Always Cas | ✔

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE; part two

     I wait for Cas to come back, but he doesn't.

     I wait for him on Wednesday, and I wait for him on Thursday, and I wait for him on Friday but he never shows. I don't say anything to anybody, not even Ashley. We actually have one of our best sessions. I tell her about Gael coming and what that could mean for Weston's After Hours. She says, "Well, what could that mean for Weston's After Hours?" And I tell her that maybe I make it a real restaurant. I'd have to lease the second floor of the building Weston's is in. There'd be a lot of reno involved. And I'd have to hire and train so many people.

     But then she says, "You're getting ahead of yourself."

     And I say, "You're right, I am. Gael could give me a one-star review."

     "No, who cares what Gael says? If this is what you want, do it. But don't psyche yourself out before you even start. Yes, it'll be work. Yes, you'll have to make big decisions about who does what and actually delegate work. But if it's what you want, go for it, Dres."

     I want to tell her, then, that I did go for it.

     That I went for what I wanted, and it was a miss. But I told Cas that it didn't matter, that I would be okay and so I'm going to be okay. Because odds are I'm going to have to see him again. Our families are too friendly, now. So I'm going to suck it up and be okay with not being okay. But I refrain from telling Ashley, and Jack, and Amelia, all of whom are coming to Saturday night's After Hours. Maybe I'm just not ready to accept this reality and telling them makes it real.

     I spend Friday prepping. I make practice pasta, have Dolores and Charles taste test it before I do a run-through of the whole menu. It'll be the pork crostini's, then a sausage and Swiss chard Orecchiette, and for dessert, a blueberry compote Panna Cotta with candied walnuts. It's an Italian-focused menu, which is tricky because true Italian food is different than the butchered version you see more often. I'm either going to nail this, or be black-balled from the food industry.

     Tasha comes in early Saturday to help with set up. Unlike Rumi, she knows who Gael Greene is and understands the magnitude of the night. I asked Fiona and Antonio to come in early, too, since we have to roll out and make all the pasta. They're more than happy to when they hear that Gael Greene is going to be here.

     "Are you nervous?" Antonio asks as he deftly molds his pasta. Naturally, he's a champ at this.

     "Of course he's nervous," Fiona says. "Why would you even ask that?"

     Antonio's lips gets pinched the way they always do when he's fighting back a grin. "I don't know, he seems chill like a cucumber. Not everybody freaks out about everything like you," he says.

     "I'm definitely nervous," I say.

     "Aye, don't be nervous. Who is Gael, anyway, but a legendary food critic and writer. At least if she hates everything you cook, she'll write about it eloquently," Antonio remarks. "Watch your cuts. That's too dense. You want little folds like this." He holds up a perfect pasta.

     Fiona rolls her eyes.

     I laugh, saying, "Everybody's a critic."

     "Look, whatever happens tonight, it's still damn amazing what you've done here. I, for one, am especially honored that you chose to work with me."

     Antonio shrugs his shoulders. "I could take it or leave it."

     "That's an attitude you're supposed to expel, not something you actually voice," Fiona remarks.