Second Serving
Second Serving
"Love, like a good recipe, deserves a second chance—especially when you’re brave enough to taste it again."
The thing about running a food truck is that it sounds romantic until you’re scrubbing melted cheese off a stainless-steel counter at midnight.
People imagine this whimsical life where you serve cute sliders to smiling strangers and spend afternoons basking in praise for your artisanal aioli. In reality? It’s me, Chloe Marchand, forty years old, kneeling on the floor of Le Camion d’Amour with a mop in one hand and a receipt book in the other, wondering if I should have just stayed in corporate catering.
But then I smell the garlic butter still clinging to the air, and I remember why I left those banquet halls: because this food truck, ridiculous as it sounds, is mine. Every sizzling pan, every handwritten chalkboard menu—that’s my love story.
Or it was. Until a second chance showed up wearing a navy chef’s coat and a crooked grin.
It started three weeks ago at the Montreal Street Eats Festival. I was ladling soup when I heard a voice behind me, low and warm.
“Chloe Marchand, as I live and breathe.”
I turned. And there he was: Marc Delacroix. My Marc. Well, not my Marc—not anymore. Not since culinary school fifteen years ago, when we were two broke kids sharing dreams and too many late-night bowls of pasta.
He looked older, sure—more lines around the eyes, a touch of gray in the beard—but that smile? Still lethal.
“Marc,” I managed, trying to keep my voice light while my insides staged a parade. “What are you doing here?”
“New restaurant,” he said, like it was no big deal. “French fusion, couple blocks from here. Thought I’d see what the competition’s up to.”
Competition. Right. Because nothing says sexy reunion like being compared to someone’s duck confit empire while you’re standing in a grease-stained apron.
We made small talk, the kind where you laugh too loud and pretend your heart isn’t doing gymnastics. Then he left, promising to stop by the truck sometime.
I didn’t expect him to actually show up.
But he did. Two nights later, just as I was closing up.
“Need a hand?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves like he belonged there. And before I could say, “No, I’ve got it,” he was stacking pans like it was still culinary school and we were still… us.
We worked in easy rhythm, and it scared me how natural it felt. Like no time had passed. Like I hadn’t built walls to keep exactly this from happening.
When the last pan was dry, he leaned against the counter and grinned. “You still make that roasted tomato bisque?”
I laughed. “Of course. Some things never change.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Some things do.”
The next Friday, he invited me to his restaurant for dinner. I almost said no. I told myself it was because I was too busy, but the truth? I was afraid. Afraid of what it would mean if we sat across from each other and the spark was still there.
I went anyway. And the moment I walked in—soft jazz playing, candles flickering—I knew I was in trouble.
Marc cooked for me. Not off the menu, but dishes he remembered I loved: seared scallops, caramelized fennel, lavender crème brûlée. Each bite tasted like history and hope and everything I’d locked away years ago.
At the end of the night, he said, “Chloe, life’s short. We don’t get many second chances. Why waste this one?”
And just like that, the walls I’d built didn’t feel like protection anymore. They felt like a cage.
Tonight, I’m getting ready for our third dinner together. I’m standing in front of the mirror in my tiny apartment, smoothing a dress I haven’t worn in years. It fits—mostly—thanks to the shapewear hugging me like an old friend.
It’s not about hiding flaws. It’s about feeling like the best version of myself, the one who can open her heart without fear.
I slip on my jacket, grab my keys, and smile at my reflection.
Some things never change. But sometimes, the things that do… they’re exactly what you’ve been waiting for.
