Four | Sloan

The kitchen floor had become littered with carrot and potato balls. Oil splatter covered not only the stovetop but also the hood, backsplash, and a few inches of countertop. Dustings of salt and pepper along with tiny sprigs of rosemary and thyme were now trapped in an unplanned, and very sticky, cherry glaze spill. This occurred beside a paper that should have resembled a recipe, but appeared more like a mad mathematician's notes. The duplex kitchen now looked like a culinary war zone, with multiple shots fired and a wannabe chef left as the only survivor—I was hanging on to my sanity by a weak thread.

I dropped into a wooden dining chair, shielding my eyes with messy hands from the disaster that was supposed to be dinner. Nothing ever went right. I should have known that spending what was left of my paycheck on this was a terrible idea. Unfortunately, when I found the courage to remove my hands, the mess was still there and dinner remained only half-cooked.

"Fuck." My lip trembled, followed by a few rapid blinks to stop myself from tears.

The whole situation was making my stomach ache. This was supposed to be my way of apologizing to my best friend. Hallie hadn't spoken to me in days, and I deserved it for breaking girl-code. After years of being friends, we had been through plenty of petty arguments and usually gave up on them after a day, chalking it up to menstrual madness. This time was different. Hallie was completely betrayed by TJ, and I went to him for help, of all people.

I fucked up.

Typically, when I screwed up dinner, it was because I had some crazy idea while watching Chopped—such as a random ingredient no one in their right mind would put into a dish. This time, I couldn't even blame myself for the catastrophe. Although, I should not have banked on this going in my favor.

My head fell back, and I gazed upwards to the ceiling to take a deep breath. Instead, I squinted at a pink blotch that was a definite contrast against the white paint. Not recalling it ever being there, I stood to get a closer look. When a drop of the pink goop fell to my cheek, I knew exactly what it was. I dragged a finger across my face and stuck it directly into my mouth, twirling my tongue around it and savoring the sweetness.

"I did not just witness you lick something that fell from the ceiling..."

I spun toward Hallie's shock, not even caring that she had seen me in a moment of weakness. My best friend was speaking to me. Hallie stood in the kitchen's doorway, dressed cutely in a pair of white jean shorts and a blue Jack's Mannequin tee. Her long hair was braided perfectly to one side, falling low over her shoulder. Multiple bags were at her feet—some retail therapy, no doubt.

The fact Hallie was smiling was more relief than I could have hoped for. The unease in my gut that had been there all week was already diminishing. Our fight was hopefully ending.

I giggled and popped my finger from my mouth. "It's a cherry glaze. Wanna try it? I can get the ladder."

"Nah, I think I can use my fingernail to get some off of the cabinet doors."

Sure enough, when I turned back to the row of white cabinets, they too were covered in pink blotches. I really had outdone myself with this mess. Was there a surface I hadn't hit with food?

"The appliances are not submitting to me today. The lid wouldn't stay down on the blender. Hence," I used a finger to circle the air, displaying the room and sticky mess. "And the fucking oven quit on me. Again! Now I can't finish the lamb shanks."

Hallie's lips pursed, stifling her laugh. "Well, let's start with some wine."

I pressed my fingertips to my temple and shook my head no. "You know how this works. If I touch the fridge, it will die. The appliances hate me."

This was experience talking. I could kill any appliance I so much as glanced at. The oven had been on the fritz for weeks, but of course, today was the day it crapped out. It was the weekend—meaning our landlord couldn't be bothered to answer the phone unless the place had burned down. I had no luck. None.

Instead of cracking another joke, Hallie moved speedily to the pantry. She removed the pizza Pizzazz and plugged it into an outlet beside the stove.

"Pete can handle it," she said.

I giggled, watching Hallie remove the half-cooked lamb shanks from the cast iron pan to place on the heated turntable. Over our many years of friendship, the Pizzazz had become the only constant in our lives. We learned no matter how many ovens I killed, pizza Pizzazz Pete would always save the day. It was named after a homeless man from Third Street who loved flashing his dick at TJ through an old pizza box. He usually followed it up with a wink and a lick-lip. The song "Dick in a Box" held a very special meaning for our friends. TJ hated it, but we thrived on it. At least, that was until he abandoned us.

As Hallie saved the day, I wrapped my arms around my best friend from behind. Hallie swiveled and held me tightly in return. No apologies were needed; this was it. Hallie understood why I had to go to TJ, and I knew I had broken the girl code. This one hug would make everything better.

"I got you something," Hallie said, hugging me tighter.

I peered over my friend's shoulder to the heap of bags still sitting on the kitchen floor. I shook my head no. Gifts were never my thing, and she knew I wouldn't accept them. Borrowing money or using one of her bath bombs were one thing, but gifts were a hard no.

"Don't buy me anything, Hal. You know I won't accept it. Plus, I have a job now."

"Oh, you're definitely accepting it."

"It better not be another sex toy."

Hallie wiggled herself free of the embrace. "It's better!"

The blonde dropped to her knees and began digging through the bags, on a mission for some particular item. I took the risk of losing the fridge to retrieve wine. Being back on speaking terms with our dinner somewhat saved by Pete needed to be celebrated.

"So, this is mine, but you're borrowing it."

Upon turning, I found Hallie holding up a plastic hanger with a little black dress hanging by two tiny straps. The front had a plunging V-neck, clearly meant to show off cleavage. Without even being asked, Hallie swung the hanger around, displaying an open back where the single straps from the front had now branched into two straps on each shoulder. The dress was so short that I could not even fathom having to bend over in it.

"It's smokin', right?" she asked. "Wait until you see what I'm wearing. Oh! And you can wear my black heels—the ones that tie up the calf!"

Hallie was beaming at the dress, having apparently thought of everything and leaving me feeling utterly clueless. The dress was definitely hot. It had been ages since I had dressed up for anything, and this dress demanded attention. It wasn't trashy; it was perfect for a night out. We had done nothing like that since our days of fake IDs.

"What the heck would I need that for?"

"To celebrate!"

"Celebrate?" I began wracking my brain, feeling like I missed something. "Did you get a promotion or something?"

Hallie bent down, selecting another bag. It was heavy, because the thin plastic was stretching to keep hold as she offered it to me. Books could easily be seen through the bag. This just became more confusing, since neither of us are readers.

"I couldn't find them all. There is one you still need. The book consignment store said they would call if they found it."

"Need?" I asked.

The question was answered as Hallie freed the books from the bag. Food Safety & Sanitation, Culinary Fundamentals, The Art of Modern Cookery: Year 1, and Culinary Principals and Applications...all culinary course books. My air was gone. The anxious tightening in my chest hurt. This made no sense—I wasn't accepted. Hallie's smile was saying otherwise. She wouldn't have done this unless she knew something I did not.

"Don't cry," Hallie said, still holding the stack.

Too late. A tear was gliding down my cherry-covered cheek. Before I could question what the hell was happening, my friend tossed a letter to the top of the stacked books...a letter congratulating me on being accepted into the Chicago Culinary Institute.

"I couldn't wait for you to come home from work. I had to open it because it was thin. I even tried holding it up to the light and using the handheld steamer. If you were rejected, I was going to burn it and hex them."

I giggled, which turned into more sniffling. Nothing ever went right; how was this actually happening? Other than Steve, there was nothing in the world that I wanted more than this letter. Girls like me didn't get wishes that came true. This was a goddamn Cinderella moment, and Hallie was one hell of a fairy godmother.

After a few minutes of shock, reality set in. No way could I afford this. Hallie already bought the textbooks, and they had to have cost a small fortune, even if they were used. Hallie quickly noted my dampening mood and shaking head.

"Don't you dare turn it down!" she scolded. "I told you I would cosign the loan. We have an appointment at the bank on Monday, and they take the books into consideration. Tonight, we are celebrating."

"Hal," my glossy eyes lifted before looking to the black dress. "We have no money to go out. I'm not even sure if I'm ready..."

"Sloan, stop it." Hallie's tone became firm, matching her facial expression. "For one night, you are forgetting Steve. This night is not about him; it is about you. You got into culinary school. We aren't uttering his name tonight. Have fun with me. Let's act our age, drink, dance with guys and never learn their names, and be hungover as fuck tomorrow."

The ache was back in my stomach. The thought of dancing made me want to hurl. The last time I danced was at my wedding with my husband. But I was walking a fine line with Hallie, someone who was going above and beyond to keep me functioning like a human. I was taking a lot and needed to give a little. I could try to go one night without becoming a complete recluse over Steve.

"Okay." I caved and took the hanger. "Two drinks. And we are going to Mulligan's in downtown Chicago. I heard their truffle fries are to die for."

Hallie's eyes rolled. "You would pick a bar based on the food."

"Well, I'm not looking for a guy, and food is the next best thing. I dare you to fight me on that."

She was not about to contradict me. "Fine, but six drinks. And use makeup. You look pale."

"Two!" I repeated, watching Hallie haul ass to the stairs to get the bathroom first.

"Seven!"

>>

It took twenty minutes to figure out the heels Hallie let me borrow. They had to be at least three inches high. If not, four. There was a single thick black suede strap across my toes. The only thing keeping my ankles stable was a strap no thicker than a thin shoelace which crisscrossed up the ankle until you ran out of string and had to tie it off. Then it took another ten minutes to remember how to walk in heels.

I had been absolutely right in my earlier assumption of the dress. It plunged deep, displaying nearly all my cleavage and barely covering nipple. There was zero chance of wearing a bra with it. I had to admit it was comfortable. The straps didn't fall on their own, and it fit like it was tailored for the shape of my body. It was the length, however, that was giving me increased anxiety. It just barely covered my ass, and there was little doubt I'd be pulling it down all night. If I dropped anything, it was gone forever, because there was no way I could bend over without providing a free show.

The fog hadn't cleared from the bathroom mirror in time for makeup, so I used a small compact mirror from my purse. It was not as if I would go overboard tonight. Nothing was going to help the pale, but I went with a smokey eye, choosing the same palette Hallie had left on the counter and some eyeliner. I rarely used mascara. My lashes were long and thick by themselves. Lashes for days, Hallie would always say with envy.

By the time the clock struck nine, I felt acceptable. I only stopped at the bathroom to turn off the light, but halted when I saw my reflection in the now fog-free mirror. I appeared... normal. Gone was the girl holed up in her room crying for what was now almost seven months. The girl before me was alive, looking flirty and ready for a night of celebratory fun. I wasn't sure how to feel about this. Even though I tried to smile, I couldn't bring myself to go that far. Part of me was happy—happy I'd gotten into school. The other part of me was still shattered. And more than I cared to admit.

Just for myself, I did a small spin in the dress, remembering what it was like to just feel like a twenty-something girl again. This time, I smiled and then hit the light to off. It didn't prevent me from feeling like a piece of shit for doing it.

>>

Mulligan's sat in the heart of Chicago, making driving there practically impossible. We took Hallie's car to the brink of town—to the last place we could think of that had free parking—and called an Uber from there. We were dropped off just outside a three-story brick building with a line being managed by a bouncer.

After displaying our IDs and being ushered into the loud room, the atmosphere of the place had me thankful for my choice. Yes, it was a bar, but an upscale one. The place itself was practically an antique, but the upkeep and design was phenomenal—walls of charcoal gray with modern brass light fixtures which were each unique and fun. The wood flooring appeared to be original to the bar, flexing and creaking as we strode across it. The furniture we passed was simple—chunky wood tables with black leather seating, a massive bar that spanned the length of the place, and an area in the rear with a dance floor and stage which currently held a live indie band. I loved that the only bright colors in the entire place came from the lit wall of assorted liquors behind the bar.

Heads were turning as soon as Hallie walked in, and they didn't turn away as she passed the dinner floor to access the bar. She was a blonde bombshell in the most vibrant shade of blue I had ever seen. Her backless dress was classy, flawlessly displaying her curves with a squared neckline, thick straps, and the smallest slit just above the knee. Hallie's hair was wild with curls tonight. And she could always work a room in her favor. She took my hand in hers and directed us through a maze of people to access the bar. She was ready to drink, but I was ready to try the infamous Mulligan's truffle fries I'd been reading about in local cuisine blogs.

"Damn." Hallie's head tilted over her shoulder, eying the bartender and biting her lip seductively. "Didn't have to go far to find a hot one."

It never took her long to spot one. The guy wasn't terrible, a little trendy for Hallie's normal taste. Instead of gray, he was rocking a dark-haired man bun. I never could get with that phase, but he pulled it off okay. Either way, I would not comment. If I did, Hallie would take it as me being ready to scope out guys. Fries and two drinks were the only things I wanted my mouth on tonight.

"I need to pee," Hallie said, leaning into my shoulder and also doing her version of a potty-dance. "What about you?"

"I'm good. I can go with you though."

"Nah." She pointed to the sign for the restrooms. "It's just right there, and I have my phone. Order me a Washington apple. I'll be back."

Hallie disappeared while I located two empty barstools. The bar seemed to be the least busy spot in the entire place. Most patrons had finished up their dinners by now, and most of the bar crowd had moved to the live band with their drinks. The music wasn't terrible, but I preferred to enjoy it from a seat at the bar.

"What can I get you?" The hand of the bartender fell flat to the bar where he placed a coaster.

"Am I able to eat at the bar?" I asked, already pulling at the hem of my dress after sitting.

"Absolutely," he nods and reaches for a menu. "We only do appetizers after ten. I highly suggest the fries."

Perfect.

"Oh, I don't need the menu. I'll take a dirty martini, three olives, a Washington apple, and an order of the truffle fries."

"You got it."

I observed him expertly concoct the two drinks and pour them into odd shaped martini glasses. Mine was topped with the three olives, just as requested, while Hallie's drink came with thinly sliced apple shaped as a flower. The olive spear was pulled as soon as the drink appeared in front of me. I popped each into my mouth, one at a time, before emptying my martini glass as if it were water. I enjoyed the light-headed, loopy feeling it gave. Didn't take long for me to remember the big difference between cheap wine and actual liquor. It hit different in a fantastic way.

The fries were delivered in less than ten minutes. Multiple people felt the need to tell me they were life changing before I could take the first bite and decide myself. A-plus for presentation—they were wrapped in an opaque paper and tucked into a brass mug. Salivating and eager to try them, I scanned the room for any sign of Hallie. She was easy to find with her blue dress and was currently being twirled around the finger of a hunky blond up by the stage. It meant I was on my own now, which was fine. I was much more interested in eating. I didn't waste time popping the first fry into my mouth, immediately regretting it.

Hot, hot, hot. My hand fanned my open mouth.

Finishing my drink so quickly was a regrettable choice, but once it cooled down, the flavors began exploding across my tongue. Crispy outside with a slight crunch, the potato remained soft on the inside—meaning the chef knew what they were doing and allowed the starch to escape before frying. The seasoning was delicious. Ingredients sounded off in my head. Truffle oil—obviously—parmesan, pepper, garlic...powder? I found that disappointing, preferring some type of salt besides just a salty cheese. Knowing that this change would make these faultless, I reached for the shaker to fix their mistake.

"Christ, what is it with you and sodium?" A firm hand gripped my wrist, preventing the salting of my food. "I cannot imagine what your blood pressure is like."

I recognized the voice—a deep male voice with a slight rasp. When my barstool swiveled without my permission, my notion was confirmed by a single toothpick. He seemed to be rude no matter where he was.

"You." I rolled my eyes at toothpick guy—the Worcestershire thief.

"Me." He grinned playfully. The salt shaker was plucked from my hand and returned to the bar top with a thud. "How was your soup? Did you use the soy sauce?"

"Yes." I reached again for the shaker but was too slow. He pushed it further from my reach. "Needed salt. Just like these fries!"

"I doubt that. Those fries are perfect as they are."

"No, they should have used garlic salt."

"It has parmesan."

"So?"

"That's a salty cheese..."

"I'm aware, but they don't need more cheese flavor, they need more salt. Thus, I would appreciate you forking over the shaker."