Page 11 of That's Not a Thing

“CIA is the Culinary Institute of America.” He reached into his backpack and dug around for a moment before pulling out a rumpled pamphlet. “Located in picturesque upstate New York.” He passed the little brochure over to me. “I need more back-of-the-house experience for admission.”

“Wow.” I savored yet another bite of the oozing confection and then wiped the paper napkin across my chin. Wesley was studying me intently, like my reaction to what he’d said was of critical importance.

“Wow,” I repeated myself. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type.”

Now it was Wesley who sounded defensive. “Why, because a Columbia grad is meant to work at an investment bank or a corporate law firm? I’m failing to fulfill my destiny?”

“No.” I laughed. “Because you’re too cute to have a brain. No need to have such useful skills inside that pretty head of yours.” I polished off the churro and wiped my hands together with a flourish.

This time, Wesley laughed. “Oh, I have skills,” he said suggestively. “Trust me, I have skills.”

He kept his eyes focused on me, and I felt my cheeks warming up, crimson on the rise. I stared back, feeling as though precious little oxygen was reaching my brain. He leaned across the table, bringing his face closer to mine. I was struck by the intensity of his eyes, the way the green of the iris appeared to be outlined in black, the pupils surrounded by a green so light it was almost yellow. I leaned forward too, thinking that he was about to kiss me and wondering why I was willing to let that happen when we had only begun our evening, when we were in a public place, when I had full-on chocolate-churro breath.

He reached his hand toward my face, and I made no effort to pull away. But then he was wiping at my cheek, gently yet with purpose.

“Sorry, a few crumbs went rogue,” he explained as he flicked a grain of crystallized sugar off me.

I exhaled a shaky breath and leaned away, wiping at the same spot he had just touched, checking to ensure there were no lingering particles, trying to soak up a little extra of his touch.

“Sorry to bust your chops.” He settled back into his seat and tossed the CIA pamphlet back into his backpack. “People give me a hard time, my parents especially, so I’m kind of uptight about it.”

“Why?” I was surprised that anyone would knock the amazing talent he so clearly possessed. “Everyone’s jealous that you’re a ninja in the kitchen?”

“Hardly.” He let out a huff of air, and for the first time since I’d met him, I saw the corners of his mouth turn down. “It’s only my parents who get to me. I’m not living up to their fantasy. You know, graduate from an Ivy, proceed to Wall Street, marry a nice Jewish girl, and spend the rest of my life at a boring job, selling my soul to earn more money than my father before me.”

“That sounds pretty terrible. Except the part about the nice Jewish girl,” I joked, batting my eyelashes at him. “Also, you’ve totally got that whole Ivy League part locked in, so at least there’s that.”

“I guess.” He leaned back in his chair, tipping it onto its two hind legs. “It’s just frustrating that they don’t respect it, that they keep trying to bribe me into looking at law school or business school.”

“Bribe you?”

“Yup.” Wesley righted the chair, reached back into his bag, and retrieved a plastic water bottle. He held it out in offer; I shook my head, and he took a sip himself before continuing. “They’re happy to pay for grad school, provided it’snotculinary school. I’m not playing their game, though. I’m just going to pay for it myself.”

The fact that he had so many jobs now made sense. “I think it’s pretty commendable that you’re working hard to pursue your passion. If you love it, you’ll be great at it, and eventually your parents will realize they were wrong.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. He was about to say something else, but my phone started chirping from my coat pocket on the chair beside me. I hurried to silence it so I wouldn’t get busted for noise by one of the Butler librarians.

“Do you need to get that?” Wesley asked.

My dad’s number still flashed on the screen. “Nah, it’s fine.” Whatever additional point my father was now hoping to argue with me, I was done for the day. I put the phone down on the table and grabbed my Science and Technology textbook back from Wesley’s side of the table.

“Now, are we studying or what?” I pointed my pencil at him. “I told you, I’m not going to let you turn me into a slacker.”

My phone vibrated on the table, and I saw a text from my father. I clicked on it and stood up in a panic as I read.

Dad: Heading to Sloan K w mom. Not sure what’s wrong. Meet us there.

“Shit. I have to go.” I started stuffing my books into my bag.

“What? Why?” Wesley asked, concern taking over his features as he pushed out his chair to stand, too.

I glanced back down at my phone as I reached for my coat. I didn’t like telling people about my mother’s condition. I didn’t enjoy the pitying looks, the furrowed eyebrows and awkward platitudes. Also, I was superstitious about it, like if I mentioned it less, it was somehow less real, less certain. Even so, I had to explain my abrupt departure somehow, and there was no time to come up with something creative.

“It’s my mom. She’s sick. I have to meet my father at the hospital.”

“Okay, let’s go,” he said, packing his own bag. “I’ll get us a cab.”

“No, just me. I’ve got this on my own, but thanks.”