A.N: A long chapter to start off the new year with you Beans. Thank you for waiting; for being here; for staying. This was an enjoyable chapter to write and perhaps... because I took my time with it. What can I say? It is true. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.
A very happy new year to everyone reading this. To many more years of searching, many more years of beautiful journeys, long and tough. Wishing you Beans a very happy new year.
Enjoy.
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[Leroy]
Being on the receiving end of some harmless hate should be the norm; sometimes you just gotta accept that you're not everyone's cup of tea and you can't please the entire world. Unless those haters start throwing hands or going out of their way to spit verbal abuse. Stuff like that, I'd learned over the years we spent apart.
"Cox... why'd you do that?" "Fucking hell..."
Think about it. Every mind runs on fuel and that thing isn't going to last you a thousand years. Would you rather spend that fuel on some random dude with issues or people you actually care about?
"We had that in the bag." "You could've given that seabass to us first, man. Nothing wrong with helping out the other team while they're a man down but do that after fulfilling your own duties."
The choice is obvious.
Truth was, I hadn't the time or the energy to give a fuck about what they thought of me. There was no interrupting them to present my side of the story because their heads were balls-deep in anger and frustration. Verbally taking it out on someone was instant relief, tough to resist.
"Nah, Cox did himself a favor and it backfired." I heard someone say over my shoulder. They'd followed me out onto the deck as soon as Stan called for cut. "It's the over-confidence mate, you gotta do something about that." I'd checked out by this point and was looking around for my dog, ready to head upstairs and spend the rest of the day in a lounge chair.
"Wait." Pierson. "I don't think Leroy did that on purpose, there's really no reason for him to," he turned my way with one hand extended, blocking my way. "You owe us an explanation... at least. Please."
Something didn't sit right with me the way he put it and I could see my past self pushing back but the little genius on my shoulder advised otherwise and reminded me of the many ways I'd learned to fight my fires.
I turned, eyeing the rest of the team that was standing around, spread out on the deck with their arms folded. Staring.
"It was scripted." I laid out in simple terms. "Ask Stan."
Some of them exchanged a look and others remained quiet. Doubtful. I left the decision to believe what I just said up to them, unwilling to elaborate. The last thing I wanted was to have dug a hole of words with no way back up.
A production assistant came through to break up the silence by calling out a couple of names scheduled for confessional shoots. We dispersed soon after, heading off to separate rooms with nothing settled and questions still up in the air.
I wasn't a fan of being left alone with Pierson so I thought I'd head off to the upper deck to hang with my dog when a figure in a red apron waved from the doorway. Siegfried's sous chef.
"Hey," she said after everyone else had quietly slipped away, approaching with her arms folded. "I was... going to check on Layla. I thought you might want to tag along."
True. I mean I was going to anyway. So I agreed and we headed down the hallway, up the stairs, and onto the upper deck where the bigger suites were.
"Thank you, by the way." She said carefully. "For what you did back there."
I didn't exactly see this coming so it took me quite a bit to piece things together. Du Bellay's team was one man down and already up in chaos before the start of the challenge. The free catch I gave her team instead of my own put them ahead and turned the tides in a blink.
"... does everyone seriously think I'm that much of a saint?" I said in the end, snorting a laugh. "It was Stan."
She paused. "St... you mean he—you mean that was all scripted?"
"Yeah. Could've flipped him off but I was too spent to negotiate after what happened with Layla. And they weren't exactly wrong about the confidence part. Thought I could return on time with another catch..."
"Well... we were all very grateful. Including Andre, although he's never going to say that to your face. It surprised him, for sure. You would've liked the look on his face. Everyone else too, we... the tension and stress all just... disappeared. Thanks to you."
I shrugged. "It's fine."
"I'll... talk to Siegfried about this." She said to end things off and her tone of voice sounded less convincing than before. As though she didn't genuinely believe talking to Siegfried would resolve anything.
We neared the end of the upper deck where all three VIP rooms were situated. "They said something about Layla being put in Vanilla's room temporarily... which one was it again...?"
"Two down." I nodded at the far end, left of the hallway. Du Bellay blinked at the confidence in my voice but made no comment apart from: "Right."
She went ahead and knocked on the door as soon as we stopped in front of Vanilla's but it was the medic on board who answered.
"Oh. Hey. It's you, the other trained medic." He looked relieved. "I was about to ring for back up. I need to grab something from the control room but I can't leave the patient unattended. Good that you're here—I'm swapping out."
"I deal with fires more than the EMS side of things but sure, I'm certified."
"Perfect. I'll be right back," he held open the door for us to head on in whilst slipping out into the hallway, leaving us in the room with Layla.
I knew my way around the suite so I led the way further in to where the bed was, checking corners for Leo just in case his tail was out and prone to wandering shoes. Layla was propped up on a couple of pillows, awake but with her eyes barely open and face pale as fuck.
"Hey." I sat by the bed, reaching over to check her pulse.
She tried to smile; lips cracked and dry. "Aw you came to see me. How did it go? Sorry I..." she gestured to her general state.
"Don't be," Du Bellay helped her up while I threw a couple of pillows together for support. "How's your leg?"
"Could be better. Just a little more rest and I should be good to go dear. God it was... a lot of water I breathed in." She shuddered and paused to breathe for a bit before turning my way. "Thanks."
"Wasn't your time." I laid out, checking her oxygen level. "Personally making sure you experience all the suffering down here before you get to enjoy whatever's up there."
"Aw Royroy, the civil servant... such a saint."
We laughed but it was quiet. Du Bellay filled Layla in on the details while I poured her a glass of water and as expected of the red team's leader with a stubborn ego, her reaction was a struggle. She turned to me first, eyes wide.
"Why'd you listen to him?"
I snorted. "Fuck, guess I should've let your team sink too huh."
"No, yeah, thank you, but yeah, you should've," she started off in a burst but winced, clutching her chest for a bit. We forced her back into a resting position and told her to shut up—which she did, for less than a minute—but couldn't stop her from giving in to her natural instincts.
"Your team must've felt so upset about you giving up what could've been pretty much a free win," Layla stared me down, though she was technically looking up at me from the bed with her eyes closed. Closed-eye staring; something only a well-respected senior from way back in culinary school could do. A part of me had always looked up to her even after the simple-minded heart preferred having her in the corner of shame: having played some part in sparking the fire that led to spending seven years alone and apart.
Gotta admit. I almost wished we never met.
Had she not given in to the headmaster's demands or external pressure, fought for herself and not pulled in a first-year writer—no matter how suited they were for the job—who put himself out there for public opinion that ended up twisting the minds of kids thinking a minute in a walk-in cold room was an average prank—
"Leroy?"
I pulled back from the flames. Du Bellay had her hand out for the glass of water I was still holding on to, eyes searching mine carefully like it was dark and she couldn't tell me and the shadows apart. I handed her the glass. Her gaze lingered but did not pry.
Layla hadn't noticed any of this with her eyes closed. For someone who'd nearly drowned mere hours ago, she was full of spirit and words I'd never have even if I was alive. Wait, I am alive. "Honestly, it's not like any of us are getting a free pass in the next challenge anyway. It's going to be just another one of those advantage things, so. No point getting worked up. Also—there's something hard under this pillow and I'm dying to reach in for a guess. Whose room is this again?"
I paused. "...Vanilla's."
"Nillie's?" She blinked; eyes fixed on a spot in the ceiling before rolling back. A knowing laugh escaped. "Should've known."
"What?" "The thing. It's in a specific shape. Wanna guess?"
"..." It was the sous chef who took a second to piece things together and the moment it clicked, she raised both hands to her face to hide an embarrassed smile. "It can't possibly belong to Vanilla."
It was up to Layla and me to exchange a look. She asked first. "What kind?"
"Just a training kit."
"You brought that along—"
"He did."
"Wow." She seemed genuinely in awe. I assured her that she wasn't the only one.
*
On that note, I did raise the subject of having sex on the beach to my personal masseuse the night before; and surprisingly his reaction was much tamer than I'd expected it to be. "I'd prefer not to find grains of sand on parts of my body that are not meant to ever feel such a texture thank you very much." "... you seem to have thought this through." Even I hadn't thought so far ahead. Besides, they usually had towels laid out whenever stuff like that happened in movies. The wrong sort of movies. Also, they were always set in places like Bali.
The resort had a private area meant for stuff like this—fancier villas and a nice beachfront all to our own for a couple of nights. They had the yachts docked at a marina before showing us around the two separate villas; one for the production team and another for the cast.
They had a pool stretching across the terrace in the back overlooking the beach, merging with the waters in the horizon. People were naturally drawn to the view but I hung back, waiting for concierge to arrive with our bags and my dog. I felt someone fill the lounge chair next to mine.
"It's so pretty, isn't it?"
Him again; sharing the view of a dozen people standing around the pool, checking out the private beach and barbecue. There was something off about his timing, popping up at my shoulder whenever I was alone and for no particular reason. "Not bad."
I wasn't dense. And I don't mean to be a dick but I can tell when someone close by decides to check me out; Pierson wasn't here for that. He was starting a conversation without a supposed end in mind and it was tough figuring out what he was after.
His voice softened. "They said we have the rest of the day to relax. The main event's tomorrow. Late afternoon. Some of us think it's by the beach and they're buying time to set up."
"Right." I stood, turning away from the infinity pool just in time to see a man standing in the shade with a camera held up to his face, pointed in my general direction. Our eyes met. Sort of. Like I could see the top half of his face from where I was and the moment he noticed me looking was the second he re-directed the barrel of his lens elsewhere—upwards at the second floor of the villa.
I followed his gaze. There was no one there.
Detective work isn't exactly my thing and I usually leave it up to the geniuses but something seemed off about the guy. I'd never seen him on the crew. Or maybe they decided to hire a couple of locals for backup. Or he was really just some harmless tourist trying to get a shot of the architecture.
"No one's holding it against you by the way. For what you did. Not saying there was anything to hold you against in the first place since technically it'd be part of the script. Just... wanted you to know that we're all on good terms now. No hard feelings," he held out a hand. I looked at it. "Let's shake on it. For good luck, and tomorrow's challenge."
"... what's in it for you?" I gave his hand a firm one anyway, slightly put off by the look in his eyes. Innocent. "I don't hold grudges. And pretty much forget people after a day if they don't matter to me. If I'm being honest, I don't like the attention you're giving me. Sometimes it's... kinda uncalled for. Like when you attributed part of your win that day to the red wine I let you have. Not saying you mean any harm. Just. There's no need to do all that."
Laying this out in the open was necessary if we were going to be cooking in the same kitchen. I couldn't have him giving me the special treatment even if it was on occasion; it'd appear as though I therefore owed him favors and was obliged to return the good will.
He paused at the sudden turn and stared up at me for a bit. "Oh. Well. I didn't know that was what you felt. I thought I was just... being a good teammate, you know? Is that wrong of me?"
"..." We were coming from completely different places and I could already foresee how we weren't exactly going to have any middle ground on this. "I'm not here to discuss what makes a good teammate and what doesn't, or what you think a good teammate is. You're free to do whatever you want, Pierson. Just... keep me out of it."
Contestants were starting to back up from the pool and return indoors where we were having said weird-ass conversation so we ended up dropping things where they were to avoid further awkward feelings. At least on my end, that was the case.
"Chefs, please refer to the list that was sent in the chat group for your respective room numbers," one of the production managers called down the hallway. "All bags have been sorted and will arrive shortly. You are free to wander and arrange for separate dinners but please inform the intern if you decide to. Any questions? No? Alright then we'll see you tomorrow."
I spared no time heading straight for my room to enjoy the peace and quiet of being alone whilst waiting for my bags and dog to arrive. They did approximately five minutes later at the door, along with a special little surprise the bellboy couldn't really explain but handed me a note that did.
He kicked up a fuss when I tried to separate them.
Chicken was looking up at me in the doorway with his tongue out and from between his legs popped a tiny ball of black fur following his gaze.
"So your owner wants me to babysit. Again." I said to Leo, holding out an open hand to which he climbed right in and held on. "He's a secret romantic. Leaving a note when he could've sent a text. Not that he'd ever admit something like that."
I placed him on my shoulder before going through my things and fishing out Chicken's water bowl from the depths of my bags. Moments later, I was watching the kids lap at the water for a drink and blanking out longer than usual. Something was stopping me from pinning down the thought in my head.
It wasn't that I didn't know what to do next—I did, which was to walk my dog and now... cat—there was some other wandering; some other pacing, or waiting for something that I wanted but not knowing what it was.
Something I hadn't felt in a long time.
It lasted all throughout our private little tour of the resort. Just the three of us, hanging out on the beach close to the waters where Chicken preferred, with Leo on his back because water and cats were enemies. Though I'd say the same about Leo and I when we first started out. Enemies.
We headed back to the villa after working up a sweat, passing through the main lobby on the way when a little something caught my eye.
Bundles of vanilla bean pods, stacked atop one another on display by the concierge. I asked one of the receptionists behind the counter if the pods were for sale and felt a little let down when he shook his head apologetically.
"No sir. Very sorry to tell you but this is for resort restaurant, from the local vanilla farm. But actually if you are interest, we have organize some farm tour including this one," he produced a flyer from a couple of acrylic stands on the reception counter—things I don't usually pay any attention to—where other resort-exclusive activities were introduced. "It can be read here."
I sped through it. First and largest Vanilla farm in Bali. Sounded pretty much self-explanatory and I did have time to kill... except the tour wasn't open for on-demand reservations.
"It says Fridays, three to six p.m. Register a day before..." I pointed out, glancing at the fancy clock behind him. Less than thirty minutes to three. "Guess I'm too late?"
"Don't worry sir, if we have open slots left, never too late. I check for you now," he scrolled through an iPad screen and tapped it twice. "Two slots left, sir. You will sign up alone? Or with someone?"
"... one second." I pulled out my phone.
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To: Braised Chicken
you doing anything at 3?
if no, meet at lobby
if yes,
also meet at lobby
i forgot how to romance
this is why we shouldn't take breaks
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I waited for a bit, stared at Chicken staring at Leo staring up at me, then figured he was in a meeting with the production team or busy prepping for tomorrow's challenge so I told the receptionist to put just my name down before dropping the kids off in my room. They fell asleep as soon as a couple of cushions and air-conditioning came into the picture, spent from the walk.
With the thing in my head still pacing around from before, I headed back to the reception area and was promptly greeted by a man in a hat holding up a sign for the farm tour. He led me to a nice little bus that already had a couple other visitors seated with sunhats and shades on. Tourist get-up. Technically, I'd be dubbed the same.
I blanked out while our guide waited for everyone on the registration list to board the bus, still thinking about the strange feeling of waiting for something in my head. The only thing that snapped me out of it was an unfortunate familiar face appearing on board and meeting my gaze.
My mood took an instant dive.
"...Leroy," he looked equally surprised. The man was alone this time, without his sous chef. "Wasn't expecting you to be interested in something like... this."
I didn't get his reference. "...? You're the one who taught me Indonesia was the second largest producer of vanilla beans after Madagascar."
He blinked. "That is... correct. So I might have. And I suppose you could say... I also wasn't expecting you to remember everything I taught you."
I said nothing. His gaze swept the bus for a vacant seat and though I didn't exactly have eyes on the back of my head, I was pretty sure half the seats at the back of the bus weren't occupied. Yet, he decided on the one directly across the aisle from mine.
So things were off to a bad start, sure. Still didn't mean I was going to let him ruin the rest of my day.
The ride was about an hour long and was pretty much quiet apart from a visitor's occasional comment about the tropical scenery (which already made the trip worthwhile since London was nothing close to the vibrant greens and blues here in Bali) and it wasn't hard pretending Siegfried didn't exist.
"Something smells incredible." I heard him say as soon as we were dropped off right outside the entrance of the farm. A local guide greeted us in Bahasa and the assigned translator from the resort directed the group further in.
There was a bakery covered in vines and natural greens, with only a couple of tables and seats out front just a little beyond the main road and that, I guessed, was what got everyone's mouths watering.
The place felt like a dream in the middle of nowhere. A warm midsummer dream that would smell like nothing in my head except that it did; a blend of toasted coconuts and bittersweet chocolate. What some cookies would've tasted like. If I actually remembered how they did.
"Don't worry," said our guide, re-directing our attention away from the bakery with a wave of her hand. "After the tour, there will be short tasting. You can eat all you like later.
"The quality of our vanilla here—yes, Indonesia vanilla beans is approved by the world to be top quality among many other producers, but you must know; many farmers here cannot afford to wait for the long harvest. They wait for three to four months only, and this reduces the quality of vanilla. But in this farm, we only harvest after eight to nine months for maximum standard. This and Balinese climate, temperature, humidity, and soil quality all make for the best vanilla beans.
"Highest grade of vanilla has most compound called vanillin. This plant for example," the guide parted a bunch of plastic flaps that lined the entrance to a controlled growing environment. It looked like a nursery for the younger vines. "This is Vanilla Planifolia."
Bourbon Vanilla.
"Also known as Madagascar Bourbon Vanilla. It come from Mexico, but entered Indonesia in 1819 when they discovered it is more fertile in Indonesia because of the more tropical climate. This means that the vanilla bean will contain higher levels of vanillin. So Indonesia has the best quality in the world for this type—the prime, gourmet vanilla beans."
I knew about them. Only because they were the beans I'd used back in the ice cream parlor, inventing that recipe eight years ago and staying true to the saying until the day I'd no longer know what it tasted like. The owner of the parlor had always complained about the prices of these vanilla beans in the beginning but weeks of selling out eventually got through his thick-headed skull.
It was the one flavor he'd never remove from the display. Maybe even now, who knows. Maybe.
"We also have here Vanilla Tahitensis, original plant from Indonesia that produce beans with woody and smoky tones, providing a richer and deeper vanilla flavor. Perfect for..."
Something about being away from the cameras and learning about ingredients as they were felt like I was back somewhere in school with Raul and the others, notebooks out and thinking about what we'd be making with cool shit like this in our next class. Simpler times. The guide walked us through the rest of the farm and every stage in the process, from planting to caring for the plants, harvesting the beans, and how different one species can taste from another.
It was near sundown when the tour came to an end and we finally returned to the farm's very own bakery, waiting as the owner prepared a selection of products for tasting. He re-appeared with our guide and translator, each holding a tray of multiple paper cups containing vanilla-infused coffee and a cold, Chantilly dessert.
Our guide held out a cup of each in my direction, smiling. I paused and was about to decline.
"These are courtesy of the farm owner. Please help yourself," the translator insisted.
But the usual excuse ran through the back of my mind on instinct, not quite in the mood to explain why these treats shouldn't be wasted on me, someone who wasn't even able to taste them, let alone appreciate their quality, when an uninvited hand reached out to receive the cups on my behalf.
"We'll take them. Thank you." Siegfried filled the seat across without asking, placing his portion and mine together on the table between us. I looked away.
The fragrance wafting in the air around the bakery and coming directly from the treats was messing with my head. It furthered the pacing in my head. The forgotten feeling. Unnamed.
"How did you find the tour?"
"...good."
"I personally thought it was very enjoyable."
"Yeah."
"I'm thinking of purchasing a bundle of that original vanilla bean they're growing here. It's priced extremely competitively... definitely worth the trip. Those Sablé cookies they're selling too, freshly baked." He paused, gaze resting on mine above his cup of coffee. "Will you be getting anything?"
I looked at him. "No."
"Not even for that friend of yours?" He asked and I stared.
Answering a question like that was walking into the lion's den. Any other ordinary prey wouldn't see the warning signs miles away but it takes a lion to know another, and a lion to recognize a house of its own.
"I don't have any friends."
"I used to believe you when you said those things as a child. Never much of a sharer. It was Annie who liked to tell me about your friends at school. I remember there was this one kid with glasses. Used to come over a lot, supposedly for homework but... you never did any homework." He laughed, raising his gaze to the setting sun above the trees. "Annie said you liked him a lot."
I refused any form of an opening. "I liked a lot of people when I was a kid."
Openings were like cards to him. He'd keep them up his sleeve. Until the time was right.
"That kid was a special one though. He was the only one who could keep up with your culinary knowledge."
"I had no culinary knowledge at six."
"You were a genius at six, Leroy."
"I was just a kid—"
"A very talented one—"
"Doesn't change the fact that I was a kid." I cut in just as he had, standing to leave peacefully before a full-blown war but the farm owner looked over as soon as I did, as though he'd noticed some change in the energy around us.
He approached us with a coffee pot and spoke in Bahasa, smiling and looking between us. I didn't understand him but Siegfried held out his empty cup, and the owner gladly had it refilled. They thanked each other and the owner left promptly, dissipating the heavy air.
"You misunderstand me, Leroy." He said. I wasn't looking at him. But I knew he had the cup raised to his lips. "Which isn't surprising. We have many misunderstandings, between us both."
I said nothing; staring at the trees as the sound of crickets grew louder by the minute. The sky was red and blue.
"What I'm trying to say is that you've had this one person you've felt a connection with for a very long time, and you being brave enough to pursue something with that person is... good. It is," he paused. As though the words were difficult for him to say. And only in a whisper, were they manageable. "...admirable."
I looked at him for the first time and saw a different stranger. Not the one seated there before. Another. He was looking at the same sky where the shadows of a flock of birds flitted by and warm clouds rolled.
Nothing in my world could explain the words he said and why he'd said them.
"You must try this coffee," he went on, picking up the other cup on the table that was untouched. "It tastes like a dream I never had."
He held it out to me.
It was then that I realized what the thing in my head that paced all day was; the one lost feeling that stirred notions of longing and want; of wandering and waiting. An old, old friend.
A craving.
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A/N: I don't know why, but I actually burst into tears while I was writing Siegfried's dialogue. Part of it may be just me realizing how much I missed writing! Haha. I think it got to me, how his life is full of regrets and things he could have done; how it is also entirely possible that we meet the right person at the wrong time and at a much later part in our lives. Just he prospect of him looking back and possibly acknowledging many of his mistakes but also not knowing how to correct them and ultimately, being unable to change but still yearning for some sort of closure that will never come.
Alright WITH THIS DIFFICULT CHAPTER OUT OF THE WAY hahahahah I am le free to run wild in the next. It's one of the chapters I've been waiting to write for a very long time.
2023 is starting out absolutely delicious, and with my new drive and commitment to taking my time with good writing, I am ready. It's also made me realize that I living a life without writing would be an absolute atrocity HAHAHA. I'd never be able to do that. Curse the writer through and through.
-Cuppie