I nod.

“We need to add more butter; turn the heat down just a bit.”

She walks me through the entire process, teaching me to control the heat, baby the sandwiches to get them how I want. All the time our shoulders are brushing, our moves in coordination for a common goal. A sense of calm spreads over me. I’m not thinking about work or the outside world. I’m not angry or empty. I’m filled up. I’m here, with her.

We get the sandwiches on plates, and she hands me a knife.

“The best part. Cutting it open.” Her brow wings up in warning. “Only cut on the diagonal. Down the middle is a sin against grilled cheese.”

“Please,” I say, with feeling. “As if I’d sink so low.” I make the first cut and am rewarded with a fine crunch of sound, followed by the ooze of gooey cheese. Perfection.

“Taste. Take a bite,” Delilah urges with childlike excitement.

It’s just a sandwich. A kid’s treat. It feels like more.

I take a bite.

“Close your eyes,” she says. “Tell me what you think when you taste it.”

You.

Me.

Delilah wearing braces, her thick hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that highlights the roundness of her face. Her gold eyes glaring at me from opposite her mother’s kitchen table.

Home.

Safety.

A tremor goes through my gut. I open my eyes, wanting to step away from the counter. From her. But she’s watching me with rapt eyes. Waiting for an answer.

“I remember those days,” I say thickly. “Your mama yelling at us to wash our hands or we wouldn’t get a snack. I remember how we all ate those grilled cheese sandwiches quickly so each bite would be just as crisp and oozing, and she’d warn us that we’d burn our mouths with our gluttonous eating habits.”

Her gaze holds mine, her voice soft now. “And we didn’t care because it was too good to eat slowly.”

“Yeah.” The air is thick with memories—and us. I have the insane urge to step into her space, touch her cheek. Just touch her.

Delilah blinks, and the spell is broken.

“This is almost exactly like your mama’s,” I say to fill the silence. “But better.”

She makes a dubious face. “No one makes them better than Mama.”

“You do.”

Flushing again, Delilah pours us iced tea, and we eat in relative silence.

“So you’re a chef because you want to evoke memories?” I ask after a time.

“Not exactly.” She wipes her hands with a napkin. “So we agree that food evokes memories, but a chef is doing something a little different. She’s telling you a story through food. If she does her job correctly, she’s taking you on a journey, making you taste things in a new way, making you stop, think, and appreciate the food. A chef not only feeds you; she gives you pleasure. She illuminates.”

Heat sweeps under my collar, and I struggle to get it under control, but damn she makes it sound almost illicit.

Unaware of my struggle, Delilah continues, “Good food is theater in a way, but the audience participates.”

“We’re both entertainers,” I say with a start of surprise.

“I guess we are,” she agrees after a second.

“So why catering? Why close it down?” I can’t help myself. I want to know her as she is today, not as she was before.

Her words come out with measured slowness. “When I was in New York, working the line, all those monstrous hours, I used to dream of catering, where I could slow things down, have a bit of a life outside of cooking.”

Her smile is wry. “But then I got to LA and started up the business. I became stuck with the strange whims of my clientele, worrying about parties and how they would go. My creativity faltered.” Shaking her head, she shrugs. “I found I didn’t want that, either, which makes me wonder. Do I have what it takes? How can I if the thought of constantly working turns me off?”

A frown works across her face, and she ducks her head as though she doesn’t want to meet my gaze. She probably thinks she’s said too much.

“When we’re filming,” I say. “We have such long hours I lose track of days. Hell, sometimes I’m so tired I don’t even know who I am anymore. It’s exhausting. Sometimes, I want to say, ‘Fuck it, I’m done.’ But then I think of not working anymore and feel empty. I never expected acting to fill a void in me, but it does. So I keep going.”

The moment the words are out, I feel the truth of them. I love what I do. And I’ll be damned if I hide away because of one bad incident. No more hiding out. No more fear.

My breath comes easier than it has in weeks. “That you want more out of life than constant work doesn’t mean you aren’t a chef. It means you are human.”