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Chapter Text

   It was the last day of the semester, and the dance was in full swing. The typically sterile cafeteria was bathed in purple and blue lights. Tapestries and streamers were draped in deep arcs across the ceiling, giving the space a more intimate and cozy feeling. A jazzy timber groans through the speakers, encouraging more than a few slow dances.

   Relieved that you passed the exam, you took bold steps to get that dance with the most popular guy in school: Colonel Sanders. And now, you two were partaking in a “do-si-do,” as he so coyly put it.

   “And once my 100th franchise is up and running,” Colonel continued, flashing a smile, “I’ll be ready to take a day off, and I’ll be so glad to spend it together with you.”

   He lifted you as the melody sang into crescendo. “How sweet!” you laugh. “We’ll work together and play together!”

   Colonel Sanders stopped dead in his tracks. “Work together? Well . . . ummm . . . I think this is something I’ll just need to do by myself.”

   Shock grips your chest. “But who will help you run your restaurants?”

   Colonel pursed his lips, attempting to subdue his annoyance. “I don’t believe I need help. Besides, based on your time at school here . . . do you really think running restaurants is the best path forward?”

   Could it be? You’ve found a love connection, but failed to earn Colonel Sanders’ respect as a chef . . . Can you live with only half of him? Will you be able to endure sharing him with his other love, the life of an entrepreneur?

   “I . . . suppose I could enroll at pastry school . . .”

   His smile returned, and he pulls you in close once again. “Oh, my dear, I’m sure that you’ll find your place eventually. And along the way, you’ll have me by your side.”

   That’s true. You settled back into his arms. The world didn’t have to operate in black and white — if you two were as strong as you thought, there would be ways to make this work. Harland may want some desserts to pair with his savory meals. This is far from the end of the story.

Chapter Text

    It had been almost one year since you’ve last seen Colonel Sanders. And the last time you two spoke, it wasn’t exactly the most cordial conversation.

    He had been out late at the bar again. Oh, not to drink! Harland was trying to drum up some business for his new drumsticks (“I’ll drumstick some business,” he joked). He figured the buzz might set him apart from the crowd once construction was finished on his new restaurant. But it also meant he had missed dinner every day for the past two weeks.

    If you were being honest, it wasn’t the only reason things turned out the way they did. Days had become monotonous. He would leave for work before the sun was up, and return late into the night, beyond exhausted. On Sundays, he would hang over his work phone, picking up without question “in case they need me.” When you suggested he take a three-day holiday out of the state, he refused. “I can’t leave Kentucky until things have settled down!”

    And you won’t get started on the intimacy. It was difficult to find romance when your beau was whispering statistics against your neck on the couch.

    It was like life was driving a wedge between you two, the force pulling apart a wishbone. You wished that he had come home for those precious dinners. Setting aside your mutual passion for cooking, you both promised since the beginning of your courtship that dinner would be a sacred hour to keep, to share a heartfelt conversation at the end of a long day. It reflected those “good ol’ family values,” as Harland put it, smiling tenderly. He explained the whole premise just after he invited you to live with him.

    And between Harland perfecting his recipes, or heading off to his fourth meeting for the day, or just playing up his character as “the Colonel” for the ladies around town, dinner became more precious to you. It was the only time you two ever had to talk.

    Because while he had been locking his sights on his restaurant, you had been studying late into the night to make a good impression for French patisseries and Japanese culinary schools.

    At first the endeavor had been out of spite — Colonel insinuated you didn’t have enough gumption to be his partner? You’d show him! But you also did it out of hurt. Weren’t you enough?

    Fortunately, you grew to love making pastries. Furthermore, you had a talent for it. And if you couldn’t help the Colonel with his dream — because you didn’t have “enough gumption” or maybe because he didn’t want you anymore — it seemed about time to pursue your new dream.

    But it was hard to let go. You had been trying to tell him for ages that you were accepted into an esteemed pastry program that toured across Europe, hoping he’d fight for you. Almost hoping he’d find a reason to keep you in that old fashioned state of Kentucky.

    But he never showed up. Instead he went out to a cocktail party without you as his Plus One, opting for a girl he knew growing up. The next night you two argued on and off for about an hour, then he went out to the bar.

    You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you finally accepted the invitation after a tearful night of Pinot. Classes would begin in a week.

    Harland almost never raised his voice, but you made the mistake of attacking his entrepreneurial spirit while packing a suitcase with the last of your things. You two never fought like this before. You remember telling him that his passion for gizzards had blinded him from the things that really mattered.

    “Maybe it’s good that this happened!” You remember yelling, tears streaming down your chin. “With me out of the way, you can finally fulfill your dream. I hope you and Kentucky are very happy together.”

    You were crying all the way to the airport, which caused you to trip over your luggage more than once. The first time, you dropped your phone, and it got crushed under a taxi cab. You were crying so hard that you fell another time. But the last time you rose to your feet, you promised yourself not to shed another tear for Harland unless a miracle brought you two back together. And by the time your feet hit the cobbled streets of Paris, your eyes were as dry as an overcooked batch of cornbread.

    The aching, however, never went away.

    You snap out of this daze as you hear Miriam call to you. “Are you doing okay, bestie? If this is too much on your first day, I can give you a little less to worry about.”

    The notepad in front of you is still empty. You were supposed to brainstorm some dessert specials for Miriam’s new line of bakeries, Le Petit Mixeur, when you got distracted by the smell of miniature mashed potatoes and gravy she made for lunch.

    “I’m fine, Miriam.” You smile, and pat her shoulder reassuringly. “I just want to make sure these recipes are perfect.”

    Her smile stretches from ear to ear. “I knew you would be the perfect celebrity to start with! There’s no way this can go wrong.”

    You laugh uncomfortably. “Your definition of ‘celebrity’ is pretty broad.”

    “No way! You’re the most talented baker to come out of TEBA: The Elite Baking Academy. I know whatever you decide to create will be superb.” Miriam pulls you in for a hug.

    You accept it happily, clinging desperately to your friend’s warmth. “I’ll have to put that celebrity status to good use then! But before I do, could you explain how the tiny ovens work again? We don’t need another spontaneous combustion burning off my eyebrows.”

———

    You still have his number. He wrote it on the back of a recipe card when you two were flirting in Cooking Academy.

    It was a really sweet moment, actually. You offered to trade that coleslaw recipe he loved so much for something in his family. You were hoping he’d give you a hint about one of the other eight spices you were missing from his eleven spice chicken, but instead he gave you his grandmother’s strawberry shortcake.

    “It was the sweetest thing I could think of,” he said. “The only other option was my uncle’s Angel Food Cake, but I thought that pick up line would be too obvious.”

    It was just after that you finally asked the Colonel out on a date, and the first time he insisted you call him, “Harland.”

    You always told yourself that you kept this card because you really couldn’t live without this recipe for strawberry shortcake, but who were you kidding? It was still hard to let go of those last remnants of what was.

    When you left, you honestly thought it was the right thing to do. You meant what you said: with you out of the way, maybe Colonel could fulfill his dream without any distractions. But that didn’t make it any easier. No matter how many times you tried to convince yourself that it was all behind you, there was still a shred of hope screaming at you from the back of your head, begging you to “just check.”

    You draw a deep breath. The mature thing to do for yourself would be to settle things between the two of you, so you could focus on the future. But that didn’t make things any easier.

    Your fingers tremble as you dial that familiar area code.

    Eleven rings — really? Your eyes roll out of habit, but your heart begins to race as you hear his Southern drawl for the first time in months.

    “This is Colonel Sanders’ personal line. If you’re callin’ ‘bout the food cart, I sold it. If this is Tuesday night, I’m cookin’ up some new recipes. If you’ve got somethin’ to sell, you’re wastin’ your time. I’m not buyin’.”

    You blink. His answering machine is much longer than before.

    “If it’s anybody else,” it continues, “wait for the tone. You know what to do.”

    You take one last deep breath, already rehearsing what you’re about to say. But before you have a chance to speak, Harland’s voice catches your ear.

    “And P.S. if this is Kentucky, I still love you.”

    Kentucky. The phone clatters on the granite countertop. He couldn’t mean you, could he? Your legs are shaking, and your nails dig into your palms.

    Your hand desperately pulls out a chair, and you bring your head to your knees. After so many months of numbing, you’re furious that all these feelings can come rushing back so swiftly: the exhilaration, the longing, the hurt, and the awful realization that maybe he truly loved you.

    What kind of person would hang on that long?

    You realize that the voicemail is still recording, and immediately turn off the phone. With a deep breath, you decide to take a few days to clear your head. After all, maybe you just heard the machine wrong.

    You find yourself wishing you had recorded it. You don’t have the courage to call again.

———

    Three days later, you are coming home from a long day at the bakery. Your feet are aching from standing on them since five o’clock this morning, and your arms are sore from the nonstop mixing and piping. Everyone wanted to try the new cakes you and Miriam had concocted: a triple-chocolate mousse with raspberry compote on top of a flaky biscuit.

    A biscuit.

    You didn’t realize your grave error until a Southern couple came in, gushing over how much the new recipe reminded them of the bustling restaurant scene in their hometown.

    “Where are you two from?” you politely asked.

    Of course it was Kentucky.

    But now you are home, far away from the mean, mean people (who tipped very well) reminding you of your reawakened heartache and the ex you left behind.

    The index card is patiently sitting on the counter, just where you left it. You had been treating that reliable shortcake recipe like an animal with rabies: the farther away, the better.

    And while you couldn’t stand to look at it, you couldn’t bear to put it away. Each time you would try to tuck it back into the recipe book, or stuff it in a drawer, Harland’s gentle tones would echo in your head. I love you, I love you, I love you.

    Well, I still love you. Maybe there was a time limit. Was there a way to find out when an answering machine message was last recorded?

    You sigh, and slump onto your bed. You pull off your shoes and tuck your uniform away before turning to the bathroom for a hot shower. The water trickles down your neck in a familiar way, massaging your back in patterns you didn’t realize you needed.

    You start to daydream about Harland. You never took showers like this together, but there was one day at the lake you’ll never forget. He took you out on a canoe ride, rambling about Professor Dog’s lecture on the history of chickens. Could you believe that they were the first to sign the Declaration of Independence? You nodded, unable to hide your smile.

    The sun had started to dip below the trees when he perched the boat on the bank. You both somehow found yourselves playing a couple rounds of tag through the weeds, kicking up water and holding each other dangerously close. You spent the whole night talking with him, breathing in the earthy, spicy scent of his cologne. The smell grew stronger as he pulled his jacket across your shoulders, causing your arms to touch.

    After midnight, he offered to bring you home. In your weary state, you felt the urge to tease him — there’s no way you could help him row back to shore when you could barely stand. Without batting an eye, he curled his arms under your legs and drew you into his chest.

    “Has your face always been this red?” He casts you a coy look.

    His arms were so strong. You smile sadly and turn off the water. There would be a lot of girls who would feel the same way. Heck, anyone would swoon with arms like that.

    You change into some sweatpants and rustle the towel through your hair. You look for your phone to see if Miriam had texted about tomorrow’s schedule, only to realize that you had left it in the kitchen.

    Somehow, you had plugged it in to the one outlet in eyesight of that stupid recipe card. You cautiously reach for the phone.

    Miriam did text you. A few times, actually. The last message reads, “Call me!”

    You click the phone icon and the Recent Numbers folder pops up. You wince as Harland’s smiling avatar appears on screen.

    Maybe . . . if you didn’t call tonight, someone else would take him. Maybe someone else had him already. The possibilities nag at you. But was jealousy a good enough reason to call?

    You think you should probably eat something. The fridge is brimming with leftovers you’ve already made. The salad probably needs to be tossed, but the shrimp scampi looks good.

    Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a glass container with mashed potatoes and gravy. It was an experimental choice at a trendy restaurant. You wanted some inspiration for new, savory dishes, but it was a terrible mistake. The potatoes were grainy at best, and the gravy they drowned it in wasn’t nearly as good as —

    You can’t bring yourself to finish that admission, but the memory still hits you square in the face:

    “I’ve always been something of a down-home chef,” you had said. Harland eyed the timer, eager to pass his first quiz at Cooking Academy. “I was thinking we could make something warm, inviting, comforting . . . Maybe mashed potatoes —”

    “And gravy?!” His face lights up, and you can’t help but smile back.

    “I couldn’t imagine one without the other.”

    Colonel Sanders cast a coy look at you, causing your whole face to go beet red.

    Your face is red even now, even though you know that there would be many cooking sessions to come: testing different biscuit recipes, creating edible coffee cups from white chocolate, and even experimenting with a deep-fried corn soup.

    When you two cooked together, it was like everything else in the world disappeared. You two knew just what to do: whose strengths supplemented whose weaknesses. It was like you were reading each others’ minds.

    There was something uniquely special about those sessions. Something deeper than a trance, but impossible to make money from. You settled to call that feeling “love.” Maybe Harland settled to call it “a franchise” so the feeling could last.

    Your thoughts drift back to the message. “P.S. Kentucky, I still love you.” And for a second, you reconsider what it means.

    You need to know. Before you even have a chance to type in Miriam’s new number, you find yourself calling Harland one more time.

    Eleven rings. You count each one like a blessing.

    The warmth of his voice shocks you into stillness once again. “This is Colonel Sanders’ personal line.” The message starts out the same, and your heart drops. But then . . .

    “If it’s Friday night, it’s my restaurant’s anniversary. I’ll be out all night. And first thing Saturday, if it doesn’t rain, I’m headed out to the lake and I’ll be gone all weekend long. But I’ll call you back when I get home on Sunday afternoon.

    And P.S. if this is Kentucky, I still love you.”

    Your vision grows hazy, and your throat is heavy and tight. He changed his voicemail. Your stomach is doing flips. It feels like you’re about to throw up from happiness.

    But fear hits you in an instant: it’s been so long. And even if you started talking again, who’s to say things would get any better?

    You take a deep breath. You know that the aching will never go away unless you take this leap of faith. You have to speak up.

    “Harland?” Oh, it feels so good to say his name again. “It’s me. Sounds like you’ve had a busy weekend. Here’s my number. Call me when you get back.” You read the digits out loud clearly and carefully, because you won’t repeat them. With a shaky hand, you click off the receiver.

    You force yourself to breathe in, and out. In, and out. It’s still a couple days before Sunday. You can’t die from nerves before Sunday.

    Miriam! You grapple for the phone and try to get a hold of yourself. You have things to do, and a life to plan in case this blows over. And really, you can’t afford to get distracted with a pastry career on the line.

    Her tired voice chirps happily through the speakers. “Bestie? Boy, do I have a few things to tell you!”

———

    It’s Sunday.

    You haven’t been able to get him off your mind all day. You tried to distract yourself with a Farmer’s Market this morning, but couldn’t help but reminisce his advice you still use to handpick produce. How he always set out to buy a tall glass of lemonade whenever he took a stroll on peaceful, cloudless days like this. You kept wondering if he’d call.

    You resorted to paying the bills when the clock struck noon. Anything would be better than paying bills, and you came to the conclusion that it would be physically impossible to miss his call when ripping open envelopes and reading over the numbers. But you still kept your phone close to you, just in case.

    You finish paying the bills, and reward yourself with some leftovers from Le Petit Mixeur. Then you clean the kitchen from top to bottom. Then you start to play a little jazz.

    No one called yet. Miriam, bless her, has been texting you throughout the day. You finally admitted what was going on, and she’s been nothing but supportive.

    You haven’t eaten since lunch, but you aren’t hungry at all. The thought of preparing dinner makes you anxious. What if you don’t hear the ringing? Or worse, you pick up the phone too late?

    Your mind flashes to memories of pacing around the dining room of Harland’s apartment, waiting over a cold bowl of soup, eyeing the clock as dusk settled into night.

    He missed dinner again, you realize as the sky blushes in vibrant shades of peach and red. You start to wonder if your message was clear enough. Would he know what you meant by “when you get back?” Would he even realize it was you?

    You come to the conclusion that if you don’t at least try to call him one more time, you’ll regret it forever.

    Every ring feels like an eternity. Your shaking is almost unbearable. You take slow, deep breaths and try to calm your nerves. Finally, you hear his voice, and you hang on to every syllable.

    “This is Colonel Sanders’ personal line. If you’re callin’ ‘bout my heart, it’s still yours. I should’ve listened a little more, then it wouldn’t have taken me so long to know where I belong.”

    You strain against the phone, waiting for him to continue. You’ve never heard his voice sound so raw and shaky.

    “My dear,” his voice drops to a whisper. “This is no machine you’re talkin’ to. Can’t you tell, Kentucky? I still love you.”

    Tears are pouring down your cheeks. “I didn’t think you’d remember me,” you blubber. “I’m sorry it took me so long to call.”

    “I never stopped lovin’ you,” he urges. There’s a quiet tenderness in his voice. “Please, tell me where you are. I want to come back home.”

    “I’m not . . . I mean, I’m not close to you. I’m at least a couple hours away by plane —”

    “I’m long overdue for a holiday.” His voice is lighter, almost wistful. “But you’ll tell me where to go? I’ll purchase the tickets tonight.”

    “Yes.” The answer leaves you breathlessly.

    He laughs, and it sounds relieved. “I’m so glad you called. I was just about to dial your number, but I was so nervous.”

    “Harland . . .”

    You hear his breath. “Yes, dear?”

    “How . . . how do I know things are going to be different?” You hate to ask the question out loud, but you have to know. You can’t bear to go through this again.

    “Ever since I met you, my dream has changed,” he said. “It’s not enough to simply open the world’s greatest chain of fried chicken restaurants anymore.”

    A new round of hot tears bubbles from your eyes. “I never wanted to keep you from your dream. I didn’t mean to change it.”

    “My dear.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “It was meant to change. It was too small. I can’t settle for just creating a successful enterprise. No, even then, my life would be incomplete without you by my side.”

    You laugh a little, and it almost sounds like a moan. “Would you really want a pâtissier  influencing your menu?”

    “I want a menu full of love and flavor,” he says. “Dearest, you always brought something new and wonderful to the table. Your patience, your fortitude, your loyalty, your ability to see the whole picture. I’ve missed your flavors.”

    You feel your face turn beet red.

    “And besides, sometimes unexpected combinations can have surprising effects that surpass their individual efforts.”

    “I . . . don’t know what to say.”

    “You don’t believe me.”

    “Of course I believe you. That’s the problem.” You let out a deep breath. “I just want to make this work.”

    “Then we’ll take things slow,” he said. “See how things turn out. Do the best we can. We’re on the same team this time . . .”

    “Heading in the same direction,” you finish.

    “So, what do you say . . . partner?”

    “Partner?”

    “Oh, was I not clear? If we can, I want you to join me as a co-chef in partner, in both business and life.”

    “Okay.” The answer flows out of you immediately. Your voice is still breathless, but there is so much happening in your head, so much you want to tell him. “Harland? I . . . I . . .”

    “I love you too, Kentucky.”
    
    You smile. That’s true. It’s probably the truest thing you could have said in that moment. And if you two were as strong as you thought, there would be ways to make this work.

    “Yes, I love you.”