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I slept on it. Next to Jesse. At his place.
In the morning, after a quick tussle, my head in the crook of his arm, I began to prod. It could not be helped. It was like my brain and mouth had been hijacked by the old pre-S.E.C.R.E.T. Cassie.
“So you did it!” I said, acting all celebratory.
“Did what?” he asked groggily.
“Solange. Her fantasy. I saw your name scratched out on the board.”
He didn’t speak.
“I guess that was it, then, your last kick at the can,” I continued. “After all, Solange is the last S.E.C.R.E.T. candidate for a while, anyhow.”
“Huh. I suppose you’re right,” he said, stretching dramatically.
“Hope you went out with a bang, so to speak.”
I immediately regretted my stupid joke. Without responding, Jesse hoisted himself off his bed.
“Come on, Cass, I’ll drive you to work. I gotta be in early. We have a four-tiered wedding cake to build for tonight.”
I didn’t budge. Fists on hips, Jesse just looked at me tangled in his sheets.
“Don’t, Cassie. I don’t ask you for details.”
“If you did, I’d tell you.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Why? Because you’d be jealous, or because you don’t really care?”
What is wrong with me?
He waited a beat and then he said something that stung me to the core. “You’re regressing.”
While he shuffled off to shower, I got up and padded around for my phone. Still wincing from his comment, I texted Matilda.
Happy to take part with Pauline. Am curious too.
After he’d showered, Jesse dropped me off at work with a tender kiss that I had a hard time returning. When he said he’d call me later, I muttered something about being busy and that I’d call him.
“Cool beans,” he said.
“What does that even mean?”
“I am not going to get into it with you. Go.”
Dell was already in the kitchen, her recipe folders out. This was our routine every Tuesday morning. We sat side by side on benches next to the pastry table to tweak and assess which plates from the week before were hits and which were met with tepid approval. Then we adjusted the special menu and coming inventory accordingly. Why bother buying thirty Cornish hens if no one ate them?
“People loved the Bordelaise shrimp spaghetti last night,” she said, as I pulled up a stool next to her. She didn’t even bother with “hello.”
Now this was a woman who was all about her work.
“Eggplant fritters were good too,” she added.
“Yeah, more of those,” I replied, making dramatic checkmarks. I had to shake this mood. “Let’s not press the frogs’ legs.”
“Let me try them with my gran’s jerk rub.”
