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The audience cheers and I spot Maxwell smiling, his arm wrapped around Belle. Levi sits on her lap, clapping like he understands what’s going on. Ryland grins and gives me a thumbs-up as he tugs a smiling Millie against him. Charles laughs at Taylor, who’s wolf-whistling like a pro, and Steven and Grace cheer loudly. Alexis is jumping and clapping with a smiling Ethan next to her. Lana sits next to Dad, who’s smirking, his ankle crossed over his knee, every inch the proud Anderson patriarch.
I glance to my right and spot her, my Olive, standing behind the curtain in a white turtleneck dress because our lovemaking gave her a few fresh marks on her neck.
Sorry, but not sorry.
She blows me a kiss and motions for me to continue.
Turning back to the audience, I say, “As some of you may know, I suffer from a host of mental health issues—C-PTSD, substance dependence, and related disorders. The Rex-a-Million persona was a mask I crafted to hide my problems from the world.”
My hands shake and my pulse skyrockets as I bare parts of me I’ve held under lock and key until recently.
Olivia helped me see the light.
“It wasn’t healthy. It prolonged problems and impacted people I care about. What I should’ve done was seek help earlier and let others in. I know how hard that can be, how sometimes even the smallest step can feel like a Herculean effort. Luckily, I had help. I had the support of my family and the woman I love. And one day, on this journey to recovery, I took a cooking class.”
My eyes sweep over the audience and land on Giacomo Valenti, who’s waggling his brows because the fucker knows it’s his class I’m referring to. Begrudgingly, I admit he’s a decent guy underneath all that suave charm.
“Through the process of learning to cook, I felt relief. It has been a passion of mine, something my mother loved and I enjoyed doing with her when she was alive. It has always grounded me. It sparked an idea I later discussed with Dr. Olivia Lin.” The crowd cheers as Olivia steps into the spotlight and waves to the crowd.
I grin, noticing how tall she’s standing, how she’s no longer flustered by the attention.
Because she knows she deserves her own spotlight, one I can’t look away from.
“Studies have shown that cooking can elevate moods and help patients suffering from eating disorders, depression, anxiety, and other mental illnesses. Cooking and eating healthy foods can improve our gut biome, which then improves mental health as well. And so, Dr. Lin and I decided to combine therapy with the culinary arts, resulting in the Anderson Culinary Arts Therapy Center. Here, we will offer mindfulness-based cooking classes, individual and group therapy, and psychiatric help for free to anyone who needs it.”
Lighting up a match, I hold it over the makeshift fire pit before dropping it in. The flames flicker and grow, bathing the space in a warm glow.
“This flame will be transferred back into the kitchen and be used to cook the first meal for all of you as a thank you for supporting this important cause.”
A knot loosens in my chest when I look into the audience again. This is my phase three—looking forward and finding meaning in my life, which to me is helping others in need.
“Because,” I swallow, “mental health is crucial, and access to help should be available for all. Thank you.”
The auditorium erupts into a standing ovation, and I bite my lip, my face heating. I feel out of sorts, suddenly unused to the cheers, whistles, and clapping from an adoring crowd, not because of some deviant behavior, but because I was unflinchingly honest and vulnerable.
Because of something good I’m doing for the community.
When I step down from the podium, Olivia is there to greet me, a wide, beaming smile on her face.
“I’m so proud of you, Rex. So proud of you,” she whispers before pulling me into a kiss.
Warmth ripples through my body. And as our kiss deepens, my roaring heartbeats eclipse the applause still booming in the room.
Quietly, I pull back and brush her hair from her face.
I dip my forehead to hers and murmur, “I love you, my Olive. Thank you for loving me.”
Later that evening, we’re gathered on the rooftop bar at The Orchid. Even Olivia’s parents have flown out to join us. The night sky is exceptionally clear, with stars winking at us amid a swath of dark navy.
My phone buzzes, and I see a text from an unknown number.
Ava.
Unknown number
*Sends a photo of a beach with palm trees and the silhouettes of three women in swimsuits.*
Unknown number
