Henry had pulled ahead, so Tristan stuck next to him. It left enough of a gap between himself and the others that he could hopefully breathe. Plus Henry would keep him on the path of good pies. If he spit something out, Tristan would know to stay away from it.
Of course, following raised Tristan’s anxiety. He had to talk, say something. “So, Sequim?”
“Until I was ten, yeah.” Henry poked and prodded one of the lemon meringues before moving on, still not taking a bite of anything. “Why?”
May as well be honest.Tristan didn’t owe him the nicety of a lie. “I trust your judgment because your food is good, so I’m letting you eat pie before I do, and I thought it would be more socially appropriate if I made small talk with you instead of creepily following behind.” At least the animosity with Henry loosened Tristan up. He could say what he meant without filtration around Henry fucking Isaacson.
“Oh, so you trust my palate. You made a good decision.”
“I’m still here and Ricky’s not, so I made at least two.”
Henry’s lips turned up into a slight grin for a second. Then he stopped at... Tristan’s pies. “You may be a pastry bitch, but I happen to trust your palate too.” He dove straight into the pear and stilton tart Tristan had put together. “You’ll make kicking your ass worthwhile, anyway.”
“So I’m a talented pastry bitch.”
Henry nodded. “More talented than Ricky.”
Not exactly a high bar, so not exactly a compliment. But Tristan let it go and moved on to the beef wellington pie Henry had made. He didlovea good beef wellington. Plus he could trust Henry’s palate, so in he went. Tender beef met his tongue, earthy mushrooms, and tarragon forward, all paired with flaky puff pastry.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Henry was smiling a little too smugly over his shoulder. “Go ahead, you can admit it. You already complimented me once.”
Damn that smug bastard. Being nice would have been a hell of a lot easier if Henry wasn’t right. That stupid pie tasted like a fine fucking beef wellington, and it was already cut apart, so even more tender. It had been a good choice for a pie, and it pushed Tristan into thoughts of sharing actual beef wellington... with a shirtless Henry in a candle-lit room.
Rather than respond and feed that ego, Tristan slipped past him. He’d eat in his hotel room, with nobody shirtless except maybe himself.Boy doesn’t that sound like an exciting night?
Henry stretched out on his bed, staring at the knockdown ceiling of his hotel room. He should be sleeping. If he wasn’t afraid of the hangover, he would have gone out looking for a drink or six to send him crashing into dreamland. Instead, he played the filming session over and over in his head, examining it from twice as many angles as the cameras had captured. What went on behind the scenes gave him more mental footage to scrub through.
After they’d wrapped, Henry had found out that Ricky wasn’t even the chef who was supposed to come, originally. The actual pastry chef from his restaurant cut a deal with Eatery TV to send her sous chef, because she didn’t want to leave the business behind that long.
Her sous chef, who apparently had such bad nerves he didn’t like hispicturebeing up on the restaurant’s website. He had basically been doomed from the outset, but Henry still flashed cold when he thought about how quick his stint had ended. One day’s baking andpoof. Gone.
The next round was cakes, and that pressed into Henry’s mind almost as much as the suddenly real threat of being sent home. Henry could make cakes. His career had been built on the back of a stiff buttercream and bourbon vanilla chiffon. But Tristan, at least, was a caterer. His lifeblood was making big, impressive, multi-tiered cakes. He might be “Carlita’s pastry bitch,” but he knew what he was doing. Henry wouldn’t admit it in public, of course, but Tristan could likely turn out a better product than him, particularly under pressure. A TV show was nothing compared to the burning gaze of an exacting Seattleite bride.
What if not being on top meant Henry would go home? That he’d be another failure, pushed beneath the societal steamroller?
“I don’t know if you can do this.”
He’d still been in high school when his mom said that. He’d been filling out his applications for culinary programs, and she’d kept suggesting alternate options. Accounting degrees and computer science.
“What’s going on, Mom? If it’s about the money, there’s scholarships and even loans. When I get my own business, I’ll pay them off no problem.” He had a list of several he could use to go to culinary school, depending where he got accepted. The sort of schools that would set him up for his own restaurant if he played his cards right. And another list that would help him go to community college until he could get to culinary school.
She sat down in the chair next to him and shook her head, blonde ponytail shaking. “It’s not the money. It’s... I don’t know if you can do this”
Henry stiffened, sure he’d misheard. But he hadn’t. “Mom, what?”
She sniffled, waving her hand at him. “That came out wrong. I didn’t... I’m not trying to dissuade you, but being gay will make your path harder.” She grabbed his hands. “So much is stacked against you from the outset. If you trip and fall... there won’t be a lot of hands offering to pick random gay kids back up.”
“And you don’t think I can do it?” The words barely came off his lips they were so heavy.
“I think you can doanything.” She slid her hands up to his shoulders. “But I don’t know if the world is going to let you. And there are ways to make life easier on yourself. If you’re an accountant, you’ll always have work, no matter what anyone might think about your love life. But you have to rely so much more on good will to make it in cooking. Maybe established chefs and restaurateurs won’t let you get a foot in the door, or landlords will refuse to rent premises to you. And if you get a place, then what? Smashed windows, slurs spray painted on your door, constant harassment—”
“Mom, this is what you’re thinking about?” His intestines twisted into an icy knot. “Most of that can affect me if I’m an accountant too.”
“I know. I know that.” She blew out a long breath and shook her hands out. “But... you’re my son. I can’t help but worry about these things. And any time I think you might be at risk, that stupid voice pops up.”
“The voice that tells you I’m not going to be able to make it in the real world.”
She hesitated a moment, then nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I told you it was a stupid voice. But sometimes I can’t help but listen to it. All things being equal, I don’t think there’s anything beyond your reach. But it’s not equal. And the thought of you getting hurt terrifies me.”
