After My Boyfriend Stole My Recipes for His Favorite Girl

I walked into Neil Ashworth's office at seven in the morning, before the line cooks arrived and before the prep stations filled with noise. The letter sat folded in my jacket pocket. I'd printed it at Alianna's apartment the night before, my signature already dry at the bottom.

Neil looked up from his espresso, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He was reviewing supplier invoices. He always started his day with numbers.

'Emery.' He set down his pen. 'You're early.'

I placed the letter on his desk, centered between the invoices and his coffee cup. 'I'm resigning.'

He didn't pick it up right away. He studied my face instead, the way he studied a plate before it left the pass—looking for something out of place, something that didn't belong. Then he unfolded the letter and read it in silence.

When he finished, he set it down carefully. 'You're the most gifted sous chef I've worked with in fifteen years.'

'Thank you.'

'Is there anything I can do to change your mind?'

I shook my head. 'No. But I'm asking you not to make a counter-offer. Please just accept it.'

Neil leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded once. 'I'll start your recommendation letter today.'

Something in my chest cracked open, just slightly. 'I appreciate that.'

'Where are you going?'

'Charleston. My family has a restaurant there.'

He smiled, faint but genuine. 'They're lucky to have you back.'

I stood, smoothed my jacket, and turned toward the door. At the threshold, I paused and looked back at the kitchen I'd poured two years of my life into—the gleaming stainless steel, the knife rack where my blade still hung, the window that looked out onto the alley where I used to stand during smoke breaks I didn't take, just to breathe.

Then I walked out.

That afternoon, I called home from Alianna's living room. The phone rang twice before my father picked up.

'Dad.'

'Emery.' His voice was steady, the same tone he'd used my entire childhood—calm, unhurried, present.

'I'm coming home. I resigned this morning. I'll be there by the end of the week.'

Silence. Not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that meant he was listening with his whole attention.

'I'll clear out your room,' he said finally.

I pressed my lips together and nodded even though he couldn't see me. 'Thanks.'

'Your mother wants to talk to you.'

There was a shuffling sound, and then my mother's voice came through, warm and unhurried. 'Emery, sweetheart.'

'Hi, Mom.'

'What do you want for dinner your first night back?'

Not 'Are you okay?' Not 'What happened with Lennon?' Just: What do you want for dinner?

My throat tightened. 'Brown butter pasta.'

A pause. I could hear her breathing, could picture her standing in the kitchen with the phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear, the way she always did when her hands were busy.

'I'll make it,' she said quietly.

I closed my eyes. 'I'll see you soon.'

When I hung up, Alianna was watching me from the kitchen doorway, a mug of tea in her hands. She didn't say anything. She just walked over and sat beside me on the couch.

That evening, my phone lit up with a text from Lennon. I stared at the screen for a long moment before opening it.

'Hey babe. I know things have been rough. Let me make it up to you. I booked us a table at Canlis—the place where we had our first date. Tomorrow night, 8pm. Let's start fresh. I love you.'

I read it twice. Then I set the phone face-down on the coffee table and opened my laptop to search for flights to Charleston.

Alianna glanced at the screen. 'He doesn't know, does he?'

'No.'

'Are you going to tell him?'

I pulled up my brother's contact and typed a quick message: 'Can you fly up this weekend? I need help with luggage.' His reply came back within two minutes: 'Already looking at flights.'

I looked at Alianna. 'No. I'm not going to tell him.'

That night, after Lennon left for a gig at a hotel bar downtown, I started packing. I moved through the apartment methodically, the same way I prepped a station—everything in its place, nothing wasted. I folded my clothes into boxes. I wrapped my knives in kitchen towels. I took down the photos from the wall, the ones where we looked happy, where I looked like someone who believed in us.

I left his things untouched. His guitars, his jackets, his collection of vintage vinyl records he never actually listened to. I didn't take anything that was his. I didn't take anything that was ours.

By the time I heard his key in the lock just after midnight, I had three boxes stacked neatly in the closet, hidden behind winter coats he never wore.

He came in smelling like bourbon and cigarette smoke from the venue. 'Hey, babe. You still up?'

I was sitting on the couch with my laptop, reviewing the farm-to-table suppliers my mother had sent me earlier. 'Just working on some things.'

He kissed the top of my head, distracted, already pulling out his phone to check his notifications. 'Don't stay up too late.'

'I won't.'

He disappeared into the bedroom. I heard the shower turn on. I closed my laptop and stared at the boxes in the closet, hidden and waiting.

Three more days. That's all I needed.

Three more days, and I'd be gone.