Johnathon's Arc

Chapter 25 of 31

Monday came fast. Johnathon dressed in his black jeans and joker shirt, checked his knives, and rolled his sleeves past both tattoos. The competition hall waited across the city, its gold sign bright above the doors. He felt ready. But one thing still bothered him. For two days Lexi had ended every sentence the same way, and he could not let it go. He found her at the mirror by the door. She fixed her cat-eye glasses and pushed her blonde hair off her shoulder. Her pink purse sat packed on the chair. "We leave in ten," she said. "First tell me something." He leaned on the doorframe. "You keep saying 'that's all I'm saying.' Yesterday. This morning. You cut off every time. Why?" Lexi looked at him in the mirror, not straight on. "It's nothing." "It's not nothing. You do it when it matters." He crossed the room. "We film in front of the whole country in an hour. I don't want to walk out there guessing." She turned. Her hands went to her purse strap and stopped. For a moment she said nothing. Then her voice dropped, plain and small. "I say it so I don't say the rest," she said. "The rest scares me." "Say the rest." She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then she reached into the purse and pulled out a folded napkin. On it she had drawn a plate, half food and half picture, the way his best work always started. Below the drawing she had written three words. She held it out. He read it. *Ask me tonight.* "That's not a whole answer," he said. "I know." She took a breath. "I've been planning something for after the show. If I say it now, you'll cook thinking about it. You'll drop the plate. So I stop myself. That's what the words mean." Johnathon studied her face. She was not hiding a problem. She was holding a gift. "So it's good," he said. "Whatever it is." "It's good." Her mouth almost smiled. "That's all I'm saying right now." This time the phrase did not confuse him. He understood it. She was saving something for later, on purpose, so he could cook clean. "Then I cook," he said. "And I ask you tonight." "Tonight," she agreed. He folded the napkin and slid it into his pocket. On the counter sat a cluster of pink, black, and white lilies she had bought that morning, the same three colors from his winning dish. He touched one petal and left them there. They drove to the hall together. The doors opened. Cameras waited, and two stations stood side by side, both their names on cards. Johnathon walked in steady, the napkin against his chest. He would give the country their first episode. Then, at home, he would ask her the question. The waiting no longer felt like a wall between them. It felt like a door about to open.