Essence of Life - 6. Sixième partie : L’Entrée

Sunday’s light found Dexter first. The hangover hit hard, but his attention landed on the man beneath him—Reese, asleep on the dining room floor of Le Coq. They were both naked. Memory came back in flashes: kisses, the heat of skin, the blur of too much wine. Reese’s arm lay around Dexter’s hips; Dexter felt an exhaustion and sensitivity that suggested how fully the night had been used.

He eased free, gathered the wreckage of their clothes, and winced. Reese’s shirt and socks were torn to ribbons; only a light jacket had survived. Dexter dimly remembered ripping an undershirt, while Reese tore the other clothing with wanton abandon. The rest was a fog of hands and laughter as they made uninhibited vows in the darkness. His own clothes were merely scattered but intact. The image of Reese walking around the restaurant naked flickered across his mind—amusing for a second, then wrong. Neither of them had been in a state to make good choices as Dexter realized without the haze of alcohol.

Dexter showered in the locker room, dressed, and brought up a clean set of clothes for Reese. In the quiet steam he replayed the previous day: the oxycodone he’d handed over for the knife cuts, the wine that followed, the way one bad decision can grease the next. Guilt rose like tidewater. This might end whatever fragile trust they’d built.

He stood in the doorway, watching Reese breathe—the slow rise and fall beneath the tablecloth he’d dragged over him. Fear pressed from every angle. He’d wanted this man for months and then blurred it with pills, with drink, with a night he could barely piece together. If Reese woke and decided it was all a mistake—if he decided Dexter was the mistake—there’d be no coaxing him back from that edge. Dexter had learned the hard way that goodwill was like a savings account; one ugly withdrawal can wipe it out.

Kaleb had taught him that. The last real boyfriend—the one who could make a kitchen feel like home—left because the bottle always won. Dexter could still see the night it happened: words flared, stupid and circular; he reached for a Bordeaux to pour another glass. Kaleb tried to take it, said, “Enough.” Something in Dexter—wired tight with oxy and wine—snapped. He flung the bottle toward the sink and missed. Glass burst against the counter, a red fan across white tile; a shard kissed Kaleb’s cheek just below the eye. The cut wasn’t deep, but the shock was. Kaleb touched his face, saw the blood on his fingers, and went very quiet.

They spent the rest of the night in the ER under fluorescent judgment. Twelve stitches were given. A thin, angry line that would fade but never vanish. Kaleb didn’t yell. He went home, packed while Dexter sat on the bedroom floor staring at the wound he couldn’t take back. Kaleb left his keys on the table beside a note that said only, “I can’t be here anymore.” That sentence had lived in Dexter’s chest ever since. Now, watching Reese sleep, the same old terror climbed his spine—that he was a storm other people had to survive, that anything tender he touched would curdle. He whispered into the dark, to no one, to Reese: “Please don’t leave me."

Hours later, Reese jolted awake. His head pounded; his body ached in honest, unmistakable ways. The dining room air felt too bright. He grabbed for clothing and came up with only shoes—no socks—and his jacket.

“Dexter!” he called into the empty room. “Where are my clothes?”

Dexter stepped out from the back and sheepishly replied, “We shredded them. Heat of the moment.” He held out a folded bundle and curtly offered, “Fresh change for you. My old briefs and socks should fit.”

“I… we… how—”, then he breathed to make his thoughts coherent, “My memory’s fuzzy,”

Images returned to Reese—the way he’d asked, the way Dexter had hesitated.

“You want to say it was a mistake.” Dexter’s voice tightened. “I’m sorry. I’ve wanted you for a long time, but we were both out of it. If you want out, I’ll make it easy. I can offer you some cash, help you find a new job. You don’t have to see me again. You can also call the cops, too.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was,” Dexter said. “I gave you oxy without thinking, didn’t warn you, then poured you wine while I was already drunk. That’s not how I wanted this. We didn’t make love like I wanted; I messed with your head.”

“It wasn't all on you last night,” Reese said, the truth standing there with him.

Silence settled. Then Reese remembered he was still naked. “I need a shower.”

Water gave him space to think. He weighed Dexter’s offer like a ledger. If he took some money from Dexter and left, he could limp along on the day job. Colby would manage with less. He owed Dexter nothing. And yet—he couldn’t make himself picture walking away from the man. He cared for the man under the temper and the drink.

Pieces of the night came back in vivid, pulsing fragments: the first Oxycodone easing his shoulders away from his ears, the wine rounding every edge until the dining room felt like a warm blur of lamplight and laughter. He understood, in a way no article ever spelled out, how people under pressure reached for the switch that dimmed the noise. The pill hadn’t changed who he was; it had simply slid fear into the back seat and let the rest of him drive for a while. That was the trap, he realized—how easy it was to mistake release for relief.

Underneath the chemical glow, though, his feelings had been steady and embarrassingly clear. He liked and was attracted to Dexter. He liked the command in his voice on the line, the way a single raised eyebrow could marshal chaos into order. He could even laugh—quietly, to himself—at the thought that maybe Dexter had been right about one thing: Reese did have a submissive streak, at least in kitchens and other controlled environments. But authority needed a track to run on. Dexter's losses had pushed him on a quixotic quest for "perfection" that was unachievable and self-defeating. Reese realized that Dexter needed something better.

That realization, more than anything, sharpened into a plan as his hangover cleared: Dexter didn’t need to chase some brittle ideal of perfecting fine dining; he needed goals. They had to bleed stress out of the system—stop living or dying by dining clubs, spread the load, build a routine that didn’t demand heroics every night. If they could reframe the restaurant—simpler lunch service, a real second-in-command, fewer self-inflicted fires—maybe the two of them stood a chance to form something resembling a relationship without the hanging knife of substance abuse that could consume Reese as well with its siren song.

He ran the arithmetic like a waiter counting covers: if he stepped into Dexter’s orbit for real, the day job would have to go. The sales team wanted him online by eight, the prep at Le Coq needed him by four-thirty, and a relationship with a man who lived inside a kitchen would devour whatever hours were left. Losing that paycheck meant tightening everything—rent, groceries, the sliver he set aside for Colby’s textbooks. Tips were good when the dining room sang; they were fickle when the customers turned away, or Dexter’s temper flared. And then there was the worst number of all: the chance he’d get pulled under by the same current that kept dragging Dexter out to sea—wine for the nerves, pills for the pain, anger like a match struck too close to dry linen. Wanting Dexter felt selfish; Reese admitted it. It put his brother at risk, and it gambled the stability he’d spent years building brick by brick.

So he decided the only way forward was with guardrails high and bright. If this was going to be anything more than chemistry and chaos, he would have to make Dexter agree—really agree—to rules that changed the shape of their days. The wine would have to drop to a trickle; no pills anywhere near service; and the kitchen needed another spine beside Dexter’s, a sous chef who could take heat without lighting new fires. The menu, too, had to loosen its collar—room for a simpler lunch, fewer fussy flourishes that cost days of prep and bled everyone dry. Reese even sketched private terms in his head: a savings buffer, separate accounts for now, a promise that anger stayed in the walk-in and never followed them home. Without that, he would walk away. With it, maybe they had a chance.

Dressed in the clothes Dexter had left, Reese found him pacing in the kitchen.

“Dexter,” he said, steady now. “Last night, we both wanted it. We're adults, let's admit that we like each other. I want to try doing this, like a relationship and everything. But I have three conditions.”

Dexter’s mouth tipped toward a smile. "You're not leaving!", he exhaled, "Tell me what you want”

“First: cut your wine and Oxy way down. It’s wrecking you. It’ll wreck us.”

“It’s part of the job,” Dexter said, reflexively without thinking deeper.

“The excess is the problem. If others can help carry the load, maybe you won’t need it as much. Second: hire a sous chef.”

Dexter rubbed the back of his neck. “After the last year and a half, most strong sous-chefs want awards or growth. The star’s gone. Old trophies don’t impress.”

“Then give someone new a chance,” Reese said. “You’re a brutal teacher, but a good one. Use that.”

“Maybe,” Dexter conceded. then added, “What's your third request?”

Reese smiled. “Third is simple: make the restaurant less fussy and simplify.”

Dexter looked at the floor. “That’s harder than it sounds. It’s French. There are rules.”

“Who made them?” Reese shot back. “A council of old men in Paris?”

“More or less,” Dexter said, half a laugh in it. “Le Cordon Bleu and a thousand classically trained chefs. Michelin grades against those standards. I trained in France with my mentor under those standards. It’s just how Haute Cuisine works.”

“Do regular people in France eat seventeen-course dinners every night?”

“No. They eat big lunches—le déjeuner—and simpler bistro food.”

“Then introduce that food,” Reese said. “Keep fine-dining dinners for rare occasions, but with a simpler service. Serve the people who want all the ceremony through limited bookings and the ones who just want authentic French food. Stop killing yourself for seventeen courses for clubs that come twice a month and introduce items in season or specialties for individual seatings.”

Dexter spoke his thoughts without any reservations. “I’d need more staff. Tight food costs. A menu to test at lunch. And Americans don’t take two-hour lunches.”

“You won’t know until you try.”

Dexter exhaled, something like relief hiding in the sound. “All right. I’ll try.”

They made breakfast together—crepes and croissants from Dexter’s hands, coffee from Reese’s. They ate at the counter, knees touching, feeding each other fragments of warm pastry like teenagers. The pretense was gone. After they cleaned the line and tidied the room, Reese headed home with a buoyancy he hadn’t felt in years.

Colby clocked it the moment he walked in. “Cereal?” he offered, already pouring.

“No thanks. I ate.”

“French toast again?”

“Dex made Crepes and Croissants.”

“So he went from ‘that asshole’ to ‘Dexter’ to ‘Dex,’ huh?”

Reese flushed, then told a PG version of the night—the lemon supremes, the oxy, the wine, the blur. Colby winced at the pills, laughed at the lemon water, filled in the blanks his brother left to kindness.

“You must really like him,” he said. “He offered you an out.”

“I know,” Reese said. “Maybe it would be safer. But I don’t see him bottoming out tomorrow. And I don’t want to bail on him.”

“Do you still pity him?”

“Not really,” Reese said. “I respect him more. He’s taught me more than I expected. And maybe we both need each other to feel complete.”

“Boiling-water pour tests are a weird love language,” Colby said. “But okay.”

They talked about the future in general: such as how Reese set boundaries for the relationship with Dexter. Colby, ever the blunt analyst, pointed out that the line cooks and Sara would put two and two together soon enough. They should come clean with their relationship to stifle gossip or team issues.

After a while, their conversation shifted to Colby’s educational prospects.

That night’s service thrummed. The kitchen smelled of sole and brown butter; the scent drifted onto the street and pulled in curious passersby. Lemon water orders stacked up; Reese prepped suprêmes without touching the line, and Sara nodded her thanks from across the room. By close they’d surpassed even the dining-club take: $11,272 in tips. Dexter had ordered four cases of Dover sole that afternoon, worried it was too much; after selling through two cases in a single night, he wondered if it was too little.

For staff meal, Dexter didn’t default to soup and bread. He cooked coq au vin—his favorite, the dish that named the restaurant. Properly done, it takes hours; he’d started it between courses, tending it like a secret. He lifted the bottle of red more than once and set it back down again. He’d promised Reese. Endorphins did the rest. New love is its own anesthesia.

The rooster was rich and tender; the sauce—wine, bacon, butter—reduced to a glossy hush. Sara clocked Dexter’s mood and the way he and Reese sat close without thinking. She raised her glass; Carnes followed with a toothy grin that said finally.

Instead of the usual sermon on “perfection,” Dexter laid out a plan. He’d recruit a sous-chef from local culinary schools. He’d test a lunch service. Then he squared himself to the part that mattered most.

“I’ve decided to cut my drinking. I’ve asked my doctor to taper my pain meds. I’m sorry for the last few years. I know you watched this place slide. I can’t promise a miracle or that I won’t slip, but I’m asking for a chance to make it right. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

He looked over at Reese, didn’t flinch from the implication. “You’ve probably noticed I’m in a better mood today. Things are different. They’ll keep changing. I’m still the executive chef. I still expect good work—no exceptions. But I finally get what Anthony Bourdain meant: ‘Without new ideas, success becomes stale.’ We lost the star and I froze. Pride and habit did the rest. It’s time to change—for us, for our guests, for the people who still care about this place.”

Glasses rose. For a beat, Le Coq felt lighter—like a room where air finally moves again.