Waving it off indifferently, I chortled, “It’s not like I’m a heathen. Besides, I work so much, I’m hardly ever here.”
“Whatever you say with your wrinkled-ass clothes all over the damn place.”
I climbed under the plush blanket with Eddy, resting my head in the crook of his shoulder. “Why does this keep happening to me?”
“Karma.”
I pushed away from him. “Jerk.”
He handed me my overly filled wine glass. “You should have left your number for that guy with the magical tongue. If you keep running out on unicorns like him, you’re going to be stuck with the catfish of the world.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Too bad I’m not in middle school anymore. My mom used to write my name and number on the tag of all my clothes for summer camp.”
“Maybe you should just start writing your number on the back of your lacy thongs. It could be the new wave of business card for sluts.”
“If I’m a slut then you’re a slut.”
“Honey, I’m a diva. I don’t leave numbers—I collect them.”
“Of course. How could I ever forget that?”
Chapter 5
Jack
Pacing in my kitchen, panic set in.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Yes, I did hate my job and I did have enough in the bank to float me for quite a while, but I’d never had an impulsive bone in my body.
I had spent the afternoon polishing up my resume, realizing how sparse it was. Other than college, a few meaningless restaurant jobs that got me through school, and the long stretch with my last company, I had nothing. All I could hope was that the fifteen years I had spent working for the same awful company would show potential employers that I was loyal and trustworthy.
What am I doing with my life?
I turned on the TV for some background noise. At least I knew what I was making for dinner. Pulling out the lamb chops I had been dying to make, I went to work mixing together the rosemary, basil, thyme, salt, and pepper. As I was rubbing the seasoning onto the cold raw meat, a commercial came on for the Washburne Culinary Institute.
“Looking for an exciting new career? Cook your way to your dreams while being taught by some of today’s leading chefs.”
The light bulb illuminated in my mind as I watched the smiling faces of actors pretending to whisk their hearts away.
I grabbed my phone, ignored at least ten messages from the dating apps, and dialed Noah’s cell.
“Hey man, you’re on speaker. I have Izzy in the car.”
“Hi, Jack!” Izzy squealed.
“Hey guys. I have some big news.”
“Let’s hear it,” Noah responded.
“I quit my job and I’m going to culinary school.” I spit the words out as quickly as I could.
Izzy yelled, “You did what?”
“Good for you! Your boss was a jerk anyway,” Noah added.
“I have always loved to cook and I worked in tons of restaurants in college.” I felt like I had to defend myself, but it was more to talk myself into the hasty decision that was only seconds old.