Chapter eight

The idea had been sitting quietly in the back of my  mind for months. “My own restaurant.” Nothing shiny or extravagant, just cozy, a place where the food offers comfort and warmth. My  mornings became rituals of planning. I woke  early, made coffee strong enough to hum in my veins, and filled pages of notebooks with my ideas. Menus, suppliers, rent  estimates. I looked at spaces on my days off. Small  storefronts in Logan Square, an old bakery in Bridgeport, even a narrow corner in Pilsen with a cracked tile floor and peeling paint. The real estate agent called it “character.” 

Crest had offered to pick me  up from my client’s on one Thursday evening. A small family on the North Side. I slipped into the passenger’s seat smelling faintly of rosemary and smoke. Hair pinned up, sleeves rolled to my elbows. I was tired but not exhausted. He smiled and hugged me like he didn’t just see me the previous day. I laughed. "I missed you too.”  We rode  in silence for a while, the hum of the city wrapping around us. I leaned my head back, watching the blur of passing streets. His hands gently massaging my thighs.

“I’ve been looking at spaces.” I said quietly.

He glanced at me before turning to the road.

 “Spaces?”

 I nodded.  “For a restaurant.”

He turned a corner.  “You’ve already started looking?”

  “Yeah.” I said. Tturning toward him. “Two near Pilsen, one a little outside. I think I’ve found one that might actually work, I’ve drawn up a plan, curated menus and the works.”  We were almost arriving at his apartment now.

“And you  been doing all this on your own?”  I smiled and nodded.

 “Are you still going to work privately?”

 “Well yes, I plan on hiring once it’s steady and if the pressure becomes too much, I’ll focus on the restaurant only.”

He threaded his fingers through mine. “I want to help, with designing the blueprints, financially, if you’ll let me, or connections, logistics, artisans, permits, whatever you need. You don’t have to do it alone.”

My throat tightened. “You don’t have to…”

 “I know, that’s why I want to. You have no idea how proud I am.”

  My eyes were starting to water.

“Thank you Crest.”

 He turned to me, smiling.

 “Just promise me one thing.”

 “What?”

 We were now parked in his apartment building garage. He turned off the car engine, faced me and said.

 “When it opens, don’t name a dish after me. I’d never live it down.”

I laughed. “No promises Mr. Harvey, might just name the damn place after you.” He chuckled, reached over and kissed me gently.

Most  nights, I tried out new recipes. I wanted the food to taste like truth. simple, honest, unpretentious. Something that could make a person stop mid-sentence and ask for the chef. Sometimes Crest would  call while I cooked.

“What are you working on tonight?” He would ask.

And I’d smile, elbow deep in dough. “Everything.”

And he would laugh. Still, doubt crept in at the edges. I’d catch myself thinking of all the people who’d fail before they began. The rent. The risks. The long hours and uncertain mornings. But then I would remember every kitchen I had stood in, every stranger I had cooked for, how they all sang my praises and how I never got any negative feedback. I

didn’t tell Cherry about how my relationship with Crest had progressed, after she told me about seeing him with a woman. I only mentioned vaguely that we worked things out, giving minor details because his story wasn’t mine to tell. The next night, I called her and said, “I’m doing it.”

“Doing what exactly?” She asked.

“Starting a restaurant.”

She excitedly laughed and said. “About damn time.”

It started small, a question, a phone call there. I  hadn’t even realized how involved he’d become until one afternoon, standing in the middle of an empty storefront him talking to the property agent like the place already belonged to her.

The space was rough. High ceilings with exposed beams, cracked tiles where an old bar once stood. And sunlight pouring in through grimy windows. But I could see it. The smell of searing garlic, the clatter of pans, people laughing softly over plates I’ve  crafted. Crest stood beside her, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room.

“You said you wanted open kitchen lines, right? So guests can see you cook?”

I nodded surprised he remembered. He motioned toward a half wall.

“You could knock this out. It would give you visibility without losing intimacy.” 

The realtor was still talking about permits and lease lengths, but I wasn’t listening. My gaze flicked between the room, then him, the way he seemed to see my dream, the way he translated my scribbled sketches into something tangible

After we left, we walked down the street together. The air smelled faintly of yeast and diesel, the city’s strange perfume.

 “You’re taking this seriously.” I said.

He smirked. “You think I’d show up in the middle of the day to flirt with a realtor?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

He chuckled, then turned serious.

 “I talked to a friend, he’s got experience setting up restaurant permits and health inspections. He’ll walk you through what you need before you sign anything.”

I stopped walking. “Crest…”

He held up a hand. “I’m not running it for you. I’m just making sure no one screws you over. This part’s tricky. I’ve seen people lose months over bad paperwork.” 

Something in my chest tightened. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

 “I know,” he said quietly. “But I wanted to.” He looked at me.“You’ve built something special. You care about food the way most people care about air. I don’t want to see you burned out before you even start.”

I didn’t know what to say. Gratitude felt too small, and anything else too heavy.

“I can’t promise I’ll take every bit of advice you give,” I said finally.

He smiled. “I’d be worried if you did.”

The next few weeks blurred into motion. Crest helped me negotiate lease terms, introduced me to a quiet investor who’d once backed a small café in Hyde Park, and made sure the kitchen plans matched city codes. But  he never overstepped. When I insisted on choosing the equipment myself, he stepped back. When I changed the menu ideas last minute, he just grinned and said, “It’s your world, chef.” Sometimes he’d show up unannounced while I was sketching floor layouts, bringing coffee or takeout. “You’ve been at it for hours,” he’d say, setting down the cup. “Drink before your brain fries.” I’d roll my eyes but take it anyway. It was the quiet things he did that got to me more.

The texts reminding me to eat, the spreadsheets he built so I  could visualize costs. One evening, after a long day of meeting with contractors, I came back to find him sitting outside the space, with a blue print rolled under his arm. “Thought you might want to see this.”  He said, spreading the paper out on a crate. It was the same layout I had  been working on  but refined. He’d sketched in my  ideas for the open kitchen, the tasting counter, even the herb wall I once mentioned in passing. I stared at it for a long time, quiet.

“You did this?”

He shrugged. “Why not? It’s my field.”

How did I get so lucky, the tears came pouring out before I could rein them in. He looked at me, held me to his chest, his expression gentle but steady.

 “You don’t owe me anything. I just want to see you make it happen.”

 Neither of us spoke. The air smelled of plaster dust and rain on concrete, I let myself imagine it. the restaurant full, my name on the sign, him at a corner table watching me move through my  own creation.

Crest kept on drawing sketches on tracing paper late at night, lines overlapping like conversations. He’d show up at my apartment with rolls of blueprints under his arm, still smelling faintly of graphite and cedar. Sometimes I’d catch him staring at his own drawings,  not with pride, but with something quieter, almost reverent. He wasn’t just designing a restaurant, he was helping me build a life. When the contractors came in, Crest handled them like he’d been doing it all his life. Calm, precise, impossible to manipulate.

He negotiated rates, clarified specs, caught details she’d never have noticed, uneven load distribution, poor ventilation plans, misaligned plumbing.

“Most people don’t see space,” he said once, crouched beside a blueprint spread across the unfinished floor. “They see rooms. But rooms are just ideas until someone shapes how people move through them.”

I smiled softly. “And that’s what you do?”

“That’s what I do,” he said, meeting my eyes. “And now, what we’re doing.”

 He didn’t just fix things, he elevated them. He added a skylight above the prep area, so natural light would hit the counter at noon. He designed custom shelving from reclaimed oak, to match the warmth of my cooking. He even adjusted the floor gradient to make cleanup easier after service. Something I hadn’t even thought about.

When I worried about costs, he worked it through with me, no condescension, no pressure. “I’m not your investor,” he’d say. “Think of me as a support system. Let me help where it makes sense.” He drew up the lighting plan himself and paid for the fixtures quietly. When I found out, I confronted him.

“Crest, I told you not to…”

 “It’s not a gift,” he said calmly. “It’s part of the build. The space deserves it.”

 “The space?” I challenged. “Or me?”

He smiled faintly. “Both.”

 I sighed, knowing there was no winning with him.

When the building reached its final phase, his fingerprints were everywhere. The curve of the bar, the height of the tables, the subtle rhythm between open and closed spaces. But he never claimed it.

“This is yours.” He said one night as we stood outside, looking through the glass at the almost-finished interior. “You created this from nothing.”

“You designed it.” I said quietly.

“Because you imagined it first.” He replied.  “I just drew the lines.”

At five-thirty, I was already out of bed, hair tied up, phone in hand, checking deliveries and invoices. By six, I was at the restaurant space. Clipboard, thermos of black coffee, voice hoarse from talking to contractors. I walked through the rooms, imagining the smell of bread baking, the hum of conversation. By nine, I headed to my client’s home, a high-rise near the lake with views that made me giddy.

 I slipped into my role seamlessly. Crisp  apron, calm smile, every gesture controlled. The staff greeted me by name now. “Chef, that chicken last week was divine.” One of them said. I smiled,  grateful but already thinking about my walk-in fridge back at the restaurant, or the invoice that hadn’t cleared. When I finished with my client, I stayed behind to jot notes on my phone. Flavor pairings, menu drafts, suppliers I met through clients. Every encounter, every meal was research now.

A week before inspection, I realized how much of himself Crest had poured into it. I found his notes tucked between blueprints, margin scribbles that read.

 “Lighting should fall softer by the window, she likes to think there.”

“Make counter three inches lower. She’s shorter than average, don’t let her strain.”  It broke my heart a little, how gentle his attention was. Not showy. Not possessive. Just  seeing. When the inspectors finally came, everything passed on the first try. No adjustments, no delays. Perfect compliance. I texted him a photo of the signed approval, the word APPROVED stamped across the page in bold red ink. He sent back three words, “Told you, Chef.” That night, I sat in the middle of the dining room, alone. The space was quiet, half-lit. EMBER painted above the entrance. That’s the name I chose. I could hear the city outside, the faint hum of cars, the world moving on. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel behind. I felt ready. Crest had given me more than help. He offered me shape, foundation, and belief that my dream wasn’t fragile after all. It could stand. It could hold.

I woke up before the sun, the familiar flutter of nerves already in my chest. Today wasn’t just another day, today was the day all my months of blood, sweat, and late nights became real. My stomach twisted with a mix of excitement and fear, but underneath it, a pulse of exhilaration kept me upright. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and the herbs I’d prepped last night. I poured a cup and sat at the counter, staring at my reflection in the window. You did this. You’re ready. I repeated it like a mantra.

I spent the past week contracting temporary staff to help with the launch. Two servers I found through a local staffing agency, an extra dishwasher, and a sous-chef who could step in without me having to micromanage. I had gone through their references, run a quick trial shift, and watched how they moved in a kitchen that was already humming with tension. I felt cautious pride knowing I could trust them, even for one chaotic night.

Advertising had been modest but strategic. I’d posted on social media, sent a few personal invites to long-time clients, and relied on word-of-mouth through Cherry’s network. Nothing flashy. Nothing desperate. I wanted the first night to feel intimate, a soft landing rather than a circus. The clock ticked closer to opening, and every second made the nerves and excitement tangle together. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and whispered to myself.  “You’ve got this.”

 The air in the restaurant was thick with anticipation, tinged with the smell of freshly polished wood, sizzling butter, and the faint metallic tang of new ovens. My hands shook slightly as I adjusted the last plate on the prep counter, the ceramic cool and smooth under my fingertips. Each surface glimmered in the early morning light spilling through the tall windows, dust motes dancing in the golden haze. Cherry was already bustling around, moving with a kind of chaotic grace that somehow pacified me.

“Careful with that garnish!” she called, her voice carrying over the hum of the espresso machine and the scrape of chairs being arranged. “You want them to taste food, not fear it!”

Crest stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching silently. He had been here all morning, checking angles of light, making sure the space flowed naturally from the kitchen to the tables, adjusting a counter here, measuring a sightline there. I knew he was nervous too. Not for himself, but for me. His presence was a quiet anchor, steadying me without interference. A bell chimed as the first diners arrived for the soft launch. My heart jumped in my chest. I took a deep breath, inhaling the mingled aromas of garlic, roasted peppers, and polished wood. The air smelled like home and work and dreams, all wrapped into one. Cherry gave me a quick, reassuring nod.

I walked through the restaurant, plates balanced in my hands, feeling every step, every heartbeat. The room was warm, filled with the low murmur of conversation, clinking silverware, and the occasional delighted gasp as a guest tasted a dish. Crest moved quietly along the perimeter, occasionally offering a small suggestion, a subtle lighting adjustment, a nudge of a chair, but mostly, he just watched. I caught his eye once, and he smiled softly. No words were needed. He was letting me own this moment. The kitchen pulsed around me. Sizzling  pans, chopping knives, the hiss of steam, and the rhythmic whir of blenders. I felt alive, my senses sharp, every emotion amplified. Pride, fear, exhilaration, and the quiet relief of seeing months of hard work materialize in real time. At one table, a guest reached for a fork, tasted a dish, and smiled. I felt a jolt in my chest, the tiniest flare of joy and vindication.

Cherry leaned against the counter beside me, wiping her hands on her apron. “See? You’ve got magic in your hands,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

 I glanced at Crest. He was watching me again, that quiet, steady look in his eyes. There was something unspoken there, pride, admiration, maybe even love, though he had not said it aloud. I felt my chest tighten at the weight of it, and for a moment, I let myself just breathe it all in. The smells, the sounds, the warmth, the energy, the people. Cherry saw the brief exchange between me and Crest.  

“So… you and Crest huh?”

I laughed and carried on. Hours passed like minutes. Plates came and went, laughter echoed, the restaurant settled into a rhythm that felt almost sacred. I moved through it, present, aware, alive. The hum of the kitchen, the low chatter of diners, Cherry’s gentle reminders, and Crest’s quiet presence all merged into something I had never felt before. A sense of home, built not of walls or wood alone, but of my own perseverance, my vision, and the people who had quietly, patiently helped me bring it to life.

By the time the last guest left, the restaurant was bathed in the soft glow of evening light. I stood in the middle of the dining room, leaning against the counter, chest heaving, sweat on my forehead. Everything smelled faintly of garlic, fresh herbs, and polish. Crest came up behind me, placing his arms around my waist.

 “You did it.” He said quietly.

 I turned to him, eyes bright. “We did it.” I whispered.

He shook his head, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “No. You did. I just… helped the walls listen.”

 And I understood in that instant, he hadn’t built it for me, or done it instead of me. He had helped me hear my own voice, see my own vision, and stand fully in it. I let myself breathe, let myself feel, and let myself savor the quiet triumph of the first night. The restaurant was alive. And so was I.