by Jackie Lau
Like Sarah, she gets stuck just past my elbow.
I don’t reveal my little secret: I was flexing my arm. Both then and now.
“How did you get the bandage on?” Amrita asks. “You took off your shirt? Or did she take off your shirt?”
“Alright. That’s enough,” I say. “Everyone out.”
“Except me. I have to talk to you about the Langston project.”
I sigh. “Fine. Except you.”
Eduardo and Clarissa leave my office, closing the door behind them.
“So,” Amrita says. “Did she take off your shirt?”
“No, I did. While she was in the washroom with me to, uh, tend to my wound.”
Amrita giggles. Actually giggles, which isn’t like her.
“Glad you find my life so amusing,” I mutter.
“Fine, fine. We’ll stop talking about your love life.”
Interestingly, I don’t flinch when she says “love life,” even if falling in love is not something I ever intend to do again.
* * *
Later that afternoon, I meet my friend Melinda for coffee at a Starbucks.
I’ve known Melinda Leung for ages. We drifted apart in university, but after med school, she came to Toronto to do her residency. She hardly knew anyone in the city, and so we started hanging out again, the past far enough behind us that we could set it aside, even if it’s still affecting my life.
She knows a lot of people in Toronto now, and she met a man and got engaged—I’m happy for her, truly—so we don’t see each other as much anymore, but we still meet up from time to time.
We talk about our work, and then she says, “Did you see the video of the premier getting pied at Queen’s Park?”
“Yeah, and for a split second, I was worried that you were the one behind it.”
Melinda chuckles. “I promise that wasn’t me. You know I wouldn’t do something like that. Though I’m not going to lie, I kind of wish I had.”
I look out the window and smile at the thought of the woman who made that pie. I tried her banana cream pie—and not because someone threw one in my face—and it was, indeed, quite good.
“Josh?” Melinda says. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing.”
I’m not going to tell my only ex-girlfriend about Sarah, not now.
Chapter 11
Josh
Cooking is hard.
I don’t cook a lot. I’m a pretty busy guy, and usually I eat out or order in, but I do know how to make fried rice and omelets and various other things. Nothing too fancy, however.
It’s Wednesday night, and I’ve been in the kitchen for an hour. Sarah isn’t coming until Friday, but I wanted to do a test run of everything, and boy, am I ever glad I did.
I have a fancy knife block with a wide selection of knives, not that I know what the difference is between them. Perhaps this was the problem. I randomly selected a knife to chop an onion, and as tears streamed down my face and my vision blurred—Jesus, those suckers are potent—I managed to cut my thumb instead of the onion.
It’s a worse injury than the one Sarah inflicted on me, which has healed nicely.
I bandaged up my thumb and went back to work on the beef stew. I figured that would be appropriate for a cold winter’s day. Nothing too fancy that screams, I’m desperate to please you‼
Still, I’m trying pretty damn hard here, without going completely over the top and making foie gras terrine or some kind of fancy French sauce.
Now the stew is simmering, but there’s a strange burning smell...
Shit! The toasted sunflower seeds! I was trying to toast sunflower seeds for a salad.
No sooner have I pulled the pan off the stove than the smoke detector goes off. I climb onto a chair and try to pull out the battery, but for some reason, the stupid battery won’t come out of the smoke detector. Finally, I get it out, only to hear something bubbling over on the stove.
Crap. The stew. I take off the lid and turn down the heat.
Okay. I can do this. I run a fucking company; surely, I can make beef stew.
It’s not like I thought cooking was easy-peasy, and I definitely had respect for what Sarah does in the kitchen. But now, I’m truly amazed that she’s going to make—with help, but still—a hundred and twenty savory pies for my party, plus a large selection of dessert pies. How does she do it?
I’ve spent an hour in the kitchen and I’m already tired, but now the beef stew is cooking nicely, and all I have to do is wait another hour, then see how it tastes.
I sit down on a couch in the living room, which is right next to the kitchen, and open my laptop, determined to answer the e-mails I’ve been putting off all day.
The next thing I know, I’m jolted awake by the alarm on my phone, telling me the stew is ready.
Well, so much for my e-mails.
Also, falling asleep while you have something on the stove is really not smart, and I’ve already set off the smoke detector once.
Anyway, I’m rather hungry after my unplanned nap. I hurry to the kitchen, where I turn off the element and lift up the lid, expecting a delicious aroma to hit my nose.
Instead, it smells rather burnt.
Hmph. Well, maybe it’ll taste better than it smells. I try a spoonful.
Nope, it tastes bad, too.
I order a pepperoni pizza and hope I’ll do better tomorrow.
* * *
Beef Stew Attempt #2 is a definite improvement over Beef Stew Attempt #1. This time, I don’t burn it, and I don’t cut myself while chopping the onion. It still makes me cry, but I can handle a few tears. The vegetables are too soft, however, so I won’t cook them as long tomorrow when Sarah comes over. I write down a few other small changes to make, then help myself to a big bowl of stew for my dinner.
I’m not used to having a home-cooked meal like this. It’s nice, aside from the fact that I’m all alone.
But tomorrow, I’ll have company, and in addition to the beef stew, there will be salad with sunflower seeds that are not burnt, as well as red wine and bread.
I hope it goes well. I desperately want it to go well.
* * *
“It smells delicious,” Sarah says when she steps into my house. “What are you making?”
“Oh, just a little something I whipped up,” I say, all cool, as though I haven’t spent the past three days trying to perfect it. As though I didn’t spend half an hour at the LCBO, debating which wine to get. As though I didn’t spend another half hour trying to figure out the best place in the city to get a good baguette, then drove out of the way to buy it.
This woman. She makes me do crazy things.
She’s wearing a purple sweater that’s a bit lower cut than what she usually wears. It provides a tantalizing hint of cleavage.
I am mesmerized.
I hang up her jacket as she slips off her winter boots. We head to the kitchen, where she puts a container of tarts on the kitchen island, as well as a little package wrapped in red paper.
“I love your kitchen.” She turns around and runs her hands over the granite countertop. “The one in my apartment leaves a lot to be desired. You have so much counter space, which will be good for the party.”
“Glass of wine?” I ask, trying to be the good host. Trying not to pay too much attention to the way her skin is pink and glowing after being out in the cold, and the fact that we’re all alone in my house.
“Yes, please.”
I pour us each a small glass, and she has a sip.
“It’s very good,” she says, then hands over the package in red paper. “A sorry-I-stabbed-you-in-the-arm present.”
“You didn’t need to,” I murmur. “You being here now is enough of a present.”
Is that lame? Or smooth?
And why have I completely lost the ability to tell the difference?
The package isn’t heavy. I rip open the paper and smile when I see what’s inside.
Paper napkins.
That�
��s right, I’m smiling because a gorgeous woman got me napkins.
The first package of napkins is printed with the digits of pi: 3.141592653589793... The second simply has a large π in the middle. The third is a math joke. A familiar math joke, which I last saw on my father’s Facebook profile.
“Be rational,” says i.
“Get real,” says π.
The napkins in the fourth package—yes, there are four packages—say “Happy Pi Day,” and there’s a cartoon slice of cherry pie beneath the words.
“These are incredible,” I say. “Perfect for the party. Where did you find them?”
She shrugs. “You can find anything online.”
True, but it never would have occurred to me to look for Pi Day napkins. I drop the packages onto the kitchen island, then lean over and kiss her on the lips.
“Josh,” she says, her voice all breathy from the single press of my lips against hers. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur.
And I don’t care, because it feels so damn good.
I’m not sure what will happen tonight. I just know that I want to be here with her. I’ve been able to think of little else for the past few days.
Casually draping one arm over her waist, I have a sip of my wine and examine the napkins again.
“A classic math joke,” I say, picking up the third package. “You see, the digits of pi never repeat because pi is an irrational number, and i is the square root of minus one so—”
“Josh.” This time when she says my name, it doesn’t sound breathy and sexy.
This time, she sounds annoyed.
“Why do you assume I don’t understand the joke?” she asks. “Because I’m a woman?”
I hold up my hands. “No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Women can do math, you know.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“But what?” She puts her hands on her hips. “You think that because I make pie for a living, I know nothing about math? It was my best subject in school, and I took multiple math courses in grade twelve.”
God, I’ve made such a hash of this. And it had been going so well.
Amrita would shoot me for this. I’m acting like the asshole I swore I’d never be.
A man in my position can get away with a lot. If a guy’s the CEO of a tech company, people might say he’s a genius and put up with bad behavior. Temper tantrums, general douchebaggery...you get the idea. A woman couldn’t get away with it, not without being called lots of horrible names, but I suspect I could. But I’ve always sworn I would never be that guy.
And now I feel like that guy.
Why did I say such a stupid thing? Was I trying to show off?
Of course I don’t assume women are generally bad at math, but maybe, subconsciously, that combined with her career...I don’t know.
I run my hand through my hair. “You’re right. I was being an idiot, and you were absolutely right to call me on it. There’s no excuse. I will do better.”
She looks pleasantly surprised by my apology, which is a further indictment of my gender.
The mood is ruined, however.
I take a step back. “You know what would be cool?” I say, needing to fill the silence. “Cookies in the shape of numbers, so we could have pi out to...I don’t know how many digits. A hundred, maybe? I know you own a pie shop, not a cookie shop—”
“I can make shortbread cookies, no problem. I’ll charge you for it, though.”
“Of course.” I pause. “You ready to eat?”
* * *
“So this is just a little something you whipped up?” Sarah asks after taking a bite of beef stew. She slathers a piece of baguette in butter and dips it in the stew, then moans in satisfaction.
Good God. She’s so sexy when she eats.
After the incident earlier, I feel the need to tell her the truth about this. There’s still a bit of tension between us, and I want to defuse it.
“No, actually,” I say. “I’m not much of a cook, but I wanted to make something nice for you. I made my first attempt at beef stew on Wednesday, and I set off the fire alarm and burned the stew and sliced my thumb while cutting an onion.” I hold up my bandaged thumb. “It was a worse injury than the stab wound.”
She’s laughing at me, and I like it. I laugh along with her—I can totally laugh at myself for this.
“Yesterday,” I continue, “I made another attempt at the beef stew, and it turned out much better. I actually ate it that time. Then I made it for a third time today, and I think I’ve finally perfected the recipe.”
“I can’t believe you made three batches of beef stew for me.”
“I can’t believe it either.” I smile stupidly at her.
This feels like new territory for both of us, and I’m glad I’m exploring it with her.
It’s much different from how my interactions with women usually go. Not that I’m a douchebag to them—of course not. I’m kind, and charming, and very clear that I’m not looking for anything serious.
Something I haven’t made clear with Sarah because, well...
I cooked beef stew for her three times, for fuck’s sake, and I don’t regret it. The pleasure of seeing her enjoy it is more than worth it.
“I considered baking the bread,” I say, “but I thought that might be beyond my abilities.”
She holds up her wineglass. “Did you harvest the grapes with your own bare hands and ferment them yourself?”
“I most certainly did. I traveled to Tuscany to pick the grapes. Seeing the rolling green hills and old villas was such a hardship.”
“Mm. I can imagine.” She butters some bread. “Have you ever been to Italy?”
“Rome and Venice, yes.”
“Do you travel a lot?
“Not a lot, no. I’m busy with work. I don’t take much time off.”
She nods. “I know what that’s like. Though in my case, there’s the lack of money, too. I’ve taken very few vacations, even before I opened Happy As Pie, because I wanted to save everything I made so I could start my own business.”
Suddenly, I want to take her to Tuscany, or to wherever she wants to go. We could sightsee and eat good food. Then at night, I’d strip off her clothes, suck on her breasts, and slip a hand between her legs...
She’s looking at me with her pretty brown eyes. “What are you thinking about?”
“That’s a dangerous question. Do you really want to know the answer?”
“Absolutely.”
“I was thinking about sex.”
“With me?”
“Of course with you.” I lean forward and slide my hand up her thigh. “How could I not, when you’re making those sounds?”
“What sounds?” She drops her spoon and looks around, as though the room could tell her what sounds she was making.
“The moans of pleasure when you eat my food.” I stroke her knee, and she makes some similar sounds, but for an entirely different reason.
“You’ve certainly got the whole romantic home-cooked meal thing mastered.”
“Except it took me three tries.”
“Yes, and you actually told me that.” She twists her mouth. “Was that a calculated move to be endearingly awkward? To prove you’re not too much of a lady-killer?”
I snort into my wineglass. “A lady-killer? Hardly. I just didn’t want to give you a false impression that I’m amazing in the kitchen.”
“Are you amazing in other places?”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Want to find out?”
“Absolutely. I want to find out how amazing you are at making a snowman.” She gestures to the window. “We’ve had a lot of snow lately.”
“Sarah.”
“Yes, Josh?” She grins, then has another bite of stew. “Maybe I’d prefer to find out how good you are at making pies.”
“Nowhere near as good as you, I promise.”
“What about reciting the digits of pi?”
; “I know forty. Impressed?”
“Useless knowledge.”
“True,” I concede. “I memorized them for a Pi Day competition back in university, and they stuck in my head for some reason. I’m cool that way.”
“Mm.” She twists her lips to the side. “Back to the question you were really asking...I haven’t decided yet. I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“That’s fine. You’re always allowed to say no.”
I won’t say I’m not disappointed, but I won’t pressure her at all.
She twirls her wineglass between her fingers. “It works really well on me. The combination of awkwardness and confidence, like when you smoothly took off your shirt so I could tend to your wound. You knew I would enjoy that, didn’t you?”
“Mm-hmm. I was right, wasn’t I?”
She ducks her head. “Very right. But the weird email—”
“God, please don’t mention that e-mail. I promise, I only act like this with you. You make me lose my mind sometimes.”
“That doesn’t happen with most women?”
“No. I’m usually in control of the situation, but with you, it gets away from me.”
“You make me feel that way, too,” she confesses.
Hesitantly, she reaches across the table, and I take her hand in mine.
I have a vague memory of feeling this way once before. I was a boy with his first girlfriend, and I adored her. I totally lost track of time, lost track of myself, whenever we were together.
Which was part of my downfall.
So the way I feel scares me, but I was a boy then, not a man.
Sarah is wonderful, and even if I decide to be a complete nerd and recite those forty digits of pi right now, she’d probably still like me. After all, I made that utterly inane attempt to explain a math joke to her when she had no need of my help, and she’s still here, eating the food I cooked, holding my hand.
The fact that she’s still here makes me want to do everything perfectly from now on.
One thing’s for sure: I will never underestimate her again.
“Ready for dessert?” I ask.
Chapter 12
Sarah
Josh and I are sitting at adjacent sides of his large dining room table, a single plate with two small tarts between us. One maple hazelnut, one chocolate hazelnut. He insisted on “plating” the dessert, adding a scoop of fancy vanilla ice cream along with a sprig of mint and a sliced strawberry, which delighted me.