"Are you going to be okay?"

His question gives me pause. Will I be okay? Was "okay" a hypothetical three exits ago?

All things considered, I'm hurtling through time and space with a guy whose recovery from a serious cocaine addiction matters as much as the rise of his chocolate soufflé tonight. So I answer honestly.

"I don't know." My voice sounds far away.

"Well if you're not sure, change. You'll be walking at least five miles between ushering people to tables and the bathroom and running back and forth from the kitchen."

"Oh, shoes. You're asking if I'm going to be okay in these shoes." I glance down at my black platform wedges.

"Yeah, babe. What the hell else would I be talking about?"

He grabs the bottom of my chin and plants a quick kiss on my lips before he rinses a whisk in the sink.

The shells of seventy-five hardboiled eggs are in the trunk of a car I rented to shuttle all the shit required for tonight's guests, I took an unpaid day off from work to be here to help, and my parents are about an hour away from arriving to this special "comeback dinner," which will be the first time they've seen Benji somewhere other than the headlines in the last thirty days.

And he was worried about my shoes.

"I'll be fine," I say sweetly, knowing now is not the time for a true audit of my emotional well-being. Tonight is about Benji's big return and my confidence that all — including my shoe choice — will go as smoothly as the housemade butter at room-temp that he's just whipped up.

I find my reflection in a nearby cryo-vac machine and take out a tube of my go-to matte pale pink lipstick from my makeup bag. I sweep it across my bottom lip, then fill in just above my lip line on the top for the illusion of a slightly fuller mouth. After all, I know at least half the guest list is here to see what the woman behind the man looks like.

Speaking of lists, I can see Benji in the reflection as well, leaning over a stainless steel counter consulting the prep list for tonight's dinner service. He takes a black Sharpie from the pocket of his apron and puts a quick slash through each item as he recites them out loud to himself.

I come up behind him and cast my arms around him slowly; my touch puts him at ease. He curls his left arm up to hold my arms in place and continues to mouth ingredients one by one to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything. It sounds like sweet nothings being whispered to me a romance language I barely understand.

Benji crumples the list, a sign he's successfully on track with everything from the dehydrated goat's milk to emulsified caramel, and I snap out of my schoolgirl daydream. He turns to face me, shuffles a few steps back in his worn kitchen clogs, and bends down to shake out his longish dark hair.

He shimmies a hair tie — my hair tie — off his right wrist and ties his mane up into a disheveled topknot. For anyone who says the man-bun trend isn't their thing, they're lying.

He re-ties his white apron for the umpteenth time over a tight black T-shirt that shows off his tattooed-solid arms. I know for a fact he doesn't work out, but somehow he's been blessed with the body of a lumberjack. The only thing missing is the ax, which has been appropriately swapped out for an expensive Santoku knife custom engraved with some filigree and his initials: BZ.

No doubt he's got the "hot and up-and-coming chef" thing down: tattooed, confident, exhausted, and exhilarated. Hard to believe this isn't a casting event for Top Chef.

Harder to believe this is the man I get to take home every night.

"FUCK! Are you kidding me, Sebastian? Where the fuck is the lid to that thing?" Benji's words effectively snap me out of the trance I was in danger of being lulled into. It takes me a minute to realize what happened: his sous chef Sebastian has pressed "pulverize" on a Vita-Mix full of would-be avocado aioli, except the lid to the blender is nowhere to be found. Green schmutz has gone flying, marking up Benji's pristine apron like the start of a Jackson Pollock piece.

"Sorry, chef. I got it on now." Tail between his legs, Sebastian gets back to work as Benji furiously wipes at the streak with his bare hand. He's making it worse.

"Benji. Breathe." I grab his half-drank can of LaCroix and pour a little onto a clean kitchen rag. While tending to the stain in the hot kitchen, I look directly into those deep brown eyes and give him a reassuring smile. He smells of cigarettes and sweat, garlic and onions. It's intoxicating.

"I know, Allie. This is just ... huge for me. Huge for us. The press is going to be here tonight." He wipes some sweat off his brow.

"And my parents," I whisper.

"Oh god, them too." He releases the tension by cracking the bones in his neck. A poor substitute, I imagine, for his true preference: a shot of whiskey.

But even a slug of 120 proof wouldn't take the edge off the fact that Benji's pop-up dinners are the new It Thing. People salivate at their screens just waiting for him to tweet out the next time and place he'll be cooking. Why? Because he's the hottest chef in Chicago and you can't taste his food at any restaurant. So when he announces a dinner, it's a mad, server-crashing race to claim one of only twelve spots at the table. And when everyone wants to see how the reformed addict is faring, they'll cancel all their plans for the day on the off chance they'll be one of the first to submit a reservation request, followed by prompt pre-payment — which all goes to me, the fan-favorite girlfriend of Benji Zane.

I can't blame his followers for the obsession. Our flash-in-the-pan love story was covered by the most read food blog back in the spring, and since then, there have been myriad articles chronicling his love-hate relationship with hard drugs and high-end cooking. Between his unlikely relationship with me, his checkered past, and his unmatched kitchen skills, Benji's managed to divide people like we're talking about healthcare reform or the immigration.

Half see him as a prodigy in the kitchen who was given a second chance when some no-name poster child of millennial living suddenly inspired him get clean. The other half of Chicago views him as an all-hype hack who uses the media attention to rob his patrons of their hard-earned money so he can get his next score.

Fuck those people. Because the Benji that I know, that I live with ... well, he's a stand-up guy whose brunch — and bedroom — game happens to be on point.

"Listen, babe," I say. "What did I tell you? I'm not going to let you down tonight, okay? I'll pace the seating however you need me to. I'll greet the press and spot the critics, too. We got this, okay? I believe in you." And I do.

I don't always agree to help Benji at his pop-ups — usually I just accept the reservation requests and keep the books straight. But tonight is different. Benji told me yesterday that he's got an outstanding dealer debt to pay off and so he's oversold the dining room by about twenty-five chairs to try and make a little extra cash. Without me here to help host a guest list of this size, this highly-publicized dinner would look and feel more like a dysfunctional family reunion. Something I'm sure the piranha-like press would love to write about.

I wanted to be pissed about this little "oops" moment. How careless could he be? Now, by over-inviting a hoard of overzealous foodies, and in the past, by racking...