I've known James my entire life, but this might be the first time I've ever heard his voice over the phone. Our parents were best friends until mine died shortly after my eighth birthday when a freak storm claimed their lives during a camping trip. From then on, Ruth and Martin Huxley kept us safely tucked into their family.
James and my older brother, Noah, grew up more like brothers than friends, and so, by default, we're friends too. But the kind where he's four years older than me, so I had a ridiculous crush on him while growing up, and he mostly found me annoying. Had a thing for his younger brother too—but that was different.
My crush went away eventually (out of necessity) and now, as adults, we both enjoy pissing the other one off as much as possible. But in a fun, good-natured sort of way.
I haven't had much contact with James since I moved to New York, though. We don't have that kind of friendship. I see him every time I go home to visit because, like I said, he's close with our family, but we never text or talk once I'm outside of Rome's city limits. Which is probably why I'm having trouble forming words right now.
"Hello?" he asks again. "You there?"
I pull myself together and attempt to sound less tearful. "Hi. Yes. Hello."
There's some sort of rustling in the background of his call. I wonder if he can hear the thumping and grunting in mine.
"Who is this?" he asks carefully.
See. He doesn't even have my number saved in his phone. Proof that we never talk. Proof that he has no intention of wanting to talk to me either. Embarrassing that I used to hope I'd marry him someday. That desire ended a long time ago, but still.
I try to clear the shake from my voice. "This is the president of the United States. I'm calling to inform you that the old Carhartt hat you wear every day is gross and needs to be thrown out. It's a matter of state emergency."
"Madison?"
I smile weakly. "Hi. I'm impressed you recognized my voice."
"I recognized your humor," he says, sounding mildly amused. "Why are you calling?"
A longtime participant of the friends-by-default club, he's as confused to hear me over the phone as I am to hear him.
Unfortunately, his question seems to have tugged my emotions back to the surface. I'm frantically blinking away tears, hoping he won't notice anything different in my tone. "Oh—yeah . . ." Unintentional sniffle. "I was trying to get ahold of Jack to find Emily, and I accidentally dialed you. Sorry about that. I'll let you go. Bye."
I quickly end the call, toss my phone down beside me, and move Sammy's home to the mattress so I can cry into my hands. I hate it here. I hate the intermittent pounding against my wall, I hate the horns constantly blaring outside my window, and most of all I hate that I don't fit in here like I'd hoped.
New York was supposed to be my city. My own little part of the world where I would thrive with self-discovery. But now that I've lived here, all I want is to go home. The sad part is, I'm not sure I'd feel any better there either. Maybe I'm meant to be a nomad, floating from place to place, never taking root.
Not for the first time, I wonder what my mom and dad would think of me and the life I've lived so far. Would they be proud? Worried? Something tells me I'd be the daughter they leave off the list when reciting their children's achievements at their high school reunion.
My phone buzzes on the mattress against my thigh, and my body tenses when I see that it's James calling me back. I let three vibrations of indecision pass before finally answering.
"Hello?"
"Are you crying?" he asks—right to the point.
"No . . . well . . . sort of. But I'm okay. Crying is a regular occurrence for me." I wince, wishing I hadn't said that out loud. It's not news to James that I'm emotionally messy, but it sucks to confess it to him so intimately on a day like today, because he is never a mess.
"Madison, what's wrong? What happened?" There's worry coloring his tone. And this is so James. He's always been protective, even more so than my own brother in a lot of ways. Noah takes a "my sisters know what they're doing" approach to our lives, and James is more of the "I'll grab the shovel so I have something to bury the body with" kind of guy. It's not special treatment. It's how he is with everyone.
"Nothing specifically happened," I lie. "But I . . ." I pause when I remember who I'm talking to. "God, sorry. No—don't worry about it. I don't want to take up your night. You're probably very busy wishing on every star to wake up tomorrow with a higher IQ. I'll keep trying Emily!" And that joke? It's not personal either. It's just how we talk to each other. Always have.
"Don't you know by now I'm more selfless than that? If there's a shooting star, I'm wishing for you to finally get a good sense of humor." I smile into the phone, and before I can say anything else, he adds in a softer, more subdued tone, "I'm not busy, Madison." But a horse whinnies in the background, indicating he's in the barn.
"It sounds like you're working."
It's after eight P.M. Sort of late for James to still be doing farm chores. Especially since he rarely even does the barn duties anymore. His farm is ninety percent produce, but he has a few horses and dairy cows just for fun.
"I am. One of my guys called in sick today," he says with strain in his voice, like he's tossing something heavy. "I took on his jobs, so I'm getting finished a little later than normal. Putting away Clover's tack now." He sounds tired.
"That's the definition of busy. I'll let you go."
This entire conversation is weird. Talking to James about what's going on in my life would be even weirder.
I mean, yes, I often wear one of his shirts, but that was technically an accident. I found it at Noah's place at some point and thought it looked comfy, so I stole it—not even realizing it belonged to James. He knows I have it because he saw me wearing it when I was home last year, but I informed him he would never get it back and he seemed fine with that. Because at the end of the day, we're friendly. But making him hear my sob story over the phone? That feels like a step too far.
"Since when do you give a shit if you're interrupting me or not? Stop trying to get off the phone and either tell me now what the hell is wrong, or tell me to my face after I get on a plane and show up at your door." See . . . he's a shovel guy. I wish I could say it didn't give me butterflies, but it really does. Only baby ones though. Little inconsequential flutters.
The bumping against my wall intensifies again and I look over at my dresser just in time to lean in and catch an unlit candle before it tumbles off. "My roommate is having sex."
There's a long, understandable pause.
James clears his throat. "And that's . . . upsetting . . . you?"
I squint my eyes shut. "Well, I do feel bad that Sammy is having to listen to it again."
"Who's Sammy?"
"My turtle. Sorry—tortoise. He doesn't have fins."
"You have a turtle?" he asks and again, another grunt pushes through his voice, accompanied by the sound of metal jingling. I picture him removing a saddle and hanging it on the wall. Oddly, this mental image is comforting and soothes a little of the ache in my chest. I know exactly where James is standing in the barn. I know what it smells like. I know that if he takes roughly fifteen steps to the left, he'll be outside and staring up at the dark, inky sky, and there will be a thousand glittering stars.
I can't see the stars very well in New York. Only one or two here and there. Something I never expected would bother me.
"Tortoise," I correct. "I found him half-squashed in Central Park. So I rescued him from the wide-open space and now he lives in plastic captivity with a pink Band-Aid on his shell."
"Every reptile's dream."
Obviously, it was more involved than that. I took him to a vet. They did the official mending and told me he'd need to be kept safe for about six months while he healed. Truthfully, though, I'm scared to let him go again. Maybe New York isn't what he thought it would be either.
"I'll let him go when he's ready. But for now he gets to enjoy a never-ending supply of top-of-the-line leaves."
"You're president of the United States and a saint. You've really changed since you left Rome."
Not as much as I would have liked.
And then the thumping sounds are not all that's filling the air. Bryce and her date are vocally identifying where they're at in their naked choreography.
"Geez, you weren't kidding about your roommate," James says. "I don't think poor Sammy is coming out of this one uncorrupted."
"His therapy is going to be expensive." I lie back on my mattress and stare at the ceiling, pretending I'm looking up at the stars above Huxley Farm.
"Is that really why you're crying? Are you . . . in love with your roommate or something?"
"Oh god no!" This actually makes me laugh, which feels so good. I haven't laughed in a few days. Weeks? Maybe months, honestly. "Even if I wasn't solely into guys, she's a miserable person and I think I hate her? She's so messy, and it's been hard going from living with my sisters and our special dynamic of chaos to sharing a tiny apartment with this stranger who I can't stand but don't want to get rid of because at least she's not a murderer, you know?"
"She must really be messy if you—the chaos gremlin—are commenting on it."
"Rude."
"It's just a fact," he says easily. "How many cups are on your bedside table right now?"
My eyes slide to the surface in question. "None." My response is smug.
"Bullshit. I'm guessing . . ." He sounds like he's squinting and, knowing James, cupping the bill of his hat. "Four?"
"You couldn't be more wrong."
"Six?" He pauses.
"I would never."
"Seven?!" he adds with surprised delight.
I let out a theatrical sigh. "Fine. Six glasses . . . and two old coffee mugs."
"I knew it. Your roommate must be absolutely nasty."
"She is!" I roll onto my stomach, feet swinging back and forth in the air behind me. "Yes, I'm messy. And chaotic. But James, she is dirty. Like leaving spaghetti sauce caked onto the countertop until it either rots and grows something fuzzy or I clean it. And don't even get me started about all the used condoms in the trash can that she never takes out."
"That's criminal." I hear him slide the barn doors closed and then his feet crunching over the gravel and dirt path. "Here's what you do. Tomorrow, take the trash can and set it on her bed. Better yet, empty it out onto her bed."
"I can't do that! I still have to live with her until—"
In my silence, James asks, "Until when?"
"I actually don't know," I say in barely a whisper as I remember the reason for this phone call.
"Madison?" James prompts when I don't speak again for a while. "What's going on?"
I swallow and, for once, don't hide the truth. "I graduated today." There's a heavy silence on his end of the phone. I don't wait for him to fill it. "I graduated, and I didn't tell anyone because I didn't feel like making a big fuss."
"Why? You like a big fuss."
This makes me smile. "I do. But only when it's for something I love, and . . . I don't love anything about my life here. It's not what I thought it would be—my career included." My smile fades. "And today . . . today was an especially bad day." I keep Chef Davis's words from my shift this afternoon before graduation to myself: I have let you stay on here too long, and I can't deal with your incompetence anymore. Get out of my kitchen. You're fired.
"I wish . . . I wish I could come home and—I don't know—move at a slower pace until I figure it all out. But everything here feels so urgent and overwhelming." I have the honesty of an intoxicated person but the depression of a fully sober one.
"Why can't you? Come home?" His voice is a soft, low rumble, and something about it has me all too aware that this is officially the longest one-on-one, genuine conversation I've ever had with James.
I open my eyes, and the white and yellow stained ceiling blots out the sparkling stars of my imagination. "Because there're no entry-level kitchen jobs available in Rome. Or even near it."
I've only been searching for entry level since I have no illusions that Chef Davis will recommend me for anything beyond scrubbing dishes, but I haven't even found a single prep cook or porter job listed either.
And even if there was a position available, I don't know if I'd want to take it. I used to love being in a kitchen, experimenting with recipes and forcing my family and friends to taste test everything. But after this year, I can hardly stand inside the threshold of one without having a negative physical reaction.
I should probably scurry back to Rome and live on Emily's couch while she makes me hot chocolate and picks up the pieces of my life yet again. But I'm tired of that pattern. I want to go home—but not as The Failure.
"If I come back, I need to have a secure job to return for, or I'm not sure I'll be able to face everyone." I immediately regret voicing that thought. Who's to say I can even trust James with it?
There's such a long pause that I think maybe he hung up. "James?"
"Sorry. I'm here. I just got inside the house and . . . was thinking about something."
"Oh, yeah! Sorry!" I say, embarrassed that I've been boring him enough to lose his attention. This is a new level of pathetic. "I've taken up too much of your—"
"No, I was thinking about something that might help."
"Oh."
I hear him take in a long breath. "What if I were to tell you I was opening a restaurant on the farm, and . . . I want you to be the chef?"
A laugh jumps out. "I would say you've lost your mind. Starting a restaurant is a huge endeavor and you definitely don't want me at the helm of that ship."
"So that's your answer?"
I laugh again, still thinking this is some weird joke, but when he doesn't join me, I swallow. "What do you mean?"
"Is that your official answer to the job offer? A no?" He sounds resigned.
"James . . ." I sit up slowly. "Are you serious? Are you opening a restaurant?"
There is the longest pause in the history of long pauses before he answers. "Yes." But he says it in such an odd tone. Almost like a question. But I don't have time to consider it before he's continuing with a more confident air. "Yes, I'm serious. I am opening a restaurant. With . . . Tommy." Wait. There it is again. He said Tommy slowly, like I've never heard the name before. "We're working together to open a restaurant on the property . . . to modernize the farm."
Has James been drinking? The way he's talking paired with how out of left field this news is makes me think he's two sheets to the wind. Then again, I haven't lived in Rome for two years. Maybe it's not a surprise to anyone who lives there and my family has all forgotten to mention it to me.
"How come I didn't know about this?"
"Well . . . it's still in the building phase right now. And I didn't originally offer the job to you because I knew how much you didn't want to live in Rome. I didn't want you to feel pressured to take it. But now . . . you know, if you need somewhere to find your footing after graduation, maybe it would be the perfect option for you. A place where you can have full control over the menu and the kitchen and figure everything out."
I can't lie—this offer is more than intriguing. But I have concerns . . .
"And what if I come home and realize I don't want to be there after all?"
I hear him inhale as he takes the time to consider my question. "Then . . . once the kitchen is up and running, if you're not happy, you'll have something great for your résumé that could hopefully help you get any job you want somewhere else."
My résumé! Meaning, if all goes well, I can completely bypass using Chef Davis for a recommendation. If I can make this job work, maybe I can salvage my culinary career. Maybe I can also find my way back to loving it. I get to go home to Rome, Kentucky . . . but with my chin held high.
I have zero reasons to turn this down. Well, other than the glaringly obvious one where I'm not at all qualified.
"You're actually serious, James? Like serious-serious?"
"So serious I could cry," he says again in that weird resigned voice. But maybe I'm reading too much into it and he's tired. Or wants to be off the phone with me by now. "So . . . what do you say? Will you come be our chef?"
I'm in shock. I know I should jump at the chance, but still my mouth opens and closes like a fish until finally I find a few words to toss out. "Just for my peace of mind, you do know it's me—Madison Walker—that you're talking to, right?"
A soft, short laugh cuts through the line. "The five-foot-tall brunette with dark brown eyes who once crashed a tractor into my pond after promising me she was a great driver?"
"Yes . . ."
"The repeat offender of stinking up my kitchen with roasted Brussels sprouts and force-feeding them to me even though I hate them?"
"They're good for you."
"The girl Noah and I had to pick up from the sheriff's office her freshman year of college for a public indecency offense after she went skinny-dipping in the lake with her boyfriend?"
"Technically, yes, but he wasn't my boyfriend. We only saw each other like two times after—You know what? Never mind." Best to let that one go unsaid.
Despite all of this, with absolute certainty in his voice, James says, "Yep. You're the one."
"James . . ."
He chuckles. "Madison, if you don't want the job, just say so. You won't hurt my feelings. But if you do want it, I want you to have it. I can't think of a better person to run my restaurant. You know this town. You're a hell of a cook, and you also know all the trendy dishes from the city that could bring people in. So if you want this job, it's yours."
My heart is racing. I shouldn't take the position for several reasons. What I really should do is tell him the truth right now. But once again, life is handing me extra credit, and since I'm Madison Walker, I have to take it.
"Okay. When do I start?