Happily Ever Afters

by Elise Bryant

  She spends the next thirty minutes describing every last detail of their date: how he took her out to get fro-yo at the Westfield Galleria, how he wore a green sweater because he remembered that was her favorite color, how he tried to end the night with a chaste kiss on her cheek before she grabbed his face and “To tell you the truth, basically rocked his world.”

  I do my very best to to say “Ahhhh!” at all the right parts and tell her how perfect it all sounds. That’s how I feel, genuinely, but it’s like half of myself is having to remind the other half of that. I don’t know why this isn’t coming easier.

  “This is our year, Tessa. I know it. I have my first boyfriend, and you’re . . .” There’s a long pause. We both feel it. “Well, you’re going to kill it with your writing and find your happily ever after. Amazing things are going to happen for us.”

  I wish I could believe her. But the rest of our call is devoted to analyzing Brandon’s swoony follow-up texts and discussing what she’ll do tomorrow morning at school, all part of Caroline’s very real love story, and I feel silly bringing up my hypothetical love story at all.

  “You look pretty,” Mom says when I walk into the kitchen Monday morning.

  In between reading and wallowing, I used some of my free time this weekend to study YouTube tutorials on twist-outs, and I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. And I’m wearing one of my favorite skirts—it’s tight at the waist but goes out full, with a forest-green floral print. I paired it with gold flats and an eyelet sleeveless top.

  But I don’t want to talk to my mom about it.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you want a ride today? I have a later shift, and I’d love to see Chrysalis again. . . . Maybe we could talk?” She pushes the laptop in front of her to the side, and I can see that she has a tab opened to eBay. I’ve heard her and Dad having panicked discussions about it all weekend—they haven’t been able to find a copy of Enter the Dream Zone anywhere, probably because Miles is their only remaining fan.

  “No, that’s okay,” I say, grabbing a yogurt from the fridge. “Sam can drive me.”

  Miles walks into the kitchen. He’s still in his pajamas even though it’s getting late, but Mom doesn’t rush to him immediately, which is . . . different. Instead she keeps trying to catch my eye.

  “Are you sure, Tessa?” she says. “I think it might be good for us. To have that time.”

  I shrug. “I don’t want to ditch Sam.” Ignoring her searching face, I make my way over to Miles. “Do you want me to help you pick out something to wear? I think slippers may be against dress code.”

  He smiles real wide. “You’re not the boss of me. And these look better than what you have on!”

  “Oh yeah, who made you Mr. Fashion Police, bud?”

  “One day you’re in and the next day you’re out!” He’s trying to do some accent I can’t place, but it just dissolves into mischievous giggles. “And you’re out, Tessie!”

  “Wait, Project Runway?” I laugh. “Is that still on?”

  He smiles even bigger, pleased that I got it. “I watched reruns yesterday! I watched it alllll day! That’s how come I know that you’re out!”

  “Tessa . . . ,” Mom cuts in. But the doorbell interrupts her, and I happily flee to answer it.

  I’m confused, though, when it’s Sam standing there, two plastic Tupperware containers in his arms. “Wait, am I late? I’m sorry. I don’t even know what time it is. . . .”

  “No. No—it’s just . . . does your brother, uh, does Miles like Oreos?”

  “Um . . . yeah?”

  His shoulders drop as he lets out a large exhale. “Okay, good. I should have checked. But I just . . . I don’t know, didn’t. So, uh, I made him these cookies-and-cream donuts.” He opens the larger container, revealing perfectly iced donuts with crumbled Oreos on top. “I know they’re not exactly a healthy breakfast, but he can always save them for later. And, um, this is chocolate ice cream I made with Oreos and chocolate chips. It actually should go in the freezer pretty quick.”

  I know I should say something, but I’m speechless. Sam’s cheeks turn pink, and he looks down and starts rubbing the side of his face.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have. I mean, maybe it wasn’t my place—”

  “No! Not at all! Just . . . why?”

  “He just seemed so upset on Friday, and that DVD, it’s not available anywhere online. Did you know that? Well, yeah, I’m sure you guys do.” He’s talking fast again, but still not looking at me. “And I just wanted to help, and this is the only way I know—”

  “Sam Weiner, is that you?” He’s interrupted by Mom barreling in from the kitchen, which forces him to raise his head and make eye contact.

  “Hi, Mrs. Johnson. These are for you. Well, for Miles.”

  “Oh my goodness! Aren’t you just the sweetest?” Mom beams, and Miles comes running to the door, hearing his name.

  “Donuts!” Miles shouts. He does a little dance in excitement. I look at Sam, and he’s just smiling. And not the fake smile that people do when they’re uncomfortable, but the real kind. I’m smiling the real kind too.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I spend the rest of the day worrying about seeing Ms. McKinney again. She’s for sure not going to just forget that I ditched the end of her class, and it’s not like I can fake more stomach issues. I have to think of something else to say—some other reason she should skip me and move on to the next person on her alphabetical list.

  But it all ends up being for nothing, because she’s not in Art of the Novel anyway. We have a sub—some guy in his early twenties, who spends most of the class ignoring us and typing on his laptop.

  I was also worried that Nico would ignore me today, that he’d pretend our moment in the kitchen was nothing. Because, you know, to him it probably was. He caught me in his arms . . . and then he snuck off to go make out with his perfect and beautiful and definitely experienced girlfriend. One guess which of those interactions was more memorable.

  But no, he makes a point of pulling up a beanbag right next to mine. And I mean right next to me, so close I can see his adorable scratchy handwriting in his Moleskine (though I make sure I hide my computer screen). We don’t really talk much, but the space between our legs is charged, like the pulse coming off an electric fence. And at one point, he readjusts his legs, and his jeans brush against my bare knee.

  That little touch is enough to carry me home on a cloud, a whole gospel choir up there with me, hyping me up and singing hallelujah.

  When Sam pulls onto our street, luckily Miles isn’t on the corner again, but my mom’s blue CR-V is in the driveway, which makes my stomach feel sick just the same. I don’t want to walk into whatever serious talk she has planned.

  “Can I come over?” I blurt out as soon as we take our seat belts off.

  He stares at me for a second, blinking too fast, and I’m worried that I’m going to get turned down.

  “Of course, yeah. Come on down!” He does a cringe-worthy impersonation of a game-show host, pointing to his house. I laugh and gratefully follow him up the steps.

  Sam’s house stands out on our block. Most houses are craftsman or Spanish style, like my own, but Sam’s house is a white Tudor with rounded windows and a dark, pointy roof. With its out-of-control rosebushes, cobblestone path, and round tower-looking thingy in the front, the house looks like it was pulled out of a fairy tale and plopped down on our street.

  But the inside isn’t from another time. Sam unlocks the door and reveals a living room with bright teal walls and a gray couch filled with pillows in different shades of yellow, plus off-white lamps with beaded shades. There’s a marble-and-gold coffee table in front of it, stacked high with issues of Food & Wine and Bon Appétit, and the back wall is filled with pictures, like a gallery wall was started and then took on a mind of its own. There’s a good mix of art and family photos, Thiebaud’s Cakes next to a blown-up shot of little Sam missing his two front teeth.

  “I was ju
st planning on trying out this recipe, if that’s okay,” Sam says, throwing his backpack down on a shiny brass table on the side of the room. “Ever since I started Chrysalis, I’ve been flooded with ideas. There’s almost not enough time in the day to get through all of them. I’m sure it’s the same for you. You can write if you want to.”

  “Oh yeah, a lot’s going on in there,” I say quickly. “But I’m just going to let them, uh, simmer for now.” Very convincing.

  I turn back to the pictures, so I don’t have to make eye contact with him. In all the family pictures, it’s just him and his mom. The two of them standing in front of a brand-new restaurant, posing with Mickey at Disneyland, Sam in a chef’s hat with his mom proudly gazing behind him.

  “So it’s only the two of you.”

  “Mmm-hmm, I don’t have a dad.”

  My neck burns. “I’m sorry.”

  But he just laughs. “Oh, you don’t have to be sorry. I never had one. Well, I guess technically I did, but he was just some guy who donated, his, um . . . materials. Probably so he could pay for college or something. Mom had me on her own, but not in a sad kinda way. Just because she was getting older and didn’t want to wait around anymore.”

  “Wow, she sounds awesome.”

  “She is. And, uh, she’s not going to be home until late tonight. So it’ll just be me and you.” He does that fast blinking thing again and then quickly turns, almost knocking over one of the beaded lamps. “Whoops,” he mumbles, steadying it, and then speed-walks into the next room.

  I follow close behind him. I don’t know why he’s acting so weird, but I guess I did just invite myself over to his house—maybe he wasn’t feeling like company. I know I have to prepare myself for social interaction sometimes.

  The kitchen is obviously the creation of a chef—or two chefs, that is. There’s a double oven, two dishwashers, open shelving with jadeite bowls and plates on display and two KitchenAid stand mixers, one butter yellow and the other hot pink. Sam immediately seems at home when he walks into the room. He starts pulling mixing bowls and measuring cups out of the cabinets.

  “Um, can I tell you something?” I ask.

  “Yeah?”

  “I almost watched the video that you told us about on Friday like a million times this weekend.” It’s true. I had it queued up and everything, thinking it might make me feel better about my failure to write and the scene my family had caused in front of the neighbors. Misery loves company, or whatever. And also, I was just curious. Of course, I don’t tell Sam all that.

  “You did?” His busy hands steady.

  “Yeah, almost, but I felt like I was betraying you, you know? So I have a solution.”

  “What’s that?” His eyes lock on mine.

  “We should watch it together.”

  He barks out a laugh. “Why would I ever want to do that?”

  “Okay, hear me out. It might be good for you, you know? To face your fears and your biggest embarrassment. It might confirm for you how far you’ve come since then, right?”

  “Also, you just really want to watch it?” he asks with a sly smile, his dimple showing.

  “Also, I just really want to watch it.” I shrug and smile back at him, and he laughs again, the sound warm and comforting. That laugh makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something.

  I pull out my laptop and slide it over to him, and he types in the keywords “weiner cries over cake” with surprising speed, like he’s done this a million times before. And then we’re watching little Sam stand in front of a panel of judges: two chefs I don’t recognize and a woman who played the older sister on a sitcom Miles and I used to watch.

  Sam has a short, spiky haircut and particularly rosy cheeks, and he’s looking at them anxiously, waiting for their feedback on a three-tier chocolate cake sitting on a pedestal. And their feedback is brutal. The actress says the lavender in the cake tasted like her grandma, and one of the other judges attacks his natural instincts as a chef, choosing such “unfortunate flavor pairings.” You think they’d be nicer to a kid, but they rip him apart.

  When they finally tell him he’s being sent home, little Sam’s face crumples. I want to reach into the screen and give him a hug. The video shifts into black and white then, with dramatic piano music playing in the background and dead leaves floating across the screen, and the crying gets louder, a female voice now.

  “That’s when Rhys’s edits start,” Sam says, shutting my laptop.

  “What a jerk,” I say, shaking my head. “And of course you cried! I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that. Those judges were mean to you.” I reach out and touch his arm, but when he startles, I pull back.

  “They weren’t,” he says quickly. “They were right. I just didn’t know how to take feedback then.” He turns to the cabinets and continues getting out more supplies. “That cake had chocolate, lavender, five-spice, and pistachios. It was gross. I was trying to do too much, and they were honest with me like they should have been. I’m grateful for the experience. . . . You can’t learn without critique.”

  I don’t know if I agree with that, as the possibility of critique is keeping me from even producing anything to be critiqued. But I nod anyway.

  Happy with all the tools he has out, Sam turns to the fridge and the pantry and begins getting out his ingredients: heavy cream, sugar, eggs, a long bean-looking thing. I watch him as he measures everything, leaving ingredients in the measuring cups instead of immediately pouring them into a bowl. He meticulously cuts the bean and scrapes out a dark paste, making the whole room smell like vanilla. The whole time his face is calm, his movements steady. He is entirely in his element, and he looks . . . different.

  “What are you making?”

  “Ice cream.” He smiles proudly, and then his eyes cloud over. “Sorry, this must be really boring for you.”

  “Not at all.”

  “It’s just . . . I had this idea last week. I was looking at one of those travel magazines in the doctor’s office—you know the ones that no one actually reads? And there was this little blurb about something called ísbíltúr.”

  The last word he says sounds like something out of The Lord of the Rings. “What?”

  “Ísbíltúr. It’s, uh, this thing in Iceland. It means something like ‘ice cream road trip.’”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  He laughs. “Right? It’s this tradition, or something like that, where the family takes a long drive to get ice cream, and then when they get the ice cream, they take a long drive to enjoy it.” He’s talking fast, excited, and his hands continue to work, pouring ingredients into a saucepan. “So I was thinking it might be a good idea for a food truck. Or maybe even a restaurant? The sitting area could be these classic cars, but like with tables and chairs. And there could be videos of the open road projected on the walls. And we could serve all kinds of ice cream—sundaes and ice cream sandwiches and dipped cones.”

  He looks up at me, suddenly self-conscious. “Anyway, I don’t know . . . it could be cool. And I’ve just been working on some ice cream flavors this week . . . just for fun.”

  “I love it,” I say, and his deep dimple reappears.

  “And oh, you gotta try this.” He runs to the fridge, reenergized, and pulls out a glass bowl with a cloth over it. He dips a spoon into the bowl and then puts it up to my mouth. He’s really close, so close I can feel the heat of his body and smell his signature butter-and-sugar scent, and I get this overwhelming urge to get even closer. But if I did, I would basically be under his arm, so I push that thought out of my brain and just taste whatever’s on the spoon.

  “Mmmmmm,” I murmur, involuntarily. It’s delicious. “What is this . . . Lucky Charms?”

  “Cereal milk.” He beams. “I’ve been steeping it all day. I just hope the flavor shows up after the custard has been frozen.”

  I don’t know if it’s seeing him so passionate about his work—the way I used to be about my writing—or the way he’s allowed himself to b
e vulnerable with me by showing that video. Or it might even be because we’re standing so close together now. But it’s like something unlatches within my brain. I take a deep breath.

  “Okay, I have a confession for you,” I say. “It actually isn’t the same for me. You know what you were talking about before?”

  “What?” He’s blinking at me again.

  My defenses shoot up. It felt safe in the moment to share this with Sam, but maybe I should take it back. Maybe this wasn’t the right move after all. But I’m filled with this overwhelming desire to get a baseline check from someone I trust. And I know I can trust Sam.

  “I’m not, like, filled with ideas since I started Chrysalis,” I admit. “I actually haven’t written anything.”

  He steps back from me, leaning against the counter. “At all?”

  “No. Nothing at all, not since the first day. I’ve been completely blank.” It feels so strange to say it out loud, but it also releases something tight in my chest to have it out there with someone else.

  He rubs the side of his face and nods his head, taking it in. I expected myself to feel embarrassed, but there’s nothing judgmental in his expression. “Why do you think that is?” he asks finally.

  “Well, it started in my Art of the Novel class. . . .” Everything about that first day pours out easily. I tell him all about the workshop that happens every day at the end of class, how we’re all supposed to just share our writing and listen to others tear it apart. I tell him how I lied and ditched the end of class Friday.

  “So you’re scared to share your work?”

  “Terrified. It’s, like, my biggest fear.”

  He looks surprised. “Really? Your biggest?”

  “What—you don’t think that’s valid or something?”

  “No, no, of course it is,” he says, putting his hands up. “I’m just surprised. I mean, most peoples’ biggest fears are . . . I don’t know, home invasions and, like, dolls that come alive or something.”

  I laugh, and he looks satisfied with himself.