So happy so many of you are onboard with this! Thanks for all your reviews, faves and follows. I appreciate them all so much!
You might have noticed I updated the category from humour to drama. I had an idea and I'm running with it. That's not to say I'm not going to *try* and keep it light-hearted, I just like writing 'real' so that doesn't always lend itself.
Anyways, somehow three of my fics have made it into twifanfictionrec's poll of top fics for 2021 along with loads of others! Flip, Taste of Ink and The Little Things are all there. ❤ Don't forget to vote for your favourites (1 vote every 24 hours), and if your vote includes any of them, I'm truly very thankful 😘
Masen
"I feel like a dick."
I stare at my phone, propped on a tower of random objects—a Converse shoe box, a few books, a plastic container, and a spray paint can lid with a wedge of white tack trying to stop it from slipping. Emmett's adjusting the angle, his tongue poking out his mouth in concentration.
"Shut up, this is a great idea if you'd just get over yourself."
It's been a couple of weeks since I got cut loose, and the pressure is slowly creeping up. I've called what feels like every restaurant in the city looking for openings, and I've applied to a few dozen, but I've heard nothing back so far. It's disheartening, but it's just going to take time…
I'm really fucking miss working the line though—the heat of the kitchen, being busy for hours. Plus, I've got bills to pay. I don't like that type of pressure.
"Just keep it short and sweet," Emmett tells me, raising a brow.
Short and sweet. I blow out my cheeks. I can do this. Short and sweet.
I decided to start with breakfast ideas. Brainstormed an entire week of them, bought all the ingredients I was missing, dusted off the heavy duty dark blue apron Maria gifted to me a while back and… well, here we are.
I have everything I need here. I just feel awkward as fuck, even though I know this stuff as well as I know how to breathe.
It's just a stupid TikTok. I've watched loads in preparation for this, and it's nothing I can't do.
Emmett nods his head and counts down.
"3...2...1…"
"Hey, um... Cullenary here. Welcome to my first ever TikTok. Today I'm going to be showing you an easy stovetop cherry and almond oatmeal."
Emmett jabs a finger at my cell, pausing it.
"Could you be a bit more… Upbeat? Peppy?"
"No," I tell him flatly.
"Maybe you should call yourself the Moody Chef, instead?"
"I like Cullenary," I respond, unable to hide a small smile. I'm actually quite proud of it.
"That's it, smile like that," he says, clicking his finger at me.
I flip him off instead, and I don't redo the introduction either, like he tries to persuade me to do. People are just going to learn to deal with me as I am.
I'm no Veggiella; that's pretty obvious. The girl who sparked this whole idea when she came up on Emmett's FYP page. It's like a veggie rainbow puked all over her. She seems naturally happy all the fucking time.
I guess that's her brand. Bubbly, happy, veggie-loving Veggiella. I can't help but wonder how much of it's an act. What's she like when she doesn't have a camera in her face? Although, if I were earning over twenty thousand dollars a month from YouTube videos alone, I think maybe I'd be peachy as fuck all the time too. Not that I looked it up on Social Blade or anything. Or her, for that matter.
But I did.
Emmett caught me looking at her Instagram the morning after she popped up on his phone and spent ten minutes giving me shit, because her Veggiella alias sounds like a thrush cream, and because she's not by any means the type of girl I'm typically attracted to. She's the opposite, actually—but I kinda like her passion for good food. That comes across well in all her videos, and I appreciate that.
This whole idea stemmed from Emmett pointing out I could do what she does. Do my own Youtube videos, TikToks, Instagram.
"You've got a lot of knowledge in that thick head of yours," he'd said excitedly, snapping his fingers. "Why don't you share it? Hey, if you go viral, it might even give you some income."
And it wasn't a bad idea, because… how else am I going to fill endless days of nothingness, now?
As it was his idea, and because Emmett really is the best friend I could ask for, he's appointed himself as my cameraman, recording what I'm doing without me having to juggle my cell and everything else. Close-up shots. Pan, oats, almond milk, water, destoning cherries, taking the oats off the heat; adding cinnamon, vanilla, a generous scoop of almond butter. It's simple and tasty. It's not the best looking dish, sure, but that doesn't matter. Topped with a sprinkle of almonds and halved cherries on top, and I'm done.
Laziness means I use the in-app editing features within TikTok to stitch everything together, keeping my talking to a minimum. Emmett says I sound dull. I think it's just nerves or something. I don't think I'm dull. I hope I'm not dull.
I experiment with the effects and the texts for ages, and in the end, I have something I'm semi-happy with.
When it comes to posting though, I hover, unsure. I've taken Emmett's suggestion and added it to unrelated popular hashtags, just because people might watch it then. Still, hitting 'post' on something has never felt so daunting, and I do it with one eye open and my face screwed up, like the pussy I am.
And then it's done; out there in the TikTok world.
A rush of air escapes me.
I go to bed hopeful.
I wake up disappointed.
5 views. 0 comments.
It's not like I was expecting overnight success; I mean… life rarely works like that, but it makes me feel cringey as fuck.
The icing on the proverbial cake is when a reminder pops up on my phone minutes later.
Dinner w/ Dad 7.
We do it monthly, normally a time and place of his choosing. This time it's at Daniel. French. Fine dining... Really fucking expensive.
The food lover in me is excited; I haven't eaten there before and the menu admittedly looks mind-blowing. It's the prospect of telling my dad I'm unemployed that makes me want to throw-up. As I stare up at the ceiling, I wonder briefly whether I should pull a sick card to get out of it and the inevitable lecture that will follow.
He won't shout, or yell his disappointment. It'll just be written all over his face. He'll offer to pay to get the tattoos on my hands lasered off and put me through business school instead, like he's offered at least half a dozen times before.
You've had your fun now.
It's time to get serious.
The trouble is, I am serious. About food, about being a chef, about maybe one day running my own restaurant.
Emmett's in the cramped kitchen by the time I drag myself out of bed and head to the shower, clutching a towel in my hands. One look at my face and he's sympathetic. He's known me so long that I don't even have to say it.
"Just plug away at it, dude. You're not going to be a viral sensation. Not many people are. Just keep posting regularly. Grow your followers. Interact with other people in the food community, comment on shit. You gotta make yourself vis-i-ble. Trust. I'm a marketing manager."
"I know. I got it," I mumble, wanting to feel in-vis-i-ble, instead.
I don't mention he's a marketing manager for a dog food company either. It's a sore point. He's allergic to fucking dogs.
"I'll be home late," he says, casually. "Bagged myself a date."
"Oh, yeah?" I ask, curious. "What's her name?"
"Rose." He grins. "You know the girl I showed you the other week doing her Harry Met Sally? Creeped into her messages on Insta. Turns out she lives three blocks away, and digs all the same kinds of music. Hitting up the Mercury Lounge if you're up for it later?"
"Can't. Got dinner with my dad." I sigh. "Plus, I'm broke as fuck. And I don't want to be a third wheel. Have fun."
"Oh, I intend to," he says, with a wink. "Don't wait up."
…
Just before I leave the apartment later that evening, I force myself to comment on some of the popular profiles posting food videos under #TikTokchef. I do it while chasing down nerves with whiskey and the leftover dregs from a bottle of Coca-Cola. It's stupid stuff, like…
That looks so good
Going to try this
It feels disingenuous, but most people are. I hate being that person, though. It doesn't feel like me. But you gotta do what you gotta do. Hustle, as Emmett says.
Veggiella's uploaded a veggie Thai red curry recently to her Instagram, and it actually looks pretty decent. She catches a dribble of sauce when she tastes it, sucking it off her finger with a little hum of delight. It's not supposed to be provocative, but I find it sexy. Long dark wavy hair with subtle blonde highlights, her white tank top clinging to her tits. Yeah, she's fucking attractive. I play it again, just to hear her make that sound. Before scrubbing a hand down my face so it pulls at my eye.
I'm not that guy though; the one who posts winking or drooling emojis over girls they don't know on social media. I'm not that desperate. Some of them are coming across like that though as I scroll through the comment section. Nothing about her food just shit like:
I wish my dick was ur finger
Getting that kind of stuff has to suck.
I replay her Reel one more time, making a mental list of what she uses and her method. I end up making a suggestion in her comment section. Not to be patronizing, but because I know what will make it better.
Looks great. Try adding a little bit of rice vinegar. Adds complexity and depth to the flavors. Promise you won't regret it.
I hit send, but I don't expect a reply.
…
Dad is already waiting at the table already when I arrive at Daniel, his cell pressed against his ear. I'm late on purpose, because I hate being here first, the way the front of house staff judge based on my appearance: I don't conform to their über rich clientele, mostly, and it's not as if I'm a famous face, either.
The girl working front of house is friendly enough today, but only after I've told her who I'm here for. She perks up then as she leads me into the main dining room where Dad's seated. High ceilings and fancy light fixtures, white round tables and a hum to the room. He's seated a little out of the way. He could have paid for a private room, but he wouldn't be seen that way.
Only the best for Eddie Cullen.
"I've got to go, Tanya. I'll see you later on," Dad says as his eyes land on me, the faintest of smiles on his face.
At least he doesn't leave me hanging on for ages, to his credit. We might not see eye to eye on most things, but he's still present when we're in the same place together, or he tries to be.
We don't hug or anything. I just sit down heavily in the chair and mumble a 'hey,' dreading how the next few hours are going to go, my knee already bouncing with pent-up nerves.
"Son."
He leans forward, elbows on the table, Audemars Piguet watch on his wrist showing from beneath crisp cuffs and a tailored suit. He flies out to London to buy new ones every three months from Savile Row. He's probably wearing things that cost as much as some people earn in a year. Maybe two.
We couldn't be more different if we tried.
"How's life?" he asks, with all the air of someone who already knows.
"Fine," I lie.
He chuckles under his breath, and the sense of dread in my stomach intensifies.
It's like a tsunami with no warning.
"I hear through the grapevine that you're unemployed?"
I lean back in my chair, jaw tense. I should have known he'd know, and I should have known he'd go straight for the jugular. He likes to keep tabs on me. Always has.
"For the moment. Looking for other places. It happens sometimes, you know that." I try to play it cool, but my palms are sweating. I rub them down the black jeans I've put on.
He nods, considering me, but before it can even come out of his mouth, I'm already saying 'no'.
"I appreciate what you're about to say, but I don't want to do business school. I know you think I've made a mistake, but I don't. I've been doing this and sticking at it for five years now. It's not a phase, as you've put it before. My mind isn't changing. I just really…" I look at the plate in front of me, at the cutlery set out beside it, before deciding I need to see his face when I say the next few words. "I just really want you to understand and support me in something I feel passionate about."
He stares, his face stoic. This honesty is new, but I figure I've got little to lose at this point. We don't have a relationship, really. He doesn't seem to understand and never has respected my choice to go to culinary school. He was always prepping and priming for me to follow him in his footsteps, but it was just never going to happen. And he was angry about that. He was beyond furious when I first told him I wasn't applying to an Ivy League. It's not that I'm not smart enough; I just find school boring. And I don't particularly want the life working in finance brings either. Being surrounded by money-obsessed dicks, like high school wasn't bad enough.
He's silent, taking a sip of his water.
"You've always been so like your mother," he says finally. "I was always disappointed you weren't more like me. That's not to say I was disappointed in you. I know you think that, but that's not true."
"Because it didn't feel like it," I mutter. "It doesn't feel like it. Anything I did for me, because I wanted to do it, came with sanctions because it wasn't what you thought I should be doing. I've lived without any of your money for the last five years, and I'm happy like that. Genuinely."
The silence stretches as the server comes over to take our order. Dad waves her away with a clipped, "We're not ready, thank you." Before his attention returns to me. "And you're going to be happy when you're homeless, are you?"
"I'm not going to be unemployed forever," I say, sullenly. "What would you rather I do? Be like Jasper? Living off your money, partying in Europe for months on end, hoovering coke up my nose? All the while you keep investing money into a college that would have kicked him out otherwise? He's repeated his second year twice now. Is that what makes you proud?"
The mention of my brother makes Dad grimace.
"No," Dad concedes eventually, like it pains him to do so. "Of course not."
…
Loud groans and soft moans are coming from Emmett's room when I finally get into the apartment.
I dive for my room, jamming my AirPods into my ears to drown it out. There's nothing to make you feel more alone than listening to your best friend fuck some chick.
I check the notifications on my cell, still on silent after dinner with Dad—the smallest of glimmers of him being convinced that this is what I want to do when he offered to 'help' find me a job. I declined though—stupidly or not so stupidly; I want to get a job on merit alone, not just because Daddy Dearest pulled some strings.
I have a few new followers on TikTok, and my video from yesterday is up to 30 views. Even better, to my immense surprise, is that Veggiella replied to me on Instagram in her comments. One of a handful, which sees our interaction at the top.
Thanks so much. I'll definitely try it next time xo
And not wanting to miss an opportunity to engage with her further, I respond.
Let me know what you think.