“Dad held out longer than anyone thought he would though,” I reply. “We had more than four years with him. He was sick a lot of the time, and in treatment, but he fought so hard for more days with us. And by the end, he’d gotten really close with Gus and gotten more time than we and the doctors ever expected.” My voice breaks a little. “After he died, there was no way I could leave. Not with Mom’s condition worsening. Not with Gus so little. I couldn’t abandon Mom and the store, and I couldn’t imagine being a single parent in Paris.” I turn the coffee cup around in my hands, rubbing away the lipstick mark on the rim. “So I gave up the dream. This is our home now, for better or worse. Some things just are what they are, right?”
“Gravity problems,” Jakob says.
“That sounds like a Gus term.” I smile. “What’s a gravity problem?”
“The things in life you can’t change, even though you wish you could,” Jakob explains. “The trick is knowing which things in life are gravity problems and which aren’t. Usually we have more choices than we think we do. But some things you just have to learn to live with the best you can.”
I sip my latte and mull over his words. What things in my life are gravity problems? Mom’s health. The store. What does that leave? What are my choices? I think of the vision, of the guidance it provides. Not a gravity problem, but certainly it has a lot of sway. It doesn’t feel limiting though. It feels bright and shiny and full of promise and potential. If only I can help it come true. That’s my job now, to help it come true. The next step is not to mess up filming the episode ofSavortoday.
“Even after your pep talk, I’m still nervous about today,” I admit. There is so much I want to get right, starting with not making a fool of myself on camera. I want to impress Henry. I want to help put my chocolate shop in the best possible position to succeed.
“Well, it sounds like there’s only one thing left to do,” Jakob says. He grabs a KitKat bar from one of the candy racks and pulls two dollars from his wallet.
I wave away the payment, curious to see what he’s doing. “It’s on the house.”
“Okay then. Ready?” He tears open the shiny red wrapper and holds out the square of chocolate to me. I stare at it a moment before realizing what he’s doing.
“Our good luck ritual,” I say, a smile breaking across my face. He remembered. It’s how we started every debate meet in high school. I’d bring a KitKat bar, and we’d each hold a side and break it on the count of three. If it broke cleanly, separating the fingers of chocolate without cracking the wafers in half, webelieved we would win our debate. If we snapped the wafer unevenly though, it was a bad omen and we would lose our debate. I gingerly grab hold of the bar.
“One, two…” he counts, and on three we both exert a little pressure. With a snap the bar breaks in half the wrong way.
“Oh no!” I groan, staring at the jagged shards of crisp wafer. “Bad luck!”
“You know there’s no such thing as luck,” Jakob says calmly. He stares at the broken edge of wafer, then takes a big bite. “Just opportunity and what we do with it. A broken KitKat is not a gravity problem. You can rise above this. Use your adrenaline.”
We eat our chocolate in companionable silence. “Do you ever miss debate?” I ask suddenly.
Jakob glances at me. “I miss some things about it,” he says opaquely. “I liked the studying, not the debate part as much.” He casts a look in my direction, and I catch what he’s not saying. He liked spending time with me. I liked spending time with him too. Jakob was the most interesting boy I knew in high school. He was curious about everything and had a unique perspective on life, like he could see the world clearly, like he had a thousand-foot view. He’d weave together things he’d read about physics, mathematics, music, history, social theories, philosophy. He was constantly reading, constantly absorbing knowledge. There was always something going on in his head. There still is, and as always, I want to take a peek inside. His mind has always fascinated me.
“Those were good days,” I say with a sigh, almost thoughtlessly, then realize where I am—a grown woman eating KitKats early in the morning with a former best buddy whose heart she accidentally broke. I need to shut this down fast and get on with the day I’m supposed to be having. But Jakob is standing therewatching me, and my heart thuds in my chest. The words I’ve wanted to say for sixteen years bubble up in my mouth. I want to set right whatever went awry between us.
“Jakob, what happened…”
Just then the door jingles. “Hullo, Emmie. Jakob.” It’s Henry, followed by a petite woman in heeled boots, her long dark hair caught up in a bun, and a slight young man lugging a camera bag. As they come into the shop, Jakob crumples the KitKat wrapper and straightens from against the counter. The moment is over.
“That’s my cue to wrap this up,” he says. As he grabs his toolbox, I notice a dog-eared copy ofAtlas Shruggedsticking out amid the screwdrivers and nails. Seems he hasn’t changed his reading habits. “I’ll just finish up a few little things and get out of your hair. Good luck, Emmie,” he tosses back to me as he heads toward the bathroom with his toolbox in hand.
“Thanks for the bad luck,” I call to him with a smile.
He waves dismissively without looking back. “Remember, there’s no such thing as luck.” But I can hear the answering smile in his voice.
Henry comes up to the counter where I’m standing. “Emmie, I’d like to introduce you to our brilliant team for the day—my producer, Azra Kaya, and Crisanto Tan, our fantastic cameraman.”
I shake Azra’s and Crisanto’s hands. “Thank you so much for helping on short notice.” I like both of them immediately. Crisanto gives off an air of affability that puts me at ease, and he looks effortlessly cool with green designer glasses and a faux-hawk. Azra is warm but very no-nonsense and exudes capability. I feel reassured that in her hands all will go smoothly. Henry is looking dapper and polished in one of his many swazers. This oneis herringbone. He’s paired it with camel-colored trousers, a black T-shirt, and leather loafers. He looks camera ready.
“You look beautiful,” Henry tells me, giving me a hug. “The camera is going to love you.” We’ve gone from handshakes to hugs now. Good progress. Henry looks around the shop as Azra and Crisanto walk around discussing camera shots and angles and lighting. “I feel as though I’ve jumped into a time capsule, a true bit of Americana,” Henry muses, wandering over to examine an endcap of classic American penny candies in open bins. He seems genuinely fascinated by everything. It’s one of his best qualities and part of what makes him so watchable, that affable curiosity.
“I want you to try something before we get started,” I say spontaneously. “Stay right there.” I race to the kitchen. I don’t know where I found the time to make a new variety of truffle. No, that’s a lie. I do know where I found the time. Two a.m. yesterday. I sacrificed sleep to make something I’m proud to share with Henry. I was too nervous and excited to sleep anyway, so I got up and did something productive. Television Henry kept me company. It was the episode where he’s in Thailand, up in the mountains, shadowing a family in their restaurant on a remote hiking path.
I come back with a Tupperware container and give Henry one of my new creations. It’s a pink truffle flecked with the special gold sprinkles. These turned out perfectly—the color and texture and flavor are all gorgeous, complex, and unexpected. I take one for myself too, the one with the most sprinkles. I need a big dose of courage before we film.
I offer a truffle to Crisanto, who declines as he’s on Whole30 for the month and can’t eat sugar. Azra takes one though, and her eyebrows lift to her hairline when she tries it.
“Oh wow, where can I get more of whatever this is?” she asks in genuine amazement. “It reminds me of a special sweet I had growing up in Istanbul. Delicious.” I laugh and give her another one. I eat another too. I need the extra dose of courage today. Just like before, I feel the familiar zip of energy and a lift in my spirits. I square my shoulders. I can do this. With adrenaline and a good lipstick, I might just manage to rock today. I take the container to Jakob. He’s in the bathroom doing something to the new toilet with a screwdriver.
“What’s this?” he asks in surprise, looking at the rich pink tone of the ruby chocolate I used to coat the truffle.
“It’s a truffle,” I explain. “I made them.”
