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“Friday May 27th. Uh… four o’clock in the afternoon, give or take a couple of minutes.” I roll over in my rumpled guest bed to check the time, my brain and eyes still fuzzy from the nap that hasn’t done a thing for my energy levels. If anything, I feel sleepier.
“I’m seeing her again tonight.” I fold my pillow in half and rest my head on it, cuddling it to my cheek, while I prop the phone up on the teddy that Grace left behind.
I grimace, shaking my head as I start again. “Okay, so that made it sound like a date. It’s not, and I can’t go around thinking it is, after the whole mess I made on Monday. Man, that seems like forever ago, even though it’s been spinning around in my head ever since. I keep imagining what I would’ve done differently if I could. No awkward conversation, no idiotic chivalry with the cheek-kissing and the standing when a lady leaves, no misguided thinking that she wanted any company at all, just in and out, maybe leaving her with some curiosity about me instead of whatever she’s thinking about me now. I mean, she’s probably not thinking about me at all—it’smewho’s doing all of the overthinking. A bad habit. What do you have to say about that, Madame Therapist?”
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, like I really am in the old-school version of a therapist’s office. There are glow-in-the-dark stars above me, mirroring the constellation that Grace has in her room. I don’t know if they were here before I returned from Malaysia, or if they’re an addition just for me, but they’re not much good in the daytime. They’re just bits of plastic that I’m worried are going to fall down onto my face at any given moment.
“I’ve been going back and forth, wondering whether to ask Lyndsey for Summer’s number,” I find my voice again, “but every time I’m close to gathering up the courage, it hits me that it’s a colossally terrible idea. Why do I need her number, y’know?” I pause and take a steadying breath. “But I don’t like loose ends. Never have. I’m so used to following everything from the first glimmer of an idea, right down to the finish line with work, and I guess it bleeds into the not-work stuff, too. I want to check she got her purse, check she liked the pastry, check that we’re… I don’t know, ‘cool’. The last thing I want to do is make life awkward for her and Lyndsey.”
I hear movement downstairs: a stool scraping in the kitchen tiles, and the clatter of utensils following the grind of a drawer opening. There’s a faint click that I know is the oven being turned on. They’re baking, I bet. Lyndsey and Graceloveto bake, which is hysterical because Lyndsey used to hate anything involving the kitchen when she was younger. But a lot has changed since then, I suppose.
“Sorry, forgot you were on,” I apologize to my phone. “I was just listening to my sister and niece. They’re baking up a storm, or they’re going to be. I’m sure Lyndsey is getting some practice in before tonight, because she doesn’t want me showing her up. I’ve always had mad skills in the kitchen. I fully intend to get the chef equivalent of a gold star tonight, and I fully intend to make Lynds green with envy.
“Right, context. Don’t want this to be too much like the ramblings of a madman who is slowly losing what is left of his sanity through sheer boredom. How many naps and long drives can a man take, I ask you? Everyone thinks they’d love to just do nothing until they’re forced to.
“We’re going out tonight—me, Lynds, and Summer. Oscar was supposed to be going, but he got invited to some class reunion thing, so guess who got the extra ticket?” I grin up at the plastic stars. “It’s a cooking class, so there’ll be plenty of distractions, and if things get awkward, I can just stir something or run off to grab some herbs and spices. I think there’s going to be wine pairings, too, which always helps with my social rustiness.
“I don’t actually think it’ll be too awkward, though. Hear me out—if I’d really messed up with Summer, she’d have had a word with Lyndsey who, in turn, would have hung me out to dry. As I’m not dangling from a clothesline, I think I got away with being a clumsy idiot. All in all, I think tonight is going to be fun. Beats watching TV and finishing off all these naps with a ten-hour sleep that leaves me groggier than ever. I just have to remember to not screw up again, so here are the rules for tonight: 1) Don’t mention Ben, 2) Don’t mention being sorry for her loss, even though I am, 3) Wow her with my cooking prowess, and win a gold star from the teacher, and 4) Try to remember what it’s like to relax and have fun.”
But as I end the recording and glance over at the window, where a gentle breeze nudges the drapes, I feel something that might derail my strict rules: excitement. It’s deep in my chest, fizzing through my veins: a very specific kind of excitement. The kind that crackles through you like electricity when you’re about to go on a date with the woman of your dreams.Thewoman. The one you’ve been waiting for.
“I should cancel,” I whisper, but I already know I won’t.
9
SUMMER
Warm rain patters against the sidewalk, slicking the concrete to a mirror shine that reflects the golden glow of streetlamps and storefronts and the thousand cafes and bars and restaurants that clamor for customers in the French Quarter. Friday night partygoers are already thronging Bourbon Street, lurid cocktails in hand, gathering underneath blue-tinged balconies that bloom with colorful hanging baskets, filling the air with cigarette smoke and laughter. Georgie and I were supposed to be among them tonight but she let me off the hook knowing an outing with Lyndsey is few and far between.
I dart along Bourbon Street; the music thrown out of every club and bar drifting in and out, like I’m tuning a radio and can’t decide on a station. I’m late and I’m soggy and if it weren’t Lyndsey and Oscar that I’m meeting, I’d have cancelled the entire thing, but with this Levi thing hanging over my head, I need a friendly ear to rant at. Or with. Lyndsey is good at getting riled up, right alongside me, though we’ll probably get yelled at by the cooking teacher for talking too much.
Cutting down St. Ann Street, weaving in and out of tourists who’ve gotten lost and locals who probably think I’m a tourist, it takes me an extra five minutes to find the place I’m looking for. For starters, it’s further up the street than I thought, wedged between a coffee shop and a bodega. I can’t help peering into the coffee shop first, weighing the décor and the vibe against the vision I have for my own. It’s got a shabby chic feel to it, which I don’t mind, but not vintage enough for my tastes.
As I step into the narrow restaurant, the mouthwatering scent of garlic and onions gets my stomach growling. Low light refracts through filled wine glasses, and I find myself wishing Lyndsey had just booked us a table for dinner, instead of us having to cook our own.
“Good evening, and welcome toSouthern Charm.Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asks me, smiling.
“I’m here for the cooking class,” I say, fumbling in my pockets for my phone, so I can check just how late I am. I can’t find it. “Have they started without me?”
The hostess chuckles. “Not at all. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you through. I think there are a couple more to come, so you’re not the last.”
I’m relieved as I follow the cheerful woman through the restaurant. The design is reminiscent of a ship’s galley, making the most of the narrow space. They’ve made it “intimate,” with tables so close together that some of the patrons are practically back-to-back, but it’s somehow not cramped in appearance, and there’s enough space for the servers to slip in and out.
Through a door at the back, I’m shown into the studio space, where they offer cooking lessons of all kinds. Tonight, I think Lyndsey said it was going to be French cuisine. I’m a terrible chef, and I firmly believe she’s trying to get me to learn how to cook, so that I’ll eat properly. She’s always worrying that I exist solely on ramen and sandwiches, but then she hasn’t seen my monthly takeout expenses.
Everything is chrome. Overwhelmingly so. The workbenches are chrome, the ovens are chrome, the giant sinks and burners are chrome. I know this can’t be the actual kitchen for the restaurant, but it looks professional. Not as casual and homey as I’d imagined.
There are only six other people in the studio, stationed in pairs at their respective workbenches. Couples. I can tell by the way they steal looks and kisses and inside jokes. They’ll probably take what they learn and use it at home, making a core memory out of the evening, reminded of it every time they eat beef bourguignon, or whatever it is we’re going to cook.
“Your name?” A kindly-faced man approaches. He’s wearing chef whites, his thinning hair slicked back, his jaw peppered with greying stubble. He reminds me a little bit of Clive—a high roller from my casino days. I always liked having him at my table, though I liked it more when his wife came by to see how much he was losing. We’d always talk, and if I was at the end of my shift, I’d meet her at the bar to catch up properly.
“Uh… Summer DuCate,” I reply. The name still feels strange in my mouth: an acquired taste that I haven’t quite gotten used to.
The chef nods and strikes a line across the paper on his clipboard. “Just a few more and then we’ll be ready to start.” He frowns at the door, clearly annoyed by the delay. “You can take station number three.” He gestures to one of the chrome workbenches, and I hurry toward it.
At school, I hated to be on any teacher’s radar, always keeping my head down, never causing any trouble. That seems to have followed me into adult life, and I’ve already gotten myself a black mark. Anxiety ripples down my spine, and I shudder though it’s boiling hot in the kitchen.
Where are they?I perch on a tall stool, lost without my phone to distract me, or to check on their whereabouts. I must’ve left it in the bathroom while I was getting ready, forgetting it in my rush to not be unfashionably late.
