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"Won't be the same."
"You know it's for the best, Elara. Seriously. You're . . . you're tarte Tatin and I'm apple pie."
“Apple pie is delicious,” she said with a sad smile.
Later that night, after dropping Rhea and Lexi off at their mother's house and settling Anthony down in a bed I'd made for him out of some old cushions and blankets, I tossed and turned between the sheets, unable to shake the image of Elara's face, bathed in light, telling me she'd miss me.
I had to be strong. I had to make sure that when she returned from her interview in three days, she'd be back in New York as soon as was humanly possible.
And with that thought, I drifted off into fitful dreams of Elara and what might have been.
But when I woke in the middle of the night, sweating, cold, and full of anxiety, I knew that I had two eventualities to prepare for. I had work to do.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Elara
New York City had changed beyond recognition. Or rather, I had. As I wandered the streets, I tried to remember what I’d loved about the place.
Was it the tall buildings? The busy sidewalks? The yellow taxi cabs? The pizza? Each and every one of those things now seemed so . . . empty. Like, they were all just things, you know? Busy, noisy, expensive things.
After I’d landed at JFK yesterday, I’d hoped I’d click right back into feeling like my old self. But even after a long walk through Central Park and a tasty Manhattan Clam Chowder for dinner, I still wasn’t feeling it. I guess I felt like a tourist, but like a tourist who had gone on vacation to the same place so often she’d gotten bored of it. Honestly? I felt completely disconnected from everything.
Like my heart was hundreds of miles away.
While I was going to be judged on my deserts, Rhea was going to be judged on her holds and escapes in her jujitsu grading. I was sad to be missing it—I would have loved to be there for her.
I’d slept badly in my budget hotel, but I’d resisted the temptation to send a message to Cole. He was probably thankful to have a break from me for a few days, and I didn't want to come off as clingy. Normally, I wasn't clingy. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I'd clung to anything or anyone. But this morning, as I sat in a boutique café called "Fuckoffee," just a few minutes’ walk from the Pierre Trouffant Pastry School, I felt adrift, far from my anchor, desperate for something to hold.
A few weeks ago, I would have loved this coffee shop, full of Basquiat prints and fiddle-leaf fig plants. Now, though, it felt oppressive. Like it was trying so hard to be hip it had forgotten how to be human. There were so many people and so few smiles here.
At least I was going to meet with some friends tonight. Pavel, my mixologist buddy, as well as another couple of staff members from The Tortoise—Helen and Trick—were going to take me out for drinks at some swanky new art gallery bar that had opened up in the East Village. But tonight's celebration felt a long way off right now.
I had the interview of a freaking lifetime to get through first.
I glanced up at the striking orange wall clock and saw that I had just twenty minutes before my interview. I'd need to head off soon. I felt so mixed up that I didn’t even feel nervous. I'd practiced and planned my desserts plenty of times. Obviously, I'd be working in a brand-new kitchen, but hopefully, the interviewers would take that into account.
My phone buzzed on the table, drawing me out of my thoughts. I picked it up and saw that it was a picture message from Cole. He was holding Anthony on his lap, both of them grinning ear to ear.
Us boys wish you luck! Show those interviewers what good cooking really is.
A pang of longing washed over me, wishing Cole could be here in person to share this moment, to ground me with his steady presence.
I glanced down at my artisanal Rwandan coffee with its velvety oat milk foam, smirking as I imagined Cole's reaction. If he knew it had cost eight dollars, he’d probably have said something like, “Yeah, I can see why they call it Fuckoffee.”
I wrote out a hurried reply.
Miss you both! Thanks, guys. I'll do my best. Wish Rhea good luck for me, too. <3
I didn't want to write anything too mawkish or hint that I wasn't feeling totally into the idea of being here. I hit send and took a final sip of my drink before getting ready to leave.
The weather had taken a turn recently. It was a warm day, but the sky was cloudy. The air felt muggy and heavy. I walked the few blocks to the Pierre Trouffant Pastry School, and that’s when my nerves started to kick in.
I thought about Cole and Anthony, snuggled up together in Bluehaven Beach. Was I nervous in case I got onto the course, or in case I didn't?
"Come on, Elara," I whispered to myself, trying to shake off the unease. "You're here for an amazing opportunity. Focus on that."
I conjured up Cole's gruff voice in my mind, reminding me that this was my dream, that I was tarte Tatin and he was apple pie.
