He starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, heading toward the main road without asking for directions.
"You don't know where I live," I point out.
"Small town. I'll figure it out. Which direction?"
"East. Out past the elementary school."
He nods and takes the turn, his hands steady on the wheel. Those hands. Scarred from years in kitchens, nicked with burns and cuts that never quite heal when you work with knives andheat every day. I've spent an embarrassing amount of time noticing those hands over the past two weeks, watching them move through prep work, imagining—
No. Not going there. Not tonight, not when I'm already frustrated and confused and sitting way too close to him in the dark.
We drive in silence for a minute, two minutes, the tension thick enough that I want to roll down the window just to let some of it escape. The streets of Blackwater Falls roll past, most houses already dark for the night.
"Your idea wasn't bad," Levi says suddenly.
I turn to look at him, not sure I heard correctly. "What?"
"The chicken and dumplings thing. Coq au vin with spaetzle." He keeps his eyes on the road, his profile hard to read in the dashboard lights. "It wasn't a bad idea."
"Then why did you shoot it down?"
"Because we're two weeks in."
"You said that already."
"Because it's true." His hands tighten on the wheel. "We need consistency right now, not experimentation. People are just starting to trust us, to understand what Juniper's is. Changing things too fast makes it look like we don't know what we're doing."
"A single special isn't changing everything—"
"It's not about the special." The words come out harder than before, clipped. "It's about focus. I need everyone focused on execution right now, not creativity. Get the fundamentals perfect first, then we can talk about innovation."
There's something in his voice, something underneath the words that sounds almost like he's trying to convince himself as much as me. But I don't push. I've pushed enough tonight.
"Turn left at the next street," I tell him, my own voice quieter now.
He makes the turn, following my directions through the neighborhood where houses get progressively smaller, yards less maintained. This isn't the nice part of Blackwater Falls. This is where people like me and Mom live, people who work two jobs and make do and hope the car lasts one more month.
"The blue one with the white shutters," I say, pointing.
He pulls into the driveway and puts the truck in park but doesn't cut the engine. We sit there in the rumbling idle, neither of us moving, the porch light Mom left on casting long shadows across the hood.
"Thank you," I finally say. "For the ride."
"Yeah." He's staring straight ahead through the windshield, his jaw tight.
I should get out. I should thank him again, grab my bag, and go inside and forget this entire awkward night. Instead, I hear myself saying, "Why did you hire me?"
Levi's head turns toward me, his eyes finding mine in the dim light. "What?"
"Why did you hire me?" I'm committed now, might as well see it through. "I had barely any professional experience. There were probably other applicants with more training, more credentials. So why me?"
He's quiet for a long moment, long enough that I think he's not going to answer. Then: "Because when I asked you whyyou wanted to work in a kitchen, you didn't talk about fame or recognition or becoming the next celebrity chef."
I remember that interview. Remember being so nervous I could barely speak, twisting my hands in my lap while he sat across from me with that intense focus that made me feel like he could see right through me.
"You talked about your grandmother's Sunday dinners," he continues, his voice lower now, rougher. "About how she could make a cheap cut of meat into something special, how she fed half the neighborhood on nothing but skill and love. You said you wanted to learn how to do that. How to make food that mattered to people, not food that impressed them."
My chest feels tight. I'd forgotten I said that, forgotten everything except the way he'd looked at me like my answer meant something.