Today I go for a hot Quiche Lorraine for my breakfast treat at 'Maison Parisienne'.

"You have a bright future in academia," says Jaque. "Your interview was the best one. I haven't heard so many accolades for a dissertation as your professors at l'Université de Bretagne-Loire gave yours. Singing praises is unlike them. It's a sign." This meeting is his attempt to sway me into accepting the Assistant Professors position at UChicago.

"But the base salary the Marketing Research firm is offering me is more, and they have bonuses. I may end up making twice as much there." I sip my hot cafe au lait. Money talks make my skin itch, and I push down the impulse to get up and leave.

"I understand. I do. Truly.  I've dedicated my entire life to Anrtopology, and it will get better. The opportunities to get additional income will come. Maybe, for now, the money is less but it's a decent salary, and you can follow your passion. You can continue the research, move from the historical to the modern-day impacts. The whole department will be eager to support you." Jaque's voice losses its soft, whispery quality, and the couple at the table next to ours glares at us.

"Quite a lot less," I whisper back. "On top of that, they want me to start as soon as my background check clears, which is in as little as a week."

"Spending time with Sarah before she moves, and before the fall semester begins isn't only for the department's sake. It's in your best interests."

My quiche is getting cold as our conversation heats up.

"I agree, but you must see how disruptive this is. I was supposed to fly back home, pack my cottage, say proper good-byes, and then come back here to an apartment and with things I need, not a single suitcase."

"Think of this as an adventure. You're young—"

"I'm thirty—"

"So very young. In the prime of your life. Enjoy it. Follow your heart. Follow your passion. Live to the fullest. Don't sell your soul for a bigger apartment or a fancier car. That's the advice I can give you after seventy years on this earth."

"At this point, an apartment and a car of my own would be nice. I might need to find a roommate. Not something I've ever considered doing again at this age." I snicker, then sober up.

"Can't you stay with your friend for a while longer?."

"Oh, no. Five adults and a baby in a cramped two-bedroom apartment is a nightmare. And Kora cries most of the night. I need to move out, and I can't seem to find a place I both like and can afford. I'm afraid I'm setting myself up for failure."

"The commercial sector will snatch you up if you apply next year. It's your time to explore—you'll never know if you don't try. And you get to teach."

"Teaching has become another passion of mine." I pretend I'm undecided.

"You see, the only thing you like in the marketing research job is the money. You'll be working on whatever problem the clients are looking to solve. You won't have any say in it."

"You're right." I stop pretending. "UChicago then? I can't seem to get away from that place."

Jaque's not hiding his triumphant smile.

***

The tension in Angie and Mike's kitchen is crackling in the air when I walk in. Everyone is sitting around the table, and there is no chair left for me.

"Aren't you going to finish the rest of the sushi in the box?" Rose is looking between the food and Angie, who's giving Kora her bottle shaped like a boob. Angie pushes the silicone bottom while Kora makes cute sounds as she sucks on the silicone nipple that looks a lot like a real one.

"No, mother, I'm full. I might have it later, or you are welcome to finish it for me." Angie passes Kora over to Mike and gets up to take her plate to the sink.

"Angela Linn Fisher. Sit your butt back down and finish the food. Baby girl needs her milk, and your decision to only pump and not do the real breastfeeding is already compromising her immune system. At least be responsible and produce enough of it." The debate around breastfeeding has been a constant, but this is the first time I hear Rose raise her voice.

"I ate the pasta Amelie brought home from her cooking experiments with Ben yesterday. And how is drinking my milk from a boob vs a bottle is going to impact Kora's immune system? It's my milk either way, and your obsession with making me eat reminds me why I disliked every childhood meal at home." Angie takes a step toward the sink.

"At least your mother would've never served storebought sushi for a meal." Fred pats his wife's hand on the table. "And I would've eaten Ben's pasta last night instead of Indian food again. No matter how much I love Indian food, eating is four days in a row is...is...not great." The unfolded couch behind him is covered with a comforter and neatly stacked pillows.

"After nine months of pizza, the fact that I don't gag at the smell of fish and spices is a miracle to me." Angie turns away from them and reaches the sink. "That's what I'm craving now. Isn't me eating and producing milk what you two care about?"

"I've only eaten bland foods when I was breastfeeding you, and you didn't cry your little head off every night." Rose is on the verge of tears. "Maybe that's worth considering."

"Rose, I think you need to let my wife make her own food choices." Mike's face's turned red over the last five minutes, and I'm surprised the tone he's using is polite, albeit forceful. "Fred, do you need my help with assembling the crib before I leave to the dojang for the afternoon?"

"I'm perfectly capable of finishing it myself. You asking me if I need help every day is not subtle, Mike. The baby doesn't need her crib now, and I want to be useful and do this for you guys," says Fred.

Mike doesn't reply. I take a piece of leftover sushi and join Angie by the sink. "I'm going to Ben's for the rest of the day. You can use the nursery. I moved the mattress up and against the wall, so it should leave you enough room."

"It's the third time this week. Is Linda not getting jealous?" I can physically feel everyone's eyes on me.

"Of what? We are making numerous batches of the same food with slight variations, recording it on camera, and then typing it up." She can't be jealous of my one-sided hot flashes every time his hand touches mine. Ben's remained a perfect gentleman. "The only thing Ben told me about Linda is that they are going to New York next weekend. Some fancy wedding. Ben keeps talking about the restaurants Linda booked for them and throwing around chefs' names."

"Oh, come on." Angie leads me out of the kitchen and into the hallway. She lowers her voice to make sure the audience in the kitchen can't hear us. "Give me something better. I thought my idea is going to bring you two back together."

"You thought wrong. You can never step into the same river twice." No matter how much I wish we could.

***

The time I spend with Ben at his place working on the book is the only piece and quiet I get in the day. We're peering at the index cards of my Nonna and not the scanned version Ben placed into our copies. Our heads are almost touching. I wish our heads were touching. I wish he wished our heads were touching. I need to stop this wishing stuff and focus on the yellowing lines rectangle of paper with Nonna's uneven handwriting. Finding the index cards again in my storage unit was even harder this time because the things I chose to keep before my move to France were sitting on top of Dad's and Nonna's stuff. 

"Are you sure this says garlic, not oil?" asks Ben.

"Garlic is aglio. Oil is olio. Do you see the line that goes down before the L? That's probably supposed to be a g. I wish the smear was in a less confusing place."

"We'll have to try multiple options. And number two does not clarify things: two cloves? two tablespoons?"

The index card with the recipe for 'Basil Sugo' is in Italian and one of the damaged ones.

"The rest of the recipe is straightforward. I'll start cutting carrots, onions, and celery for the soffrito, and you can prepare the tomatoes into the passata, and we divide them into batches."

"Soffrito. Passata." I repeat with the Italian pronunciation I've picked up from spending my childhood watching Nonna cook. My Italian is not far above a basic conversational level. Still, these words roll off my tongue and add to the mystery of the cooking process, like a sprinkle of a good Parmeggiano or Pecorino on a lasagna.

I puree the skinned and seedless San Marziano tomatoes with a handheld blender and watch Ben chop up the vegetables. There's something sensual in the way his fingers hold the vegetables and move away from the sharp blade of the knife that's chasing them.

Ben's corded sinewy forearms have made me into a hot mess in the waiting room of the maternity ward. I doubt he noticed me moving my elbow enough to touch his warm skin. My desire grew and seeped from that spot into my blood to pool at the bottom of my stomach. I moved my legs, trying to relieve the pressure and only getting into more trouble as my pants moved in an unsatisfactory way. No better than a teenager, I waited for the moment he'd shift to get away from my touch. He did not. That's when I decided that my elbows were an erogenous zone. 

The sweet ache our contact created that day is now starting up again from watching the muscles in Ben's arms flex. The hot flash spreads and takes over my body. I'm burning up inside and out and wish it were a cold Chicago winter outside. Ten minutes in the snow would've brought me right back to reality. Or, better yet, I need a vibrator and some privacy, but I have access to neither of those. I need a place of my own.

I stop blending the tomatoes and go to the sink to rinse the blade of the immersion blender. The cold water relieves some of the yearning, and the desire is no longer boiling over. It's back to simmering. 

"Let's finish it up," says Ben. "It'll have to cook on low heat for ninety minutes. It's going to be enough time for me to go for a run before I have to get back to working on the bitcoin analysis. I'm almost done with it, and maybe tomorrow we can do something other than cooking."

"I can't. I promised Tall I'd visit him at the rehab center tomorrow. He wants me to read to him in French."

"I can come too," says Ben. "I've been checking on him every day. He told me to take a day off . But I can join you."

"Don't you have weekend plans with Linda?"

"Linda? Oh. Not this weekend we don't. The trip isn't until next week." 

The finely chopped vegetables are turning golden in two different pans. One has two extra tablespoons of olive oil and the other two garlic cloves. Ben adds the San Marzano tomatoes I've blended, closes the lid, and turns off the camera.

"It's a... it's settled then," I say. "We need to lower Tall's expectations or he's going to want us to show up together every week now."

"We can go together."

We can but should we?  Linda is not going to like that.

"Has Linda been to see Tall yet? I thought they were friendly too."

"Linda visiting Tall? Unlikely. Unless he's asked her to read something to him too. Linda's a poet and a writer. Tall thinks she needs to pursue publishing, but she's been hiding from fame and the media most of her adult life. Her sister, Brenda Baxter, the supermodel, is the star of the family."

"Linda is one of the Baxter family? So she's rich? Super rich?"

"She's never needed to work in her life."

"But." My mind is spinning from this information. "Doesn't she work at the library?"

"She does it because she loves books. Linda's smart and has taught me a lot. I can't say I love poetry as she does, but it at least makes sense to me now."

"Linda Baxter. Wow."

So she is a princess of sorts. New York old money trust fund child is as close to a princess as you can get in the US. Why did Mike think Ben's going to break-up with her? There's been zero indication Ben was unhappy with Linda. He showed no interest in me. I need to stop fooling myself into believing he's the reason I'm in Chicago. I'm in Chicago to build a life where I get to make the decisions. My therapist was right: I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.

Too much dialogue or just right? Was there enough tension? Did this chapter keep your interest?

This chapter is dedicated to @dlcroisette — a fellow quote lover. Check out her book of quotes on writing "Writing a Book - Advice from Famous Authors".

The last line is a quote from the poem 'Invictus' by William Ernest Henley (link to audio in comments)

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

NaNoWriMo: Day 10 23,086 words Some of them you won't see until the novel is done because I wrote the epilogue today. I have a clear ending in mind now, let's see how this works out.