Heavy Love(3)

"My apologies," I am genuine, sticking my hand out; I attempt to help  the still wet-behind-the-ears woman. Yet she gains equilibrium in her  Converse All Stars and swoons.

Edward follows. I can feel one of the even angrier producers is right  behind him. But I tune the person out, for his sake. He's a tad taller  than Edward, but just as round as he is tall. I'm not in the fucking  mood to react to his threats, being a man who doesn't just talk shit  out. The two argue, while we head up the stairs from the basement. I  start down a long corridor that boasts poster photos on the wall which  shoot at least three stores high. There's a picture of Bobby Flay,  Morimoto, Cora, each in their beloved chef uniform. And I'm amongst the  elite in the Iron Chef apron I use during challenges, with folded arms.  My smile is cocky. Too fucking cocky.

I turn around. Edward stops short. The little fat man, points at me and says, "You need to … "

"Aye, are you the cabrón who was just in my ear?" Voice hard, my  question vibrates against the concrete walls. He's stoic, lips sealed,  giving himself away. But as a man, I demand anybody that has something  to say about me, speak up. "Were you the motherfucker just in my ear  saying ‘I'm blowing it over some bitch – I quote! Si or no?"         

     



 

Palms out, the producer stutters on my first name, which only the people  close to me use, so Edward takes flight. Edward almost trips over his  penny loafers as the producer speaks, "Franco, c'mon man-"

"Oh, I got this," Edward holds up a hand, planting himself between me  and the producer. He knows me so very well. The years have pacified my  boisterous temperament. But one person can ruin himself over trying me.  With his back toward me, Edward defuses the situation, most likely  murmuring an apology.

"All right, you fix this," the producer says as we round the hall toward the lobby of the building.

A nanosecond later, heated frenzy courses through my veins, I turn back  around. The producer stops in his tracks once more, puffed jaws clamped.

"The fuck do you mean you fix this? Tell me, do I look like a child to  you?" Each word amplifies itself from my mouth. I grasp Edward's feeble  biceps and, because we are good friends, I move him out the way. "How is  Ed going to fix this, huh? You got a problem, si? Yeah, you gotta  motherfucking problem, speak!"

The man's hands rise up, pale skin reddening. "De León, c'mon, buddy."

"Continue," I order. "You dug this grave, keep digging."

I'm a cluster fuck of mixed emotions, a mess. Being heartbroken is no  fucking joke. But aggression has the potential to momentarily numb this  feeling …  this heavy, so very heavy pressure in my chest; where my heart  once was.

The producer doesn't take the bait. The staring match lasts but two  seconds, since his beady eyes continue to blink. I can hear Edward using  those I-messages and other re-directive phrases that he learned during  our first few years together. I was a fucking hot head then, so  passionate about everything and ready to sink my teeth into life. Full  circle, I'm twenty-six years old, every day before now, I was on a  climb, doing better and better. Now, here I am shoved back to the  bottom. I know the consequences for pissing off the head honchos at The  Food Network Channel.

Since he's brought me this low, I assure, "This is not the general  populated entrance so I've got maybe minutes, or, seconds. Oh, c'mon  Producer, you were so very chatty while we left the stage. We are men,  resorting to women's past-time of quarreling. Elaborate on how my  manager is going to keep me in check. Keep me in line."

Sixty-seconds pass. I've grown tired of his silence and nervous  perspiration. I wave him off as a non-factor then turn around to  continue out the door. Taking quick strides, Edward jogs toward me and  plants himself in front of me.

"I told you," with my Spanish flair, each word is wholly distinguishable, "I'm just not into this."

"Into this?" Edward paled compared to my caramel complexion. His face  contorts into the same mode it took on earlier this morning. "You  haven't slept in at least 24 hours, Franco. Maybe more …  Let's go to the  lounge across the street. It's not noon, but the bottom of a warm glass  of beer is calling your name. Man, it's calling mine, too! We need a  drink."

Edward takes on this Jerry Maguire monologue, "I'm not even going to  mention having our lawyers go over your contract with The Food Network  Channel. Not even a fine toothcomb and a fucking magnifying glass is  going to get us out of this shit storm. So nope, I won't go there. Above  all, Franco, manager, adviser, I am your friend. You've come too far to  downplay your brand, saying you're just not into this. You gotta be  kidding me! There will be no referring to what you love as crappy  leftovers of a fucking HAPPY meal. All right, Franco?"

"You're right, Ed. This isn't making me happy. I have to be in the mood  to cook, to bake, to..." at a loss for words I gesture with my hands.  This is not me. Every movement I've ever made was with purpose,  calculated to a T.

I stop talking as Edward bustles beside me. Granted Edward knows me  well. Others took me as just a sexy chef, my brand being the ability to  create edible art. Food almost as gorgeous as magazines say I am. But  Edward, on the other hand knows me, as well as anyone could. Edward just  didn't understand the art of making love to food, hence, I make  millions off one episode while Edward strategizes this shit.

We are smack dab in the middle of the lobby when Edward began to grovel.  The ambience is airy, ceiling at least five stories. Not to mention the  hustle and bustle of people, from employees to tourists. Edward takes  on a warrior stance, one foot planted behind the other while his hands  braced against me. My eyes lock onto his, just to determine if he's  certain about this course of action.         

     



 

Then I continue walking. The screeching sound of Edward's shoes against  the glossy floors as physics slides him backwards doesn't thwart his  attempts. He stays put, in that linebacker stance. And, indeed, we  become the entertainment as tourists from as far as Hong Kong, remove  their cell phones from their pockets or fucking fanny packs, to capture  this moment.

I whisper, "C'mon, mi amigo, don't do this."

"I'm the best bud you've got, Franco," he quietly replies through gritted teeth, looking up at me with narrowed eyes.

My eyelid almost twitches. He's putting us into a real predicament. I  grasp Edward's wrists and commence to extracting them from my  Adonis-carved pectorals. Damn, I've miscalculated my friend and  manager's strength, or gumption rather, as I use raw strength.

Edward goes stumbling back as I exclaim, "We are men, Edward. We don't resort to begging or pleading."

Weight shrouds my wide shoulders as tension pulsates at my temples. I  rub a hand over my clean-shaven face. For all intents and purposes, I  once was sophistication personified. Yet the tourists stopped to stare.  For the first time, they see through the golden boy that The Food  Network Channel has made me.

Edward doesn't make a fool of himself again. He just stands there. Damn, even I know his worth, so I allow him to say his piece.

"All right, this  …  whatever the fuck is going on here, Franco, is just a  crossroads. You'll be back." His last statement is borderline  questioning. Edward's chest heaved from the physical exertion, he'd just  endured a smidgen of the average NFL player's football practice. His  knees are weak, tie askew.

My mouth twist slightly in consideration as we stare. This isn't the time to school my friend on dignity.

"You'll be back, right?" Edward's pale blue eyes held notes of horror,  with a dash of hope. Shoulders slumped he tries again, "Come the fuck  on, Franco, you'll be back?"

As a man of my word, I am incapable of extending an answer. Without so  much as a gesture toward Edward's favor, I proceed out of the New York  high rise, considering how my life had changed almost fifteen years ago.

In another life, I was to become Franco de León MD. I graduated the  university at age 19, set to begin the most prestigious med school in  all of Spain. To my father's pride, and I suppose my mother's, too.  Carmen is from Northern Spain, the small cape town of Cabo de Blanco, so  prancing me around for political reasons was purely for my father's  enjoyment. With a quick wit and dominating character, I was already  associated with the head charge of Barcelona Center Medic, not just the  best hospital in my country, but one of the best in the world. The very  day I should have begun med school, I stepped foot on USA soil, with a  couple dollars in my pocket and my eyes set in another direction.

Large hands hang at my side as I aimlessly blend into the sidewalk  traffic. So I came to the land of dreams and opportunities, I became the  next American Food Network star before the franchise started dishing  out a robotic army of new chefs and passion had left the building. My  character climbed mountains. I was the best.