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“Learning to cook, I hope,” I say with a wry smile, though my heart is crumbling. The culmination of the day’s events have left me too distraught to deal with cat dander’s number one nemesis.
My gaze drifts to the pretty blonde by his side. She’s observing me warily, a possessive hand on his arm.
Sebastian tugs on his collar and clears his throat. “Quincy, this is Phoebe. We, uh, met on Spin,” he says, almost guiltily. “In fact, this is our first date.”
“How lovely.” I shove all my angst deep inside, intent on surviving the cruel curveball life’s lobbed my way. “A French cooking class is a great first date,” I say, silently adding,As long as you’re not deathly allergic to butter.
“Phoebe, this is Quincy.” His tone holds a cryptic quality, and he curls his fingers, quite obviously miming a cat’s claw.
Nice. Really subtle, Sebastian.
Phoebe’s eyes widen in understanding. Clearly, he’s told her all about me.
“Nice to meet you, Quincy.” Her smile is equal parts pitying and patronizing. “Are you here alone?”
“Unfortunately, my friends had something come up at the last minute.”
“Of course.” She gives an exaggerated nod as if she isn’t buying my transparent excuse. “That’s too bad. But lucky for you, we’re here.” Gripping Sebastian’s arm like a vise, she flashes me the same saccharine smile.
Yeah, lucky me.I force a smile in return, hoping it doesn’t look as fake as it feels, then turn toward the front of the room as Chef Blanchet asks for our attention.
For most of the class, I focus on the task at hand, ignoring Sebastian’s and Phoebe’s flirtatious laughter and obligatory first-date small talk. I even mostly ignore the burning insecurity in the pit of my stomach trying to convince me that at this very moment, Ethan is falling hopelessly in love with Harper. But my newfound fortitude is exhausting, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to flee the waking nightmare.
The one saving grace? My béarnaise sauce doesn’t look half-bad. Granted, it’s lukewarm now, since it’s taken me too long to properly prepare the lemon and parsley garnish, but when the timer chimes, I’m almost eager to slide the baking dish out of the oven and—my heart stops.
Instead of a beautifully baked salmon, I’m staring at pink, translucent flesh. Realization slaps me like a fish fin to the face.
I forgot to preheat the oven!
All my pent-up emotion—the humiliation and heartache—coalesces in that single second. Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I can’t lose control. Not here. Not now.
Sniffling, I swivel back toward the counter to grab the béarnaise sauce, hoping I can dump it over the raw fillet and none will be the wiser. But as I swiftly spin back around, I collide with Sebastian’s elbow, and inadvertently douse myself with the thick, buttery sauce, splattering the front of my apron, the sleeve of my—sadly, dry-clean only—sweater, and my new suede boots.
I’m so mortified, I can’t move.
And, of course, it’s at that precise moment that Chef Blanchet pauses at our station to sample our work. She takes one look at my sticky sauce stain and says with the faintest accent from her time in France, “Everyone is born to eat, but not everyone is born to cook.” Then, with a dismissive glance, she picks up a fork and digs the tines into the perfectly flaky flesh of Sebastian’s salmon.
My chest squeezes, and adding insult to injury, Phoebe leans in and whispers, “On the bright side, you can take the raw fish home to feed all your cats.”
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Istare out the window in the back of the cab. Raindrops beat rhythmically against the glass, blurring the city lights beyond. Secluded in the shadows, I let silent tears trail down my cheeks while the driver yells at a sports announcer on the radio. I don’t pay attention to which game is on or which landmarks we’re passing by, oblivious to anything other than the abysmal failure that is my life.
Every harsh thought and nagging self-criticism crashes over me, pressing down on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I feel like I’m drowning. Drowning in doubt. In disappointment. In the downfall of my grand delusions.
Why did I think I could do this? Moving to New York, the list, trying to evolve into a new me, abetterme. It was all a mistake. A monumental, misguided, foolish mistake.
Maybe it’s time to stop pretending and embrace the inevitable. Maybe it’s time for Quincy the Quitter to do what she does best.
I exit the cab and stand frozen on the curb, letting the rain erase any trace of tears before I head inside, even though it’s too early for Brynn or Ethan to be back from dinner.
In the dimly lit hallway, I turn the key in the lock, and my heart twists. Over the last several weeks, entering this apartment has felt like coming home. And now, it might be for the last time.
I ease open the front door, surprised to hear music on the other side. Frank Sinatra warbles his iconic love song to the city, “New York, New York,” in an oh-so-ironic homage to my potentially final entrance.
In a moment of profound melancholy, I’m rooted to the floor, mentally noting the marked difference from the first time I laid eyes on Brynn’s apartment, shrouded in shadows and unfamiliarity. Now, every inch radiates warmth and hominess.
Raindrops dapple the large picture windows and amber firelight illuminates Wilson and Whiskers, snoozing side by side on the soft shag rug in the living room. My throat tightens. I didn’t think about leaving Wilson. And what about Whiskers? If I bring her back to LA with me, the inseparable pair will be an entire continent apart. Tears sting afresh as I consider everything—and everyone—I’d be leaving behind.
