Because Fat Girl

Chapter Twenty

The next few weeks flew by in a sleepless blur. It took a heartfelt apology and five days of making pancakes for breakfast every morning, but the kids eventually forgave me. Cecily wasn’t so easily bought, and the house was thick with the tension of an uneasy truce.

Janelle had asked for space, and I was trying to respect that, checking in every couple of days and only getting curt responses in return. I’d brought up the director of photography positions a few times on the phone with Chris since then, but he was insistent on using Jennifer Conger, eventually telling me rather firmly to drop it. Drew might have been helpful, but I couldn’t bring myself to call him, which just made me feel worse about the whole situation.

Nervous dinosaurs roamed my stomach as I made my way to Chris’s house for our first in-person production meeting since my kiss with Drew. I parked my Subaru next to a custom matte-black Mercedes G-Wagon and sat there, frozen with worry that Chris’s big black door would be slammed in my face. I knew in my logical brain that Drew and I had left things on good terms and we were both adults who could handle this situation, but my stomach still lurched as I got out of my car, walked up to Chris’s house, and rang the doorbell.

A handsome man answered the door, but not the one I was expecting. Instead of Chris, standing in front of me was a guy wearing a Virgen de Guadalupe apron over his teal shirt and jeans. His eyes sparkled mischievously, and his dimples dug deep into his cheeks as he smiled at me and said, “Buenos dias, bonita.”

“Hola, guapo,” I replied, intrigued by this fabulous gay guy answering Chris’s door. “Soy Diana.”

“Diana, la diosa.” He kissed my hand. “Soy Simón. ?Tienes hambre?”

“?Siempre!”

Never one to turn down food, I followed Simón into Chris’s kitchen, which was a simple yet elegant space, fully loaded with everything you’d want for cooking. Simón made his way around, grabbing items from cupboards and drawers that opened and closed for themselves with a simple push.

“I would like to make you an omelet with nopales, queso fresco, tomato, and onion.” Simón surveyed the goods he’d placed on the counter. “Maybe some chile rojo sprinkled in, if you can handle a little drama in your mouth?”

“Oh, I can handle it,” I bragged.

“I’m sure you can, darling diosa.” Simón winked at me and got to work, chopping up some cactus.

“I just can’t handle gluten.” I sighed.

“Don’t worry, no wheat here,” Simón promised, already at work on my meal.

“Where is everyone else?” I’d been so distracted by Simón that I had forgotten about our meeting.

“No one matters but you and me right now,” Simón said, “but if you are looking for Chris, he is downstairs getting a massage.”

“And Drew?” I asked.

“Sólo Dios sabe,” he said, chopping nopales.

I didn’t know whether to be frustrated that I was sitting here, waiting for everyone again, or relieved to have a moment of respite—and food—between my drive and our meeting. My anxiety was still there, but the panic had gone since meeting Simón. He had a soothing energy about him, like all would be okay if I just let him feed me. Which, knowing how angry I got when I was hungry, was probably closer to the truth than I wanted to admit.

“So tell me about yourself,” I said, figuring I might as well make the best of my waiting. “What do you do when you’re not making food for Chris?”

“Oh no, Chris makes his own food,” he answered as he whipped the eggs in a fast yet delicate motion that spoke of years of practice.

“Sorry, I assumed you were his chef.”

“I am a chef, but I am not his chef,” Simón emphasized, stirring onions in the pan. “I am owned by no one.”

“I can respect that.” I was in awe of the way Simón moved around the kitchen. “So then what do you do for Chris?”

“Who said I have to do anything for him?” Simón smirked. “Maybe he does things for me.”

“I can’t see Chris doing much for anyone but himself.”

“He is actually a very good cook. Could be a chef, but alas, too beautiful.”

“Huh, Chris Stanson cooks his own food.” I gawked as Simón slowly poured the eggs into a pan. “Who would have guessed?”

It was beautiful watching Simón work. The mesmerizing way he slowly stirred the eggs, tapping the sides of the pan to make sure none stuck. Plopping bits of queso fresco into the batter and letting it melt just so before sprinkling in the chiles. Folding the whole thing over on itself, tapping the pan again to keep it from burning on the bottom.

Obviously, Simón loved food, I could tell from the way he treated it, but it was more than just love. It was talent beyond measure, like watching Mozart perform a piano solo he’d written himself.

Simón plated the omelet, placing a dollop of fresh crema and a sprinkle of cilantro on top. I expected a flourish as he handed it to me, but the loving care he took with the preparation was absent in his delivery. He simply handed me the plate and walked back to the sink to do dishes.

I wondered how someone could put all of that effort into creating a piece of art and not want to see the audience’s reaction to its unveiling. I thought about how someday soon I would be sitting in a theater with people watching my film and how horribly nerve-wracking it would be. My self-worth as a filmmaker would be dependent on their every reaction. Simón had it right. If I could create art and then walk away without having to worry about other people’s opinions, I would do that, too.

But making an omelet is nothing like making a movie , I thought. I’m sure this is nothing to him.

And then I tasted it.

“Simón”—I gasped, and he turned around expectantly—“this is fucking amazing.”

“There’s no need to cuss.” He smiled. “It’s just a simple omelet.”

“Yes, and the Mona Lisa is just a simple painting.” I scooped up another bite and savored the creaminess.

“And there’s no need for hyperboles, either.” He was playing humble, but even with his back turned, I could tell he appreciated the compliment.

“I’m not kidding here.” I tried to make myself slow down so I could appreciate every bite. “This is absolute perfection. Salty, spicy, bitter, sweet, all in one bite. It’s pure genius.” I took another bite before continuing. “There’s this restaurant by where I used to work, a couple blocks off of Rodeo Drive. It’s called Tres, and it has the best omelet in the world. Or that’s what I thought before I tried this one. It’s this wonderful Cuban-Mexican fusion place known for its beyond amazing egg dishes, but you’ve got them beat. You should go and try it sometime, just so you can compare how much better yours is.” I realized I was babbling, but I couldn’t stop. Really good food (or really good sex) had that effect on me. “Do you know Tres?”

“I have been to Tres a few times, yes.” Simón smirked.

“So good, right?” I was sadly halfway through my omelet, trying to make it last as long as possible. “Did their omelet inspire yours?”

“My omelet inspired theirs.”

“Oh, do you know the head chef there?”

“I am the head chef there.”

“Oh. My. God.” My mouth hung open so far that a bit of nopales fell out. “You’re Simón Barboza!”

“Soy él,” Simón admitted, taking a dramatic bow.

“That means you also run Uno and Dos.”

“Sí.” He smiled proudly.

“I can’t believe I’ve been sitting here chatting with Simón Barboza! And you made me breakfast!”

I felt like an ass. I just assumed Simón worked for Chris, like Serena did for Drew, since he was in his kitchen. I hadn’t even thought to put his name together with the food in front of me. Of course he was Simón Barboza—who else made omelets like this? I just had a personal meal made by one of the top chefs in the world, a man famous for his complex and fresh takes on Cuban and Mexican food, merging the two sides of his family together. An activist known for advocating for Latin-American populations and immigrant rights. He was notoriously private, refusing to pose for any magazines or come to the front of house at the restaurant to greet famous guests. That’s why I hadn’t realized who he was. Unlike the rest of Hollywood, he preferred to stay unrecognizable.

“Tres is one of my favorite restaurants; I used to eat there at least once a week when I worked at Roussard’s.” I’d completely lost any semblance of cool, but I didn’t care. “I went to Dos a month ago for Drew’s mom’s birthday, and it was the most fantastic meal I’ve ever had in my life. I still can’t believe you’re Simón Barboza! I just had an omelet made for me by Simón Barboza!”

I forced myself to stop talking, blushing with embarrassment over how I was acting. I’d worked around many famous people in my life, but it had been a while since I’d been this excited about meeting someone. “I’m sorry, I’m just not used to being fed by famous chefs.”

“I’m sure you meet even more prestigious people all the time,” he said, putting away the bits he hadn’t used. “You are friends with Chris Stanson, after all.”

“He’s just a pretty face with good genes. But you! The things you do with food, it isn’t genetics, it’s genius. It’s talent and hard work combined. It’s art.”

“Thank you”—Simón bowed—“but I wouldn’t dismiss Chris so easily. It takes more than just looks to get to the level of success he has.”

“Eh, Chris can’t do this.” I used my finger to scrape the last of the crema off my plate to emphasize my point.

“What can’t I do?” Chris came into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around his otherwise naked body, his forehead still marked from the massage table’s face cradle.

“Simón Barboza just made me breakfast!” I blurted out, too excited to care that he was showing up to yet another meeting half naked and late.

“Look at that,” Chris remarked, “Coffee Girl does get starstruck.”

“He’s the hottest thing in town,” I gushed, ignoring Chris’s little nickname for me. “Every lesbian I know wants in his kitchen, and every gay guy I know wants in his bedroom.”

“You’ll have to send me some names.” Simón winked.

“One name: Matt. He’s a film director who will fuck your brains out and make you beg for more.” I caught myself as I remembered his response to my cussing earlier. “Pardon my French.”

“Even a prude like me can enjoy the sound of that,” Simón said as we exchanged numbers. “I have to go, but it has been a pleasure meeting you, Diana. You must come by Dos again sometime. My treat.”

“Oh my god, really?” I shook his hand a bit too vigorously. “I will! Thank you!”

“I’m curious,” Chris said, after Simón was gone, “do you lose your shit over every chef or just Simón?”

“And I’m curious,” I shot back, leaning toward him, “why Simón Barboza was at your home so early in the morning.”

“I was hungry.” Chris shrugged.

Of course, Chris Stanson was the kind of guy who would call up a famous chef to make him breakfast.

“So where is everyone else?” I looked around, wondering about our production meeting.

“Drew and Francine will be here in about an hour.”

“Did you give me the wrong time again?” I fumed. Sure, I’d gotten to meet Simón Barboza and eat the most amazing omelet of my life, but still, I hated that Chris kept disrespecting my time.

“No, you’re on time.” Chris smiled. “I just arranged a special meeting beforehand for you downstairs.”

“Who am I meeting with downstairs?” I asked.

“My massage therapist,” Chris said, patting me on the back. “You’re way too tense.”