chapter 3
1028 Words
**ADRIAN**
She's twenty minutes late.
I'm standing in my office at six-fifteen AM, watching the sun rise over the city, wondering if I've been scammed by a burlesque dancer with paint-stained fingers and complete creative control over the next year of my life.
The elevator dings. Sage walks out carrying two grocery bags, wearing ripped jeans and a hoodie that says MAKE ART NOT WAR. She doesn't apologize for being late.
"Good morning, Adrian."
"You're late."
"Performance started when I decided it did." She sets the bags on my desk. "Not when your schedule says it should."
Isabel appears in the doorway. "Mr. Cross, your seven AM with…"
"Cancel it," I say. "Cancel everything until nine. Actually, call the executive team. Tell them to be in the conference room at seven-thirty."
Isabel nods slowly and disappears. Sage is watching me with an amused expression.
"What's this?" I look at the grocery bags.
"Today's performance." She starts unpacking. Eggs, bacon, bread, butter. "You're going to cook breakfast for your executive team."
I stare at her. "I don't cook."
"I know."
"I haven't cooked a meal in fifteen years."
"You hired me for insane." She pulls out a frying pan. "Where's your kitchen?"
"I don't have a kitchen. This is an office."
She spots a door I barely remember exists. "What's through there?"
"Break room, I think."
She opens it. Inside is a small kitchenette I've never used. She turns back with a triumphant smile.
"Perfect."
**************
Twenty minutes later, I'm at the stove with Sage beside me, trying to crack eggs into a bowl without getting shells everywhere. I fail.
"You crack them on the edge and pull apart gently."
"I know how eggs work."
"Do you?"
I try again. More shells.
"When's the last time you did something with your hands that wasn't typing or signing documents?" she asks.
"I don't know. Years."
"That's sad."
"It's efficient."
"It's the same thing."
The eggs are finally in the bowl. She hands me a whisk.
"Beat them. Like you're angry."
"I am angry."
"Good. Use it."
I beat the eggs. Too hard, some sloshes over the side.
"Now the pan. Medium heat. Butter first."
The butter sizzles. I pour in the eggs and immediately they start burning.
"Stir them," she says.
"I am stirring them."
"Gently. They're eggs, not a corporate merger."
The eggs look like yellow rubber. The bacon is half-burnt, half-raw. The toast is charcoal.
"Well," she says. "It's food."
"It's garbage."
"It's your garbage. Now plate it."
My hands are shaking slightly, which is ridiculous. I've negotiated billion-dollar deals. But cooking breakfast has me rattled.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask.
"When's the last time you made something with the possibility of failing?"
"I fail all the time. Not every deal closes."
"That's not failure. That's calculated risk. I'm asking when you last did something you might genuinely be terrible at."
I don't answer because I can't remember.
"Exactly," she says. "Now bring the food to your team and watch what happens."
*************
The executive team is assembled when I enter carrying a tray of burnt breakfast. Marcus sees me first and his jaw drops.
"Good morning," I say. "I made breakfast."
Silence.
"You made breakfast," Marcus repeats slowly.
"Yes."
"You. Adrian Cross. Made breakfast."
Sarah Chen, my COO, stares at the burnt bacon. "Is this a team-building exercise?"
"It's Thursday morning and your CEO cooked for you. Just eat it."
They exchange glances. Then, slowly, they each take a plate. Marcus bravely takes a bite of bacon and immediately reaches for water.
"It's terrible," I say.
"Well, yes," Marcus admits. "But the gesture is nice."
They keep eating anyway, forcing down my disaster breakfast. Then Marcus makes eye contact with Sarah while biting into the charcoal toast, and she snorts.
I start laughing.
Not a polite chuckle. Actually laughing, the kind that comes from your chest and surprises you. The kind I haven't done in months, maybe years. The team stares at me like I've announced I'm joining the circus.
"I'm sorry," I managed. "This is objectively terrible."
"It really is," Sarah agrees, laughing too.
"The bacon is somehow both burnt and raw," Marcus says. "How did you even accomplish that?"
"Talent."
The whole table is laughing now. I look toward the door and see Sage watching from the hallway, a small smile on her face.
She nods once and leaves.
Marcus stays behind after the others escape.
"What the hell was that?" he asks.
"Day three of the arrangement."
"Adrian." He leans against the table. "What are you hoping to get from this?"
I look at the empty plates, the burnt crumbs, the evidence of my complete failure at a basic human task.
"I don't know yet. But I laughed, Marcus. When's the last time I did that?"
He considers this. "Your daughter's birthday party. Three years ago."
Three years.
My phone rings. Diane.
"Adrian, we need to talk about Natasha. She has a swim meet Saturday and you promised you'd be there."
I pull up my calendar. Saturday is packed.
"I'll move things around," I say.
"You always say that."
"I mean it this time."
"Do you? Because she stopped asking if you're coming. That's how kids protect themselves, Adrian. They stop hoping."
The words hit harder than they should. "I'll be there."
"Okay." She doesn't sound convinced. "Two PM. Jefferson High School."
She hangs up.
I text Isabel to clear Saturday afternoon.
****************
I find Sage in the lobby, waiting for the elevator.
"That was day three?" I ask.
"That was day three."
"What's day four?"
"You'll find out tomorrow."
"Can I ask you something? Why cooking? Why that specifically?"
The elevator arrives. She steps in and turns to face me.
"Because you need to remember what it feels like to fail at something that doesn't matter. And you needed to see people care about you anyway."
The doors start closing.
"Same time tomorrow?" I called.
"Six AM. Wear something you don't mind getting dirty."
The doors close. I stand there in my empty lobby, my hands still smelling like burnt bacon, feeling something unfamiliar in my chest.
It might be hope.
- Writer
