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“And yet, you’re going to go out and have a beer with your buddies and help one of your friends out?”
Kobe looked around as if vaguely looking for an answer... a suitable lie. Then he shrugged. “His situation is just less complicated than yours.”
He grabbed his car keys out of the large crystal bowl on the counter and headed for the door.
“When will you be back?” I said.
“I don’t know.”
“Where are you going, exactly?”
“Damn, Axel,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder at me. “What are you? My mother? I’m going out with the guys, and I’ll be back when I’m good and ready. Get off my back.”
“Well,” I went on, truly reluctant to let him leave. “Don’t make any plans for tomorrow night. We’re having dinner with Father.”
“I know.” He opened the door and walked out, closing the door behind him.
I was alone. Alone with my unending thoughts of Layla. My mind raced back to the vision of her in Mac’s arms. Then skipped to the moments when I held her in my arms. Then a quick run to the competition... standing so close to her, telling her to leave the academy, all while desperately hoping she’d stay forever.
Shit. The rest of the afternoon was a bust, with me doing nothing important, nothing with meaning.
With my father’s impending visit, I forced myself to shrug off the oppressive weight on my shoulder and concentrated on preparing dinner. I pulled out the large brisket I’d bought and unwrapped it.
In a large stainless steel bowl, I mixed a variety of spices and a bit of oil and slathered the mixture onto the piece of meat. Wrapping it back up, I then put it back into the refrigerator.
The entire process took less than fifteen minutes.
“Great,” I said into the cavernous home. “What do I do now?”
I felt lost. I was lost. I went to bed lost. Woke up lost and spent a good part of the next day lost.
I took the brisket out of the refrigerator, gave it another good rub, then put it into the smoker.
The rest of the morning was spent getting ready while thoughts of Layla repeatedly came back to haunt me.
I’d hope to see Kobe come out of his room before my father arrived, still intent on talking with him, but I could hear his loud snoring through the door of his bedroom and knew that it could be hours before he woke up.
Finally, with my father soon to arrive, I managed to find some solace in preparing the evening’s meal. Cooking for my father was a feat in it of itself.
What does one buy for the man who has everything?
Where does one bring a man who’s seen the world?
Well then... what does one cook for the man who has experienced virtually every culinary dish?
As I headed into the kitchen to get a head start on the preparations, I briefly considered setting aside the brisket and offering him a simpler dish. How about hamburgers? How about pizza? How about hot-dogs?
I laughed at the thought, imagining my father wolfing down a hot-dog with freshly cut French fries on the side.
Then again, my father would most likely raise his nose at a brisket just as he would pizza or burgers.
I checked in on the large brisket and everything looked great. I then made sure that the three excellent bottles of wine that I’d bought were at the right temperature and finally got started on the root vegetables I’d bought along with a few new spices I’d never used before.
Sure, I thought to myself. Why not add the uncertainty of new spices to stress me even more.
I felt the weight of the night to come. My father, his critique, his assessment. Me, feeling that it was never good enough. Always wanting to prove myself more and more.
Damn it.
