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“Your father was a chef?” Catira asks, watching the knife work in fascination.
Massi turns and grabs a salt shaker, twisting it a few times above the shredded tuna. “No, but seeing the chef… I don’t know. He was slicing vegetables—a simple task, but he took it seriously. After my father’s death, I buried all the memories of him because it hurt. I replaced my grief with anger.”
He glances my way and I’m caught in an avalanche of emotions. Is he telling me the story? Is he explaining himself to me? Why?
I never knew, never understood how his career and his behavior stemmed from the loss he experienced in his early teenage years.
“But there in that kitchen I remembered him. How he always cooked Sunday dinner. It was a tradition in my house. And suddenly it was the most important thing that I learn how to cook. Somehow, through that, I felt I’d be connected to him.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Mila cover her mouth with her hand, her eyes glistening. Catira, usually ready to challenge with a follow-up question, remains silent, observing Massi as he pours Parmesan batter into a sizzling pan.
I have to lean against the wall because my legs are weak. I have always admired his drive, but understanding the deep motivation behind it destroys me. It’s much easier to live when Massi is just an arrogant, self-absorbed asshole.
He fries small Parmesan crusts and arranges them on three square plates. I focus on his hands, masterfully spooning the tuna tartare into each cheese nest. He garnishes the bite-size beauties and the plates with something, but my mind doesn’t register the details, just the feelings. Watching him finishing the dish is like a symphony, dance and a theater production all in one.
Seeing it after his very human confession is so much more. More than I can cope with at the moment.
He pushes one plate to Catira and looks in mine and Mila’s direction. Without hesitation Mila dashes closer, and Massi’s eyes lock with mine yet again.
He is inviting me to taste. I take a step closer, wishing Mila didn’t stand at the side of the counter because that leaves me with a spot right next to Massi.
He pushes the plate to me, and as I reach out our hands brush. It’s almost imperceptible and I’m not even sure if he felt it, but the contact leaves me shaking. With nerves. With desire. With confusion. And, worst of all, with hope.
“Ladies, I hope you enjoy a little snack,” he says, his eyes on me. I’m shaking so badly I have to grip the plate to ground myself.
Mila clears her throat, but Massi ignores her, staring at me, waiting. For what?
“Oh my God, this is amazing. I’ve had my share of tuna tartare, but this is divine.” I register Catira’s words and finally understand he is waiting for me to take a bite.
Picking up the fragile nest, heavy with the fish mixture, with my trembling hand is hard. Doing so with Massi’s intense gaze on me makes the task impossible. I try to lift the delicate finger food with both my hands, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Massi, you’re a genius,” Mila squeals, and Massi darts his eyes to her for a moment long enough for me to throw the food into my mouth.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. For me, cooking has always been an art form, not mass production.” He turns to me again.
The tartare is delicious, but I still almost choke on it. He stares and I chew, uncomfortable. In the background Catira and Mila chat, or at least I think that’s what’s happening through the pulse in my temples.
Massi expects my verdict, his eyes kind on me, but his fingers tapping on his thigh.
Inexplicably, I fear that accepting and liking his dish is so much more than simply eating a bite of food. It’s as if he is trying to communicate words he’s never gotten to say and now I’m left vulnerable and exposed, consuming the food and the heavy history between us.
I finally swallow, buried in the rarely visible kindness of his eyes.
His words earlier clicked in so many ways, explaining things I wish I still didn’t understand. Along with his peace offering in the form of tuna tartare in a Parmesan nest, I feel like we’ve just taken a step in a new direction. The question is, will this path break me or will it mend me?
His face is full of need, but it’s not just the need for approval or praise. It’s more. So much more. Deep in my soul I know it’s not my approval of the meal he’s seeking.
The silence is loaded with years of unspoken tension, but also with something else.
The smell of lemon and fish mingles with Massi's natural musk, evoking memories. Awakening feelings I buried in the darkest crevices of my mind. His dark hazel eyes glint with an intensity that can set this kitchen on fire.
We stand there for seconds, or years, before I finally speak.
“Thank you.”
His eyebrows jerk up briefly, he gives me a smile that I’m sure I’m imagining and before he turns back to Catira, he whispers so only I could hear.
“Anytime, Blue, anytime.”
