Abby

The silence in the room is thick with tension as we wait for Logan's verdict.

Vanessa's and Xavier's praises still echo in the back of my mind, but it's Logan's opinion that really seems to hold the weight of the world. I can’t explain why, but it somehow feels as though Logan's opinion holds more sway than the others’; or maybe that's just how it feels to me, seeing as how slow he is to dole out praise, just like Professor Hawthorne all those years ago.

Without warning, Karl's hand finds my knee under the table. It's a brief touch, but it grounds me. I don't pull away, not yet.

Vanessa's voice is soothing as she picks up on the tension and fills the silence, taking another bite of her souffle. “Really, Abby, it's exquisite,” she says with a warm smile.

Xavier nods in agreement. “Definitely. I might just need to ask you to make a few more of these for me to bring home. My wife and daughter would be angry if I didn’t share.”

I laugh in response, but it's a hollow sound. Nothing will feel right until I hear what Logan has to say, and I hope beyond all hope that it's more than just “it's fine’ again.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Logan leans back in his chair and looks poised to speak. His gaze lifts to meet mine, and there's something new in his eyes that I haven't seen before. He looks less cold now, but only ever so slightly.

“Good job, Abby,” he says with a curt nod. “I have to say, I'm more impressed than I was at the cook-off."

The relief that floods through me is almost dizzying, but his words aren't a complete balm. There's still an underlying tension there that gives me pause.

“Really?” I ask, my voice wavering slightly.

Logan nods again. “Yes, really. Overall, I'd give tonight a seven out of ten.”

Seven out of ten? I repeat the number in my head. That should be good, right?

But it doesn't feel good. I poured my heart and soul into tonight. A seven out of ten is good, but not good enough. Not for me. I try to keep my expression neutral and professional, but inside, my thoughts whirl around like a tornado.

“That's... Thank you, Logan. I appreciate your feedback,” I manage to say, even though the words feel hollow.

He nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and then leans forward again with his elbows on the table. "Of course, I'll need to spend the night considering my final verdict. Whether or not you're fit to cater the Alpha party.”

“Yes,” Vanessa says, nodding along with him. “Of course. We should all discuss this privately before we can make our final decision. I hope you can understand, Abby.”

I nod. “Absolutely. It's an important event to be catered. Take all of the time you need.”

There's a moment of silence in the room as Logan's words linger in the back of my mind. Seven out of ten. It's a good score, isn't it? Yet why does it feel like a failure rather than a victory?

"Would you like some coffee?” I find myself asking, more out of a need to break the tension than anything else.

“That would be lovely, Abby,” Vanessa says, and Xavier agrees with a nod. Logan, of course, says nothing, but also makes no motion to leave.

I stand, my legs a little unsteady, and make my way to the kitchen after gathering the empty dishes. I can feel Karl's eyes on me, and I wish I knew what was going through his mind.

Once in the kitchen, I take a deep breath. My exhale is shaky, and suddenly I feel like a teenager in culinary school again, held to a higher standard than the rest of the class.

Why seven? Why not eight, or nine? Or was that giving myself too much credit?

Logan hadn't hated it, that was clear, but he hadn't loved it either. That's fine; I don't expect everyone to adore my food. But why wouldn't he just give me some comments, some critique, anything?

Instead, he had given no specifics, nothing I could use to improve my skills. Just that he was “more impressed than he was at the cook-off.” And that the meal was a seven out of ten. Nothing more, like a swift jab to my gut.

I lean against the counter, my eyes closing for a moment. This is out of my hands now, I quickly realize. I did the best I could. Now, all I can do is wait for the coffee to brew.

And wash the dishes.

The clinking of dishes is the only sound as I scrub and rinse, my hands moving automatically. ;m barely present in the task, my mind replaying every moment from the meal.

The voices from the other room are muffled, but oddly grounding. Karl is entertaining the judges while they wait, and I'm grateful he’s here. I'll definitely need to make all of this up to him later, as soon as I have the chance.

That's when I sense it—a shift in the air. I'm not alone anymore, and somehow, I know exactly who it is.

Logan.

I keep my back to him for a moment longer than necessary, gathering my thoughts, steadying my breath. Then I turn. He's standing in the doorway, his wine glass in hand

“Hi, Logan. Can I get you anything?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain steady.

“I decided I'd rather have a little more wine than coffee, if you don’t mind,” he says, holding his glass up.

I nod, putting down the last dish and drying my hands on the towel. “Of course.” I reach for the bottle, uncork it, and pour the deep red liquid into his glass. There's a silence between us, one that's punctuated only by the sound of the wine pouring into the glass.

Finally, I can't stand it anymore. I set the bottle down, my hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Can I ask you something, Logan?”

Logan sips his wine, his eyes meeting mine over the rim of the glass. “Certainly.”

I take a deep breath, my words rushing out before I can stop them. “Why do you seem to dislike me? Is it something I did?”

For a moment, Logan just looks at me, and I'm not sure he's going to answer. Then he sets his glass down with a gentle clink and gives me that look, like he’s part of a secret joke that I'm not privy to. "Abby, I—"

“I'm sorry,” I say, shaking my head as the realization of my own ridiculousness finally crosses my mind. “I... I don't mean to be rude.”

Logan says nothing for a few moments. He just stands there, his wine glass in front of him, and stares at me. I feel like I'm back beneath that stairwell again, and like he's Professor Hawthorne. The tiniest flicker of something that I can't quite read flashes through his eyes, but it's gone in an instant.

And then he speaks, his voice softer this time. But there's a tiny hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he does.

“Hasn't your sous chef told you already?” he asks.

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