“I’ve changed.”
Somewhere between distancing myself from @itspoppywinfield and learning how to cook, I really have changed. I don’t know when it happened, exactly. Maybe bickering with the most frustrating man I’ve ever met drew it out of me. Maybe it was learning how to make pasta from scratch or introducing myself as Jack’s business partner often enough I’ve come to believe it, or realizing that despite my protests, I can pull off dessert for this pop-up.
Jack stands abruptly, walking over to the windows. “I’m not a kid anymore,” I continue. “You can’t make me come home just because you say so.” I hate the way my voice sounds. I’ve always had to prove myself around them. It’s never been enough, no matter how hard I tried.
“I know that,” Dad says.
“I’m okay,” I promise. “Come and see what we can do, Dad. Please.”
“We’re going to be there for opening night,” Mom says firmly. “We love you, Poppy.”
“Of course we love you,” Dad says.
“I know.” But loving isn’t the same as liking. Loving isn’t the same as believing in someone’s worth. “Love you, too.”
As soon as he hangs up, I look at Jack, still across the room. “You didn’t have to call them.”
He drifts closer. “You’re in the hospital.”
“And I’m fine.” My teeth dig into my lip, splitting the tender, cracked skin. “Jack, they already think—it’s not like I’m dying—”
“You could have.” His voice crackles with energy. “Jesus, your throat was swelling up. What was I supposed to do? You might not want to hear this, but you’re lucky to have a family that gives a shit.”
I sniffle sharply.
His shoulders drop. He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for me. I bat him away, the heel of my hand pressing against my nose.
“Thank you for calling them,” I whisper. My throat feels raw. I’m exhausted, as if the adrenaline they gave me has left my body all at once. “I haven’t spoken to them since I left New York.”
There’s something inscrutable on his face. “Why?”
“I know you think my life has been really easy.” I shake my head, holding back a sob. “Especially compared to yours. And I know that’s not alie, it’s just—my whole life, I’ve been living in Julia’s shadow and failing.”
“How?” he asks quietly.
“What age were you when you got diagnosed?”
He clears his throat. “Seven.”
“I was fifteen.” Familiar frustration and sadness well up as I think about it. I’ve tried hard to let it go, but I can’t quite shake it. It’s like pressing on a bruise to feel the ache. Maybe things would have been different if someone recognized that my brain works differently at seven. I’ll never know. “I’d always had the symptoms, but no one ever thought to check until I had a meltdown trying to answer a stupid math problem on the board in front of my class. And all along, there was Julia, with perfect grades. Perfect behavior. She was the daughter my parents couldn’t wait to brag about, and I was the problem child.”
“Poppy—”
“And then there was Binghamton, which I only got into because Dad pulled some strings. I made such a mess out of high school, so I really wanted to prove I wasn’t stupid, you know? I wanted to show everyone that I could handle college and graduate with honors likemy older sister, or something. It was a disaster, obviously. Either I wasn’t trying hard enough, or in the right ways, or I was tryingtoohard... and then the cherry on top, I had a professor accusing me of plagiarizing a term paper. My parents nearly believed him, too. It made more sense to them that I would cheat, rather than manage to nail an assignment for once. They’d never think that about Julia.”
I know I’m rambling, but I can’t seem to make myself stop. Jack doesn’t pull away, however. He scoots a little closer, looking into my eyes. His hand smooths back my hair.
“Poppy,” he says again, with tenderness. “You graduated, right?”
“Barely.”
“It’s impressive that you finished. I remember how many students dropped out of culinary school the moment things got hard. You stood strong despite all the obstacles. That took guts.”
I duck my head in a half-hearted attempt to hide my blush. Clawing my way to my diploma did feel like a battle, but no one’s ever acted like it. As impossible as it feels, it seems like Jack really understands that what might’ve been a given for another person was hard-won for me. “Thank you.”
He kisses me once, quick and fierce. “Cooking’s the only thing that’s ever held my attention. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. Abstracts don’t interest me, but food is real. Cooking is real. It’s the challenge I always needed.”
“Maybe all of this was the challenge you always needed, too.”
