by Katie McCoy
“No,” my mom interjected. “Absolutely not.”
Nina pouted.
“Ella!” My dad came around the counter and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You look good.”
“Thanks.” I smoothed back my hair, even though I had made sure to redo it after Jake had done considerable damage during our energetic make-out session. Just the memory of his mouth against mine, his lips kissing my wrist, my neck was enough to make me blush.
“Yeah.” Nina was leaning against the counter, a toothpick hanging out of her mouth. “You’ve got a real glow to you, sis.”
I shot her a look. Nina could sniff out a secret faster than anyone I knew, and this was something I wanted to keep to myself. At least until I figured out exactly what kind of game I thought I was playing. I wasn’t the kind of girl that did what I was planning on doing. That I was fantasizing about doing. If anything, that was the kind of thing that Nina did. Easygoing, free-spirited Nina. Who never got hung up on what she should or shouldn’t do. She just did it.
I looked at her, so casual and comfortable in her vibrant clothing—this time a bright blue kimono over a tight green body suit. I had no doubt that something like that would look ridiculous on me, but, glancing down at my own black dress, I was starting to think that I was overdue for some changes in my life. Getting my own apartment had been a big one. A great one. So why stop there? I could go on dates with men whose clothes I wanted to rip off. I could wear colors that weren’t black. I could eat Chinese food. Why not?
I helped my mom carry the food to the table and we all took a seat, passing the take out cartons around. No one said anything when I put a heaping spoonful of Kung Pao chicken on my plate, or when I followed it with the beef and broccoli, but when the orange chicken hit the porcelain, my dad cleared his throat.
“I didn’t think you were eating that kind of food right now,” he said, clearly trying to be casual about it.
“Yeah,” Nina said, chomping on a sautéed string bean, which was all I usually craved. “I thought The Maestro had you on a strict diet.”
Maestro is what Nina called Mark, who she did not like. In fact, no one in my family liked him. Sure, they would grudgingly admit he was a good teacher, but my dad was pretty sure he had a “major stick up his ass” as he had told me many times.
“He did,” I admitted, “but I decided to make some changes.”
“Oh, honey.” My mom reached a hand across the table, her eyes sympathetic. “Did you not qualify for the next round of the competition?”
Suddenly the suspicious looks on my dad’s and sister’s faces mirrored my mother’s.
“Oh, no.” Nina pushed the Kung Pao chicken towards me. “It’s okay, El, you’ll do better next time. You just need to figure out how to get over your nervousness.”
“Those judges are too strict anyway,” my dad said. “They’ve got no sense of the heart behind the music. They’re too stiff, all of them.”
That was something I had heard all my life. No one in my family seemed to understand why I loved classical music so much. To them, it was restrictive and suffocating—being forced to follow music so closely without improvising. I had stopped trying to make them understand that I loved knowing that I was playing exactly what pianists had been playing since the piece was first created.
“I haven’t heard yet about the next round of the competition,” I told them, annoyed that they had immediately jumped to the conclusion that I had been eliminated. I knew that they wanted me to succeed, but sometimes I didn’t get the sense that they believed I could. Even though I had been entertaining the same thoughts, lately, I was irritated that my own family didn’t have faith in me.
“Well, you should take some crystals with you anyway,” my mom told me, patting my hand. “You can wear one around your neck during your rehearsals. Really harness your inner spirit.”
“Okay, Mom,” I told her, knowing that trying to refuse crystals from her was a fool’s errand. My drawers were stuffed with them, though I thought about hanging them near my windows at my new place to catch the light in the morning. They didn’t do exactly what my mom said they would do—harness my inner spirit—but they certainly looked pretty.
“They’re a waste of money,” was what Mark had told her when she offered them during his first and only visit. I had tried to explain that he was just a bit abrupt in his manner, but my father was quick to define it as rude. More and more I was starting to see his point.
“How many more rounds until the end?” Nina asked.
“Two,” I told her and finally took a bite of my food. Oh my god, I thought as flavors exploded in my mouth. This was so freaking good! If Jake could recreate this—oh my god! I had always found ways to avoid the main dishes, even before Mark had instituted his competition-schedule diet. I guess I must have tried it at some point and found it weird back then, but oh man, I was really enjoying it now. I took forkful after forkful of chicken and beef and broccoli and rice and string beans and loved every second of it. When I finally looked up from my practically licked clean plate, I found my entire family staring at me.
“I was hungry,” I said, as if it wasn’t completely unusual behavior.
“I can see that,” my dad said.
“Can I take your plate?” Nina asked, clearing the table. “Or do you think you’ll eat that too?”
14
Jake
I slid the perfectly seared scallops onto a plate, and without skipping a beat, reached over to the sauce simmering on the stove and drizzled the exact right amount over the seafood, decorating the meal in a simple yet eye-catching spiral. Returning the spoon to the saucepan, I gathered a pinch of herbs and sprinkled it around the edge of the plate before scooping a neat, heavenly smelling cup of mashed potatoes next to the main course. I pushed it into the waiting hands of our waiter and grabbed the order instructions for table four.
It had been a long time since I had had a night this good—in the kitchen, at least. On average, most of my nights were decent. There were always a few grumpy customers, a problem dish or two, and that was to be expected. But on a good night? Oh man, a good night was when every spatula or spoon or whisk or pan became an extension of myself. When everything seemed to be moving at the perfect speed—the food was ready exactly when it was supposed to be, and all the orders seemed to come in with just enough time between them that the kitchen staff could focus on the food at hand, instead of trying to get half the restaurant’s orders out at the same time. Nothing was burning, nothing was undercooked or overcooked, and so far tonight, nothing had been sent back.
It was an amazing feeling. Nearly as amazing as Ella had felt that afternoon, her soft mouth eager and passionate, her lean body pressing against mine, the smooth slide of her skin beneath my hand. Fuck. I shifted behind my station, my pants growing tight, as seemed to be the reaction any time I even thought of Ella. And now that I knew what she tasted like, how she moaned against my mouth, how she drew my tongue into her mouth to tangle with her own, well, there was very little chance I was going to think of anything else until our date on Monday. Which was entirely too far away.
Maybe I could just check in on her when I got home tonight—knock on her door if the lights were on . . .
But then I thought of Dakota’s advice. Let it breathe. That’s exactly what I had done that afternoon. I hadn’t even made a move—that had been all Ella. And I loved it. I fucking loved it. So I just had to let her make the next move and the next one. I’d be happy to do the asking, as long as she’d be willing to do the seducing.
Not that there wasn’t some mutual seduction going on. Who knew that bad soup would have yielded such good results. Not my usual way to get a girl to like me, but hey, I would take what I could get. And it had caused me to do a lot of thinking about that recipe and how far I had taken it from what my mother had started with.
But man, if bad cooking got Ella to kiss me, well, I was going to start burning some steaks and undercooking some brownies. After
tasting her, I had the feeling I wasn’t going to be able to settle for anything else. And the thought of tasting her other places, well, that was becoming a central fantasy in my overactive imagination. Of laying her out on my bed, her legs spread, her head back, hair fanning across the pillow while her hand guided me to exactly where she wanted to be tasted . . .
“I’m guessing by the big dumb smile on your face you made some progress with your neighbor?” Dakota swung by, bringing me out of my sex dream. I shook my head as if it was that easy to displace my fantasies.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Yep.” Dakota gave me a poke in the side. “You’re a total goner. I hope you took my advice, at least.”
I gave her a grin. “I did and thank you.”
She let out a whoop. “I knew it, I’m a genius!”
“Well, let’s not go that far,” I teased. “You’re above average.”
“Whatever.” She stuck her tongue out at me. “So what happened?”
I told her about the soup catastrophe.
“So she didn’t like your cooking, huh.” Dakota definitely seemed surprised.
“Yeah, but I think she was right.”
“Whoa!” She leaned back. “I’m sorry, did I just hear you say that someone else was right about your cooking? That you were, what’s the word I’m looking for, wr-wr-wrong?”
“Ha ha.”
“I am shocked.” Dakota put a hand to her chest. “Shocked, I tell you.”
“You’re annoying, that’s what you are.”
“I like her.” Dakota looked entirely too pleased with the whole situation.
“I’m sure you do.” I imagined the two of them meeting again, but not at three in the morning—and I could definitely see them becoming friends. It was weird. I had never really introduced Dakota to many of the women I dated. For the most part, I got the sense that they were jealous and didn’t believe me when I said that Dakota and I were friends, nothing more. I didn’t get the sense that Ella would be threatened. At least I hoped she wouldn’t.
“So you’re not going to hide me away?” Dakota asked.
“Well, she has already met you,” I reminded her. “And you behaved yourself, so there’s hope for you yet.”
“I behaved myself?” she scoffed. “Please, you were practically falling into her. You were lucky I was there to keep you from looking like a total creep.”
“Well, if you hadn’t been so loud . . . ”
“She never would have come up,” Dakota finished for me. “So really, you owe me no matter which way you look at it.”
“Fine,” I admitted begrudgingly. “What do you want? My gratitude?”
“Eh.” She shrugged. “I already have that. How about you let me create a new entrée one night? Also, you can name your firstborn after me.”
“Okay, now you’re getting ahead of yourself,” I warned her, even though the thought of a kid all of sudden wasn’t giving me the hives it usually did.
“Am I?” Dakota gave me a knowing grin. Damn, I hated when she could read my mind.
“Shut up,” I told her.
“You adore me,” she reminded me, and she was right. I was lucky to have a friend like her.
“Hey.” I glanced over at her as I began preparing the next order. She was doing the same. “I never asked how your date went the other night.”
“Good.” She kept her head down, but I could see that she was smiling.
“Oh yeah?” I gave her hip a bump. “Just good?”
“Okay.” She rolled her eyes at me, still grinning. “It was great, okay?”
“Well.” I began chopping onions for the pan I was heating on the stove. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“We’ll see. Who knows.” Dakota winked at me. “Maybe we’ll go on a double date with you and Ella sometime soon. If you’re lucky.”
15
Ella
I should have asked to borrow some clothes from Nina, I thought, as I stared at my monochromatic wardrobe. Sure, black was still the best thing to wear if you didn’t want to think about putting together an outfit each morning and you really didn’t want anyone to focus on what you were wearing (something that was encouraged in classical music). And this philosophy had served me well ever since high school, when disappearing had been more than just a personal choice; it had been a survival tactic.
But now, I didn’t want to disappear. Tonight, I wanted Jake to look at me, to see me. And I was starting to rethink my shopping preferences for the past ten years.
Not only was everything in my closet black, but also it was draped or flowing, a more fashionable way to say shapeless and sexless. There was something terribly ironic about my current situation—standing in front of hangers of plain black dresses while wearing a bright red lace bra and panty set complete with thigh-high stockings and garters. Why couldn’t I own a dress as sexy as what I put on underneath it? I thought back to the red dress that Nina had practically begged me to buy last week. Back then, I couldn’t even imagine a situation where I would have worn something like that. But right now, I was wishing I had a whole closet full of dresses like that—each more sexy than the last. I wanted to knock Jake’s socks off, but with the arsenal I had, I would be lucky if I could untie his shoelaces with the power of my sex appeal.
I pulled out my favorite of the black dresses—like all of them, it fell just below my knees and had elbow-length sleeves, but this one was a bit more loose in the front, which made it unpredictable when I was leaning forward. Usually I wore a black tank top under it, but not tonight. I also took one of my scarves—black, of course—and used it as a makeshift belt, drawing the dress a little closer to my body and showing that yes, I actually had a waist under there. My only heels, black kitten heels, probably wouldn’t set anyone’s libido on fire, but they were better than the flats or booties I usually wore.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked . . . okay, I supposed. The neckline of the dress wasn’t as daring as I had remembered, but then I leaned forward and caught a glimpse of red lace. That was good. For a moment, I thought of leaving my hair down, but it just seemed to make me look scared—my big eyes peering out behind a mess of hair. So I put it back in my usual bun, wishing I had my sister’s wild locks and the confidence to wear it that way.
Then, on impulse, I went to my jewelry box—mostly plain silver hoops and bracelets—and dug out the box of crystals my mother had been giving me for years. I picked one, a bright, vibrant red, almost matching my lingerie, and strung it onto one of my simple silver chains. It sparkled when I put it on, the long, thin crystal resting on my throat, almost like an arrow pointing down. Down to where there actually was something seductive. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. At least it was some color. Something bright.
But when I looked back at the mirror, the girl reflected there still looked like she was going to a funeral, rather than on a date. I should cancel, I thought. Cancel and buy myself that red dress. Or cancel and just hide in my bed for the rest of my life because what was I doing? No one would ever call Ella Thomas sexy. This was ridiculous!
I felt a panic attack begin to rise in my throat, and I sat down on my piano bench, willing myself to take long, deep breaths. This was fine, I thought. It’s just a date. You’ve been on dates before. But none with guys that made me want to rip their clothes off and then my own and do the naked horizontal mamba. I thought about Jake, his scruffy, dimpled face and chest chiseled by the gods, and knew that I had never been on a date like this.
But before my panic had the chance to reappear, there was a knock at the door.
I opened it to find a clean-shaven Jake, wearing a neatly pressed button-up shirt and extremely well-fitting dark jeans. My heart pounded like a Timpani drum. Boom. Boom. Boom. Holy cow, he was handsome. My mouth watered at the sight of him standing there and I wondered if the whole “going out” thing was really necessary.
“Wow,” I said before I could stop myself. My face went immediately hot
, but he just grinned and that perfect dimple of his deepened.
“Wow yourself,” he told me, and I wouldn’t have believed him, but the expression on his face—the darkening of his eyes, the heat in his gaze and the way he practically licked his lips as he looked at me—kept my questioning tongue in my mouth. If he had a thing for shapeless black dresses and the women who wore them, I was not going to argue.
“Like I said.” He reached out to play with the sleeve on my dress. “Sexy Sister Ella.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Jake offered me his arm. “Are you ready for our date?”
Oh yeah.
He took me to a parking lot. Well, not just any parking lot. A parking lot that was full of food trucks.
“Since I know you’re not really a foodie, I thought we’d just try a bunch of different stuff. Figure out what kind of things you like,” he told me, my hand still wrapped around his arm. I hadn’t wanted to move and he had made no indication that he wanted me to, so I just let him lead me around the circle of trucks, the smell of spices and meat and sugar and so many things I couldn’t identify nearly overwhelming me. A few weeks ago, if someone had invited me to try a bunch of food from trucks, I would have very quickly found an excuse and gone home to my chicken noodle soup.
But like I had been at my parents’ house, confronted with Chinese food I had never really been interested in, I was suddenly ravenous.
I gave Jake a smile—one that he returned.
“Okay,” I told him. “What’s first?”
He led me to a picnic area, set off a little from the major areas of foot traffic and on the other side of a large tree, and I was surprised to find a blanket already spread out with a bottle of wine already open and two wine glasses balancing on what seemed to be a mini makeshift table. A teen, no more than sixteen, was standing there, waiting patiently.