Johnathon's Arc

Chapter 30 of 31

The producer's word stayed with Johnathon all week. Locked away. He had won titles before, but this one meant the top chef of the whole country. He wanted it. He also wanted the empty passenger seat filled. That night he told Lexi over the counter at the bistro. She read the papers he set down, then set them flat. "How long," she said. "A week. No phone. No visits." Johnathon watched her face. "They lock the finalists in a hotel. Then we film live at the championship hall." Lexi didn't cut herself off this time. "You go," she said. "You've wanted this since you were nine on a step stool." She slid the papers back to him. "The bistro runs while you're gone. I cook the credited nights. Stephanie takes the boutique floor." Stephanie stood by the window folding shirts, the ones printed with Johnathon's food table and Lexi's dress form. She had run the boutique clean for weeks now, glasses shoved up on her head where they helped no one. She didn't look up. "Vendors are paid through the month," she said. "Inventory's logged. Go win." No softness in it. Just facts. Johnathon trusted her because she never sold him comfort he didn't need. So he signed. The next morning a car took him to a tall white hotel with silver trim. Guards checked his bag and took his phone. His room looked over the city, but he couldn't call the street where his two shops sat. For a week he cooked test plates alone. He drew each dish first, the way Lexi taught him. Zest cut fine. Charred pages standing upright. Pink, white, black. He missed her every night. He wrote her nothing because they screened the notes. Instead he kept drawing, and every sketch pointed back to the same street with her boutique two doors down. On the seventh day the guards walked the ten finalists into the championship hall. The place blazed with light and cameras. A bold sign burned red above the doors. The crowd filled the seats. Johnathon scanned the rail and found her fast. Lexi, blonde hair loose, cat eye glasses on, holding a shirt with their table printed across it. Beside her stood Stephanie, glasses still on her head. A judge stepped to the front. "This is the national final," he said. "Cook the dish that made you. Ninety minutes. Live." Johnathon's chest went steady. He knew the dish already. Lemon folded in cold. His father's chicken. The charred crisp standing like open pages. He looked at Lexi. She pressed her hand flat to her chest, the same small gesture from every competition. He nodded once and turned to his station. The clock started. The cameras rolled. He was locked in, filming at last, cooking for the title he'd chased his whole life. The week of silence was over. Now the only thing between him and top chef of the country was ninety minutes and one plate.