“How did you get to be so smart?” I ask quietly.
“I learned from the best,” she says softly.
“Thanks,” I say.
“I meant my dad and your family, loser,” she says jokingly. “Wow, you’re full of yourself.”
I laugh. “Love you too, George.”
She half-heartedly rolls her eyes. I don’t know if she realizes how much she means to me. She makes my entire world better, just by existing. Her place in my life is precious. I never want to take it for granted.
I can only hope that someday, I’ll figure out a way to make her as happy as she makes me.
✩✩✩
“That’s it, I’m quitting!” George shouts as she enters our place one afternoon the next April.
“Welcome home?” I say from the kitchen. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work until—”
“Don’t remind me,” she says over the sound of her slamming her keys on the entrance table. “I took the afternoon off. They can take it out of my PTO. I honestly don’t care anymore.”
She comes into the kitchen. I can’t see the face she’s making as I concentrate on cutting these strips of purple cabbage, but I assume she’s wearing that tired frown she’s grown accustomed to using lately.
“Whatcha working on, pal?” George asks, the exhaustion noticeably melting from her voice.
“Trying to get my head around some sort of Asian fusion pupusas,” I explain; during my day off I like to experiment with food.
“So, you’re trying to make the curtido fancy? Smart, I’m in,” she says.
She takes her jacket off without missing a beat. She rolls up her sleeves, washes her hands, and puts on an apron all methodically.
“What do you want me on?” she says.
“Can you slice carrots?”
“Aye aye, captain,” she says.
I look over occasionally as we work. Her knife techniques are pretty good. She’s fast in the kitchen. It startles me for a second.
It was what?
Five years ago, the first time I cooked for her in college. I can’t believe so much time has passed us by. She’s working like a trained professional. George is right at home in Abuela’s restaurant. I wonder—
“Please tell me you aren’t putting ginger into this thing. Like, how the fuck is that going to pair with the oregano?” she asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
My brain stalls. “Uh, I was thinking about playing around with the spices. Maybe throw in some star anise.”
She furrows her brows, and her mouth twists the way it does when she’s trying to make sense of a problem.
“No, we’re starting with a batch made with cumin,” she says as she walks to our spice rack. “Star anise is fine, but I feel like you’re trying to reinvent the wheel here.”
That’s...a brilliant idea. It’s a solid critique of what I’m hoping to achieve. When did she get so good at figuring out how to tweak recipes?
“Maybe if we balance the star anise with cinnamon?” George says. “Oh, but what meat are we using? Fuck, I should have asked before I started on those carrots. Are we even making the consistency of the curtido right?”
She’s amazing. She might actually be one of the most intuitive chefs I’ve ever seen.
“Quit your job,” I say without thinking.
She takes a step back. “Well, thanks for the support but you haven’t heard—”
“George, listen to yourself—” I say as I wave my hands frantically. “Listen to the way you’re talking about this recipe and tell me you’re not supposed to be a chef.”
Her mouth drops open. “What? I—What? Are you crazy? I’m not a chef. I haven’t gone to culinary school—”
“Not yet,” I say. “Think about what you could do after you go.”
She stares so hard at me that it feels like she’s looking past me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking from that blank expression on her face. It’s a little unsettling since this is the first time in years I can’t read her.
“Okay,” she says calmly. “I’ll think about it.”
I nod, almost vibrating out of my skin. I hope she listens. I’ve never been so certain about anything before in my entire life. She’d be crazy not to become a chef.
Regardless, I’ll find a way to help her do whatever she’d rather be doing in life. She can’t do another day at her terrible job and I don’t want her to. I’m sick of her coming home miserable.
As we quietly resume our project, I’m glad that through the years we’ve always had this—our kitchen, our food, and each other.
✩✩✩
It’s past midnight when the boom rolls across the house, announcing the start of what the brooding clouds promised since early afternoon. Outside my window is pitch dark. The wind picks up, howling, crying. Baying like a wolf into the night. The crack of lightning flashes across the backyard. Within seconds, another rolling boom of thunder reverberates around the house.
There’s a knock on my door. I walk over, opening the door and my arms. If there’s one thing George hates—more like she’s afraid of—is a thunderstorm.
“Can I stay with you tonight?”
“Of course,” I answer, holding onto her tightly, hoping she stops shaking.
We climb into the bed and I take her into my arms, rubbing her back to help her relax.
Nights like this are my favorite…they’re perfect.
I love rain. Everything about it.
The whispering hum as sheets of precipitation plummet to the water-forsaken ground. The often, unanticipated flashes of lightning or the rolls of ominous thunder. The soothing sound of the water falling at a different tempo. It’s a natural melody every bit as beautiful as a soulful song.
Yes, hearing the gentle tapping of the raindrops against my bedroom window is relaxing. But my favorite part about all this, is having George with me. The rhythm of her heart beating mixed with the rain makes the perfect harmony.
What I would give to stay in this moment forever, but I know that’s impossible. This is George and I am…me.
Seventeen
Auggie
“This is crazy, right?” George says as she paces around my dad’s house one afternoon in February. “I mean, this is crazy.”
What’s crazy, I think to myself, is how the longer we know each other the more we act like each other. Like how I sing in the shower now or how I also eat vegetables last on any dish. Case in point, why George is pacing right now, she never used to pace.
It’s uncanny how much time we’ve spent learning from each other...learning each other’s tics and quirks until we have reached this point of being unrecognizable without each other.
Unrecognizable to the point where I don’t know who I am without George around to tell me what she thinks. I rely on her opinion at this point. I can’t imagine a day going by without making sure she doesn’t sleep through her back-up alarm or making sure her coffee has just the right milk to sugar ratio.
“At least a third of milk but no more than a teaspoon of sugar,’ she says every so often. ‘If there isn’t sugar, give me flavored creamer. My coffee should be lighter than me but never lighter than you in the summer.”
There’s so much of our daily routines and habits that are tied up in each other, especially since we’ve lived together for the past few years. Which is where I arrive at my current dilemma.
George applied for a culinary program in France and got in. But she doesn’t know if she wants to go.
“How is this crazy, exactly?” Ben says from where he’s lying on the floor.
My family’s been listening to George panic for the last...hour or so? Maybe two hours. Around the forty-five-minute mark, she looped her dad in through video call. So, then we had to start the process all over again.
This is a fantastic opportunity for her. If only George were more certain of taking a bet on herself. Don’t get me wrong, George is very confident in her skills. But she falters when she has to consider if she’
s passionate about something.
It’s a difficult paradigm, but something that’s gotten steadily better over the years. George gets fired up about reaching a goal, but as soon as she realizes it’s something she could have, that’s within her reach—she freezes. She stops pursuing it all together.
Part of me thinks it’s because she grew up kinda like I did. Being by society and loved ones that, for better or worse, it’s safer to do a “traditional” job that will pay well. Be a doctor or a lawyer...be a businessman, they told me. I chose one of those options knowing that if I stuck to the path, I’d be safe.
George followed that path for so long but even from the start of college, she knew it wasn’t for her. It terrified her. I could see as much. We’re people of color from families and communities that value the stability we can make for ourselves. When the world doesn’t believe in you, you have to believe that you can do the same boring jobs and do them just as well as everyone else.
How do you deviate from the norm if you can’t guarantee that other people will have your back?
How do you ask for help when no one knows what you’re going through?
George has always had family to lean on, and in college there were professors, friends, her business frat, the Black Student Union, and a ton of other resources.
What kind of support and mentorship can she get in France when everyone she knows is here?
But that’s the crux of the entire issue, isn’t it?
“It’s not crazy to want guidance,” I say out loud.
“What?” Cat says from the lounging chair she’s limply draped over.
“Think about it,” I say as I crack my neck. “We know how to balance the books and make a sales pitch. George knows her way around the kitchen...but in France? Who’s going to be in her corner?”
“Yes, exactly,” George says. “Like...okay, fuck other people, but there isn’t exactly a handbook for being a biracial chef. Who do I even know who’s a black chef that can tell me ‘hey, this is the bullshit to expect, come talk to me whenever you need it.’”
“And then you’re alone in a new environment where it feels like no one understands you or thinks you’re going to fail” I say, getting up to pace next to her.
“It’s an international program, right?” Ben asks. “You can’t possibly be the only non-white person they admitted.”
“I know,” George says. “It’s just so much easier when the right channels and the right people are there. Is it too much to ask to go into a new space and know it’s safe? Or if it isn’t, how much of myself I need to guard to get by.”
I sigh. “No, and yet...people act like it is.”
“Yeah,” she says ruefully.
Cat sits up and suggests, “So stay.”
“No,” George and I say at the same time.
Cat takes a deep breath. “Okay, realistically speaking, let’s talk this out. You...go to culinary school. They’re total dicks but they’re aspiring chefs at a fancy French school. So, they think they’re so ‘civilized’ that at most they talk just shit, right?”
George crosses her arms. “Okay, yeah.”
“So, you keep your head down, kick ass, and then come back and work in one of dad’s restaurants,” Cat says.
George freezes. “Fuck! We haven’t gotten to the ‘no job security part.’ Or the ‘how am I going to pay for this?’ part. Forget ‘it looks impractical.’ This idea is impractical.”
“George, please,” my dad says from the kitchen. “You’ve worked at one of our restaurants for years.”
“On and off,” she reminds him.
Dad walks into the family room, shaking his head. “Consistently enough that I can write this off as what it is—a business expense for advancing a loyal employee’s career.”
George frowns. “But what about—”
“You go to culinary school and then you come back and work for us for three years,” he says, as if formalizing it. “During that time, you’ll be paid the same rate as anyone else with the same credentials. If after those thirty-six months you want to work for another restaurant or open your own, we’ll support you.”
Maybe we’ve all been together for so long that it’s not just me who understands the language of George. I’m just glad my family has taken the time to learn and appreciate George. She’s so important to me and deserves support.
Knowing Dad, I decide to stay quiet because I planned on paying for culinary school, but he wants to do this for her. She’s family. I’ll find another way to support George in her new career.
“Okay,” George says, optimism tinging in her voice. “...Dad? What do you think?”
I turn to where George’s phone is propped up on the coffee table.
Eli clears his throat. “You gotta do what you gotta do, cupcake.”
She bites her lip and then looks at me. “Are you sure?”
Am I sure? The logical part of my brain knows this has to happen but …
Does she have to leave?
Fear surges with every expelled breath. What am I supposed to do without her?
Fuck, I can’t believe I’m thinking this. I’m not this guy. I don’t want to dictate her life. I don’t want to be the person who makes George feel like she isn’t as important as everyone else. I never want to stop her from following her dreams.
I can’t be a selfish bastard just because I can’t stand to be without her.
“Well, of course I’ll miss you,” Eli says. “But this is such a good opportunity for you, sweetheart. Think about the networking opportunities you’ll make. You already have a bachelors that can help you get into higher management if you ever want or need it.”
“Okay,” she says. “Auggie?”
Everyone turns to stare at me.
“Oh...what?” I stutter.
“Do you think I should go to France?” George asks.
I really want to say no. I don’t know why it kills me that she’ll be gone for two years. It’s just two years. In the grand scheme of things, I can miss my best friend for that long.
What kind of friend would I be if I couldn’t suck it up for her? A really shitty one, probably.
“Of course,” I say, swallowing. “It was my idea, right?”
The smile that graces her lips is almost enough to quell the ache in my chest.
Eighteen
Auggie
George leaves in August for France. Cat and Abuela spend most of the weeks leading up to her big move helping George organize her wardrobe for France. I talk her out of putting her things in storage so I could ‘lease her room.’
“What if you move? What if you get sick of being alone?”
“Then I’ll get a girlfriend or a dog,” I say for the millionth time. “Either way, I hate moving and I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here when you get back.”
I also don’t want her to pack up her things. I need a reminder that she isn’t dead, just on the other side of the world. But also...I don’t want anyone living in her room at all. Even if I could stand being here without her, I kind of hate rooming with other people.
George is the exception, of course. But living with her doesn’t feel like putting up with someone. It’s more like hanging out with someone who never has to go home.
Sometimes we just fall asleep on the couch together because it’s easier than going our separate ways. We talk about our schedules every morning just so we can talk about what actually happened over dinner every night.
Living with George has been amazing because she pours into every inch of my life. We have so many days filled with going on adventures together. Whether it’s running errands, fighting with the shitty plumbing (that I’ve gotten better at helping with), or getting lost in whatever we’re doing around the house—no day is boring with George.
Now that’s about to slip away from me. Who else would care to listen to the dry monotony of my life and still want to make me laugh?
Only George is that good.
I’m g
oing to miss everything about her. The way she dramatically dances to the oldies and the way she can turn anything into a fashion statement. Even that unfortunate afternoon where she wore one of my spare shirts and a belt as a dress because one of my cousin’s babies threw up on her.
I’ll miss how her curls have a life of their own. The gleam she gets in her eye when she’s about to prank me; and even better, the triumphant smirk she gets when she calls me out on my bullshit.
Eli flies into town a week before George leaves the country. Dad offers to let him stay a while after she leaves. We organize a fishing trip during his stay and Grandma promises to cook her Tamales Oaxaqueños which are different from the regular tamales that everyone sells. He has become a part of us.
“At least he won’t be alone,” George says while we load my car.
“How about your aunts and all your family in Arizona?”
She shrugs, twisting her lips from left to right. “They’re busy with their own stuff and Dad doesn’t like to impose. I’m surprised, and at the same time happy, that he’s willing to come up to Colorado to hang out with your family.”
“Me too, you two are family,” I remind her and give her a hug, closing my eyes and trying to savor the moment.
Leaving our home is a tedious process. We have to triple check she doesn’t miss anything important so she can get to France.
Eli, along with the rest of the family, meets us at the airport. Once we get her bags checked, there’s a flurry of hugs and goodbyes.
“Take care of yourself, mi reina,” Abue says as she hugs George tightly. “And remember, they can say whatever they want about your food but you are incredible. Don’t let them tell you otherwise.”
“Gracias, Abuela,” she says, hugging her tighter.
Gramps surprises George with a hug of his own and gives her an envelope. “If you need more call us. Stay safe, mi chiquita.”
“Gracias, Abuelo,” she says, almost crying.
Dad, in true dad fashion, gives her some euros and a credit card. When she tries to refuse them, he tells her to keep them for emergencies.
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