that things’ll be fine. Plus I’m trying to set up a meeting with my marketing group sometime tomorrow, and they’re being really non-committal since it’s Friday and no one wants to change their plans.”
Jared keeps talking about grades and priorities, but Jensen’s stuck on the mention of their mothers. He’s aware of that hollowed-out space in his heart that’s never going to heal, but he’s calm. Apparently, Jared can bring up his parents without triggering Jensen’s fight-or-flight instinct. Not even the most seasoned members of Jensen’s crew can boast that distinction.
Eventually the night catches up with Jared, and Jensen waves him off to the guest room with a smile and a promise not to wake Jensen up when he leaves for class. He lets the dogs out one more time and watches them scamper off towards Jared’s room (and how did it stop being the guest room already? Jared’s only staying the night…) as soon as they come back in.
Jensen locks up, shuts off the lights, and settles into the king-size bed without his usual furry company, but not minding a bit. He could swear the house feels different and he’s asleep in minutes.
RIVERSIDE GRILL
Jensen shuts himself in his office after yelling for Dom to cover orders. Dawson had been in the walk-in at the time so Jensen didn’t have to deal with his pouting.
Phone in hand, Jensen opens his call log, taps a name halfway down, and then counts out long seconds for the call to connect.
“Josh.”
“Jen, hey.” Josh’s voice always sounds extra distorted from the thousands of miles between them. “I was wondering when we’d get a chance to talk. Are you at work?”
“Yeah, and we’re surprisingly busy for a Monday night. Are you just getting into the office?”
“On my way, actually,” Josh responds, a slight lag in transmission. “Not much gets you away from the line when it’s busy, so what’s up?”
Trust Josh to skip right to the point even though they haven’t talked voice-to-voice in nearly a week. “It’s about Jared.”
“Oh yeah, I read your email. Tough break for the guy having to move out so close to graduation. How’s he doing?”
“Good. I mean, having him at the house is easy, but he hasn’t made progress on finding another place to live.” Jensen sighs. “He picked up most of the stuff from his old apartment and he’s keeping it in his car.”
“Why don’t-” Josh tries to cut in, but Jensen’s still going.
“It sucks to see him worrying about it, and I don’t think crashing on people’s couches is going to help him out, stress-wise.”
“Jen-”
“And if he does find a place, and it’s on the other side of town, then I don’t know how he’s going to manage with the dogs, or-”
“Oh my god,” Josh laughs as soon as Jensen pauses to take a breath. “You’re an idiot.”
Waiting until the tinny laughter stops, Jensen says, “What the hell, Josh?”
“You can’t be this dense, man.”
“About what?”
“You want me to suggest it so you don’t have to?” Josh asks. “Will that make it easier for you?”
Jensen won’t admit to Josh, or especially to Sebastian who had probed Jensen on this very issue at the end of last week, that it would.
“Jesus, Jen. Just ask Jared to move into the house with you.”
“Josh…”
“C’mon, man,” Josh says, “I know you’ve thought about it. I could tell that much from your emails. You like the guy and this’ll solve everybody’s problems.”
“Yeah,” Jensen hesitates, “but it’s your house.”
“And from what you’ve told me, Jared’s the one taking care of it.” Josh means it as a joke, but there’s truth to it. “If you’re asking whether or not I mind, I don’t. Gemma won’t either, so don’t use her as an excuse.” As if he’s interpreting Jensen’s silence, Josh adds, “He’s not gonna turn you down if you ask, Jen. He came to you first, right?”
Jensen paces around his desk, listening to the muffled sound of Dom’s voice calling out a long order. “Yeah, he did.”
“You guys are friends now,” Josh says. “He trusts you. He won’t say no.”
He wishes he could absorb Josh’s confidence. From that first night Jared came to stay, Jensen knew this was a possibility. But despite Josh’s assurances, Jensen has reason to believe Jared might say no; it’s the way his eyes are guarded sometimes when Jensen’s in the room, or the way he doesn’t suggest plans as freely anymore, waiting for Jensen to say something. Jared’s not avoiding him-they’ve had no problems sharing the same space-but he could be waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Hey, I just got to the office and I’m sure you’re dying to get back in the kitchen,” Josh says, kicking Jensen out of his thoughts. “Let me know what he says, okay? I should be heading to lunch around the time you get home.”
Josh hangs up and Jensen hurries out of his office. On the line, there’s no room for any other thoughts-that’s one reason Jensen’s addicted to his job-so there’s no time to second guess his decision
He sneaks up behind Dom who’s struggling with six sauté pans, another order printing up. “You bitches can’t last five minutes without me, huh?” he asks, knowing exactly when to duck to avoid taking a full leek to the head, courtesy of Dom.
Jensen laughs, grabs the new ticket, and takes over three of the sauté pans.
“Alright, I need…”
PART THREE