Johnathon's Arc

Chapter 11 of 31

After the round, a producer led Johnathon out of the studio and into a black car. The car stopped at a tall white and silver hotel. The lobby shone with polished floors and glass. The producer handed him a room key. "Rules," the man said. "All finalists stay here tonight. No visitors. No calls to your support. You cook fresh tomorrow, live." Johnathon turned to find Lexi, but she was already blocked at the door. He raised his hand. She raised hers. Then the elevator took him up. His room was clean and huge and silent. A wide bed. A window that showed the whole city. He set the notebook on the desk and sat down. Tomorrow he would cook for the one who saved him. The whole country would watch. And she was ten floors below, or across the city, and he could not reach her. He tried the room phone. The front desk answered. "I'm sorry," a woman said. "Contestant lines are locked until the broadcast." He hung up. He walked to the window. He did not know what she wanted to see on the plate. He did not know if she was scared. He picked up the notebook and held it. He could open it now. It would answer everything. He did not open it. He had made her a promise. Cook first. Then read. Instead he found hotel paper in the desk drawer and a cheap pen. He started to draw. He drew the balcony where they first talked. He drew the kitten she gave him. He drew a plate with two crisps standing up like open pages. His hand moved fast and sure. This was the part of him no phone call could steady. He did not need her in the room. He needed to remember her. A knock came at the door near midnight. Johnathon opened it. A staff member stood there with a folded slip of paper. "This is allowed," the man said. "One note. Screened. No contact past this." He handed it over and left. Johnathon unfolded it. Lexi's writing. Short, the way she always wrote. "I saw your hand shake and stop. You've got this. Cook what's true. Read my page after. That's all I'm saying right now." He read it three times. His chest loosened. She had found a way to reach him anyway. She always did. He pinned the note above his sketches on the desk. He did not sleep much. But by morning he knew his dish. He would plate his whole story again, cleaner this time, standing pages and all, and cook it for her in front of the cameras. The waiting was over. The last dish was ready in his head. All that was left was to make it real and, at last, to open the page she had been holding for him.