Personal - A Short Story

By Angela Ferris

Thea woke at 4:17 AM still drunk, starving, and desperately needing to relieve herself.

She started with the latter, stumbling to the bathroom. Blackened makeup wipes covered

the countertop, though based on the heavy rings around her eyes, she hadn't used enough.

Apparently Dior wasn't kidding when they said 'waterproof': they should have labeled their

mascara 'Thea-proof' as well.

The bed called her back, but her stomach was louder.

The house yawned around her, tall windows overlooking the city lights. She was still

getting accustomed to the space, having only lived here for a few months.

In all that time, she'd never used her kitchen. It was still there, however, for nights like

this, slogging drunk and alone to the espresso machine and realizing, horrified, that she didn't

know how to use it.

Thea knew how to make coffee, of course, if she had a french press or even an instant

mix. But this... contraption baited her with its sleek, unmarked surface. She poked around,

searching for an on switch. At one prod, the machine coughed out a burst of piping hot water,

nearly scalding her, and she made the executive decision to give up.

There was no cold brew either, just sparkling water. Thea scoured the refrigerator drawers

but only found fruit and a few yogurt containers. Damn her diet. Damn Hollywood.

Defeated, Thea sank to the cold tile and sipped her sparkling water, leaning her head back

against the cabinets.

She fought her hazy memory, recalling the night's events. She remembered the premiere,

the standing ovation, the audience's collective congratulations. She'd endured it, impatient for the

after-party and the glittering, smoky night that awaited her.

The rest of her memories flooded back and became too much in the same second, and she

jolted, slamming her head against the cabinet door. Thea groaned, the sound echoing through an

uncaring house. As she heard her own voice, Thea became painfully aware of the emptiness. The

bump solidified on her skull, reminding her that no one had been there to see it. She was alone.

Fear gripped her cell phone. She scrolled through her contacts, through employees and B-

list celebrities. Her muddled brain couldn't predict which of the names would even answer her.

She could strong-arm one of her interns, verbally abuse them to make herself feel better. But not

now, not in her home with her dulled senses and heightened emotions.

Thea searched her desires and found one desperate need that rose above the rest. Onlyone contact could provide it.

A brief call and the rest of her water later, Thea forced herself to answer the front door.

A man stood there, a man she had only met once when she hired him. His curly hair had

just started to gray, framing curious but easygoing eyes. He wore a wrinkled button down and, to

her surprise, pajama pants, though she supposed she couldn't fault him for doing so, considering

the time. He cradled a bag of groceries in his hands and grinned, despite his apprehension. "Hi,"

he said. "I usually come in through the downstairs entrance, but I forgot the passcode, and-"

"Tiramisu," Thea interrupted.

"... No," he said patiently. "Ryan. Chef Ryan?"

"I know," she snapped, leaving him at the door. "Just get to work."

Thea found a bar stool while Ryan took a long moment to wipe his feet, taking even

longer to enter the kitchen, his eyes wandering the house.

Impatient, Thea said, "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

Instead of cowering like one of her set interns, he stood perfectly still, meeting her gaze.

You called me here in the middle of the night, and here I am, his expression read. Don't be a dick.

He said nothing, however, and neither did Thea as he set the groceries down. He checked

cabinets for cookware, whistling at the brands. "Nice," he murmured at one pan, testing the

weight. "Y ou cook much?"

Obviously not, she wanted to growl, since I hired you to do it for me. But Thea held

herself back. "I used to."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Not anymore? Now that you have all..." he indicated the house.

"I don't have the time."

"Right." He rolled up his sleeves while surveying the countertop. "Coffee?"

"Y es, please," she sighed, but seeing his amused expression, she realized he was asking

for coffee, not offering it. "I- I mean, I would, but..." She gestured towards the espresso machine.

"I don't know how that thing works."

His face lit up at the challenge. He prodded the impassive glass display and checked

valves. He then pulled out his phone and searched the model online. Thea pinched herself for not

trying that. "Got it," he said, more to himself than to Thea. He pressed a few buttons and set a

ceramic mug beneath the dispenser, placing the final product in front of her.

She recoiled from the foamy liquid. "I'll take mine black."

"Try it." It wasn't a command, more a gentle request.

And strangely, Thea obeyed.

"Holy," she gasped. "What-"

"Raspberry mocha," he said, chest swelling proudly from behind an apron. "Y our

favorite."

She frowned. They had only exchanged a handful of words before tonight. "What do youmean 'my favorite'?"

His confidence dimmed, but he forged through. "I... that is-" Though his voice faltered,

his hands kept busy, removing ingredients from the grocery bag. "Well, I made you a macaron

plate last week, and you ate all the chocolate and raspberry ones but left the others. And you

prefer the raspberry vinaigrette for your salads," he grinned. "I remember you sent my house

dressing back for being 'an affront to the taste buds'."

Thea remembered. She hadn't felt guilty at the time, which bit her in the ass now. "I didn't

mean-"

"It's alright," he chuckled. He emptied whipping cream into a mixing bowl, switching on

the electric beater. Slowly, he added sugar and vanilla, then mascarpone cheese.

Thea hadn't watched anyone cook in months, much less prepared food herself. She forgot

how relaxing it was to combine ingredients, as something lumpy and misshapen smoothed with

time. It wasn't so different from making a movie: toss in a script, form and shape actors into

characters, trim down the edges.

"Where are you from, Ryan?" she asked, despite herself.

"Austin." He grabbed another bowl and poured in coffee and liqueur. "That's also where I

went to school. Y ou?"

"Chicago."

"Ah." He left the sentiment unsaid: That's why you're so icy.

"Why LA?" she asked, but she knew the answer. It was always some variation of the

same reason.

"Because it's LA," he said simply. Ryan removed the lady fingers from their packaging,

dipping them in the coffee and liqueur mixture, then lined the bottom of a pan with them.

Thea never had a personal chef before. She'd stayed overnight at homes that had them,

but never her own. She told herself that this was part of the normal job description, but knew

deep down that wasn't true. Guilt and gratitude mingled in the pit of her stomach, and she forced

out a "Thanks, by the way. For coming. I hope I didn't wake you up."

"Y ou did," he said with a smirk.

She winced. "Was your wife upset?"

"No wife." Before she could ask, he aimed a wet ladyfinger towards her and clarified, "Or

husband. No partner."

"Right," she said sheepishly.

"And you?" His tone was light, but she could tell he was testing the line of what was

appropriate and what wasn't. "Boyfriend, girlfriend? I remember making two chicken marsala's

last Friday."

"Neither. That dinner was with an exec." She sighed, wanting to push work to the furthest

point of her mind. "Who, for the record, was a total ass.""Usually are." He finished the second layer of tiramisu, dusted cocoa powder over the

top, and set the baking dish inside the fridge.

"How long before it's ready?" she asked.

He checked his watch. "Mmm three to four hours."

Thea nearly choked on her mocha. "Hours!"

"Y ep," he said, wiping down his work station with a washcloth.

"Y ou didn't tell me it would take three hours!"

"Well, you called me in three hours before I usually make breakfast, so I thought that's

what you wanted."

Thea slumped over the island counter, her aching head in her hands. She knew she

couldn't be upset, not when she'd called him at a truly heinous hour of the morning, but the

disappointment was bitter, clashing with the watered down tequila taste that lingered in her

mouth.

Ryan hummed to himself and gathered up the leftover ingredients. "Anything else I can

do for you?"

"No."

"Okay. See you around, boss."

Thea watched as he made his way for the door, crossing the long foyer. That same fear

crawled back up her spine, the empty house drowning her.

"Wait," she heard herself say.

Ryan glanced back.

"... Can you stay? Just until your shift starts, so-" she winced at the clock. "A few hours.

Unless you need sleep."

He considered her, groceries dangling from one hand. She wondered what he thought of

her, his employer, with her smeared makeup, her 4 AM tiramisu call.

"Sure," he said easily, as if it wasn't a strange request.

When Thea bought her couch, she'd admired the clean edges and smooth leather. But

now, sinking into one of the sharp corners, she regretted the choice.

Ryan squirmed uncomfortably in his corner. "Y ou got any blankets?"

She'd never even considered buying any, not for the living room. "Guest room, maybe?"

When Ryan returned, he threw an entire comforter towards her, taking one for himself.

He snuggled into his corner, satisfied. "So. Chicago," he said, smiling.

She should stop this, tell him that he was overstepping and needed to leave. He would do

it too, if he wanted to keep his job. After all, employers should set boundaries with employees.

She would never treat her set techs this way, so why should her chef get special privileges?

That and she was vulnerable. Way too vulnerable.

But Ryan wasn't intimidated by her. He seemed at ease, like it was her natural state to bevulnerable, and the longer she was around him, the more she wanted it to be true.

"Technically," she said. "I was born in Boise."

Thea woke at 12:31 PM hungover, starving, and content.

She saw Ryan's comforter discarded on the opposite couch corner. Thea listened, hoping

that maybe he was still here.

But the house was silent.

The events of the night, or rather, early morning, returned to her. Thea found her tiramisu

in the fridge, untouched and ready for consumption. She used a fork to stab a ladyfinger, stuffed

it in her mouth, and hummed contentedly.