Sweet Girl

by Rachel Hollis

  I can’t read the expression on his face.

  “I get what you’re doing. Making fun of it, I mean,” he says, referring to my earlier joke. “I still don’t think it’s funny, but I get why you need to make light of it.”

  He pushes off the counter and starts to leave the kitchen. I look back down at my recipe and exhale, releasing the tension of the unexpected serious moment with him. Taylor is always great about not bringing up my seemingly compulsive need to overshare with him.

  I look up again when he calls my name.

  He stands in the archway of the kitchen. I can tell he is searching for the right words to say, which is rare, since Taylor typically runs his mouth at ninety miles an hour.

  “I’m—” He rubs his hand over the stubble on his jaw. “I’m really happy it’s me.”

  “What?” I ask to save face.

  But I know exactly what he means even before he clarifies.

  “I’m happy I’m the one that you talk to.”

  He holds my gaze for a second longer and then walks out. It would be easier if he’d wink or make a joke as he’d done a dozen times before, but he doesn’t. He leaves the weight of the moment to hang in the air around me, so I can’t excuse it away. It is a subtle shift, totally outside the parameters of our friendship, and so minute that no one else would have noticed. But I notice it, and it scares the hell out of me.

  “Explain to me why we need an audience for this?” I ask as I spray the kitchen counter down to clean it.

  Landon looks up from polishing our yard-sale coffee table. Miko is perched on the counter, working on her laptop.

  “It’s not an audience,” Landon tells me cheerfully. “It’s just Miko. She came over to hang out with us.”

  “You insisted we clean the apartment today and insisted we do it as a team—” I start to point out the obvious.

  “Because cleaning is so much more fun in a group!” Landon interrupts me.

  “You think everything is more fun in a group. Regardless, I can’t very well tackle the kitchen if someone is parked on the countertop designing an ice sculpture,” I gripe.

  “It’s a martini luge,” Miko says, affronted. “As if we’d allow one of our clients to incorporate an ice sculpture.”

  “And it’s a Frozen-themed party, so we had to incorporate ice in some way,” Landon agrees from the underside of a side table. She is clearly into thorough cleaning.

  “You’re serving martinis at a little girl’s birthday party?” I ask them both.

  “Who said it was for a little girl?” Miko asks, genuinely confused. “It’s a gay wedding reception. Rob and Martin have worked for Disney on Ice for ten years.”

  “Oh, well, good theme then, actually,” I tell them both.

  “We thought so,” Landon calls from behind the TV.

  I toss my sponge down into the sink, having zero desire to clean the apartment in my rare time off.

  “I need more caffeine if you expect me to commit to this,” I tell them.

  Landon looks up from the rag in her hand.

  “But you’ve had coffee already.”

  “Not enough. I need something stronger. Either of you want to walk down to The Bean with me?”

  “Road trip!” Miko announces with the slam of her laptop.

  “If it’s across the street, it’s not really a—” I start to tell her.

  “Don’t be unnecessarily confrontational. That line is in at least four of my all-time favorite movies,” Miko admonishes.

  I grab my keys, sunglasses, and credit card off the counter with a roll of my eyes.

  “This isn’t actually a movie, though,” I tell her.

  “This is,” she says, running her neon-tipped fingernails through her messy hair, “whatever I want it to be.”

  “You are—”

  “Children,” Landon interrupts us both, “shall we?”

  She gestures to the front door, and Miko and I both take the direction and head out to the hallway and then downstairs. The three of us trudge over the dirty streets and up to Sunset Boulevard, where our favorite coffee place is located.

  Hollywood and the surrounding area are a study in juxtaposition. Fifteen years ago you couldn’t walk around here after dark; now it houses some of the nicest clubs and restaurants in town. It’s undergone a big revitalization, but the grime is still there, mixed in among the freshly painted walls and high-end hotels. Homeless men camp out in front of posh eateries, which butt up next to stores that cater primarily to strippers and slutty coeds looking for risqué Halloween costumes. No matter how hard it tries, Hollywood will always be a little bit of a mess—this city and I have that in common.

  Once we’ve ordered coffee we find a table in the corner, sharing an unspoken understanding that we aren’t headed back to the apartment to clean anytime in the near future. I tuck one leg under the other and take a sip of my coffee just as Miko asks, “So how is everything with Brody?”

  “Oh, because this won’t be awkward at all.” I scowl at them both.

  I so do not want to hear the BTS of Landon’s and Brody’s relationship.

  My tablemates are splitting what appears to be the largest blueberry muffin known to man, and Miko pops a bite into her mouth and looks at me sternly.

  “Dude, you’re going to have to get over it. They’re dating and you’re Landon’s friend. I didn’t ask her to describe him in the sack—”

  I make a gagging sound that doesn’t require any acting at all, at the same time that Landon squeals, “You know we haven’t—”

  “My head will actually explode—right now—all over this table. You can’t seriously consider having this conversation in front of me,” I say in total annoyance.

  “I’m not. Of course I’m not,” Landon says, reaching over to pat my hand like I am a little old lady. “I won’t tell you anything that will freak you out.” She looks back at Miko. “But things are really, really good,” she says wistfully.

  Miko turns to look at me, the picture of practiced innocence.

  “And what about you, Maxy-Poo? How’s your love life?” she asks me, grinning.

  “Nonexistent,” I tell her pointedly.

  I wondered how long it would take her to openly start insinuating things about me and Taylor in front of Landon. The answer, apparently, is eleven days. Truth be told, I’m shocked she lasted this long.

  “Really? No one of particular interest? No special new friendships to speak of?” Her eyes twinkle with evil joy.

  Landon looks back and forth between the two of us as if she was just clued into the possibility of the statement.

  “What’s she talking about, Max?” she asks, leaning down to whisper across the table like we are sharing state secrets.

  Miko is only barely not smiling in challenge, daring me to have the balls to admit what is going on.

  To hell with it. Landon will find out eventually anyway.

  “I’ve been hanging out with Taylor,” I say with a casual shrug.

  Landon flies back against her chair with a gasp as if I physically pushed her. Her perfect French-manicured nails grasp at her T-shirt. If she were wearing pearls, she’d be clutching them.

  “What?” she screeches so loudly that everyone else in the small coffee place turns towards us, likely to see if she has Tourette’s.

  Her shock is such a tangible thing that I feel sort of ridiculously embarrassed for the first time in years.

  “It’s not a big deal. We’re just friends,” I tell her calmly.

  Beside her, Miko takes half the muffin without looking away from the spectacle Landon is making. She starts to nibble the piece like a hamster.

  “I can’t believe this!” Landon says, looking from me to Miko. “I just can’t believe this.”

  “Seriously, we just hang out,” I insist, a little more desperately.

  They are my friends, so surely they know me well enough to know I’m not actually doing anything serious with Taylor.

  “We hang o
ut. I, um . . . I bake for him sometimes.”

  Miko nearly chokes on her muffin, and I start talking faster in an effort to cut off their thoughts at the pass. Our whole table is the center of attention now: the hamster, the drama queen, and an overemotional stork. We are like sideshow freaks.

  “We go run together sometimes. Look, it’s just . . . we’re just friends!” I bark.

  “I can’t believe this,” Landon says again in wonder.

  “What is so flipping hard to believe?” I demand.

  Landon looks from me to Miko in total chagrin. “It’s just . . . now I owe Miko a hundred bucks. She called the two of you, like, last year.”

  The rhythmic tapping of fingers announces Avis’s arrival before her voice does. She carries a box of cigarettes around with her at all times, and even when she isn’t smoking, she’ll hold onto the box like a security blanket. Her fingers drumming against the edge of the cardboard is a familiar sound now, but that doesn’t mean it has any less of an effect on me than it did in the beginning. That harmless beat always makes my stomach drop because I am never sure what kind of mood she’ll be in when I hear it headed in my direction.

  I turn my chair completely around to face her, my back now to the mountain of payroll paperwork I am working through. Avis is leaning up against the doorjamb, peering at me through her giant glasses. Today, instead of her usual turban she is wearing a vintage-looking bandana around her topknot like a 1950s housewife.

  “The dulce cheesecakes sold out again yesterday. That makes three weeks in a row,” she says.

  I smile in response.

  “I know. I’ve asked the team to increase the quantity by twenty percent again this week.”

  Avis grunts in what I assume is agreement.

  “You know, this might just become one of the new signature dishes. Everyone is saying it’s one of your best in years,” I tell her with more than a little fangirl in my voice.

  “So I’ve heard,” she agrees.

  Her fingers still tap, tap, tap on that box. She looks down at her shoes for several long minutes. She could just be thinking or in some other place entirely. I never really know with her, and I’ve learned it is best to wait it out. Either she’ll start speaking again or she’ll eventually wander away. I study my manicure while I wait. This color is called Bubble Bath. I know that because I have a weird fascination with nail polish names, and this particular one stuck out because it was the first time I’d had anything other than Black Satin on my nails in years. Since my first day here I’d had bare nails, and because this polish is light pink, and therefore kind of girly, it is the equivalent of a bold new choice for me.

  “We need something special,” Avis says to her shoes.

  My head comes up with a small smile already in place. I know she’ll get around to her point eventually.

  “What did you have in mind?” I ask, having no idea what she is talking about. But I’ve learned from the very beginning that if I can keep her talking, I have a better chance of getting more information—or at least enough information to have some idea of what she wants.

  “Marcus is hosting a dinner.” My ears perk up at the mention of the famous celebrity chef who put this hotel on the map. I’ve seen him a few times in passing, but he seems aloof and unapproachable to me, not the type to host a gathering of any kind.

  “The owners, several VIPs, other chefs.” She looks up at me. “When I say chefs I’m talking Teague, Dutton, and Birdwell.” She names a few of the world’s greatest chefs as if she is throwing items at me for a grocery list. I suppose those names might not be a big deal to her because she’s part of the same crowd, but hearing them bandied about so casually makes my eyes want to pop out of my head.

  “Marcus wants something special,” she continues. “A dessert sampler. Three options served in miniature for twenty-two guests. I’ve written them out here,” she says, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and handing it over.

  On closer inspection it is a copy of her cable bill with her usual chicken scratch covering both sides. As usual, I can pull out just enough ingredients to have a basic idea of what she wants.

  “Looks like a . . . sticky toffee pudding”—I squint at the sheet—“a buttermilk panna cotta . . . and a banana custard.” I stare harder, shocked when I identify the ingredients for the accompaniment.

  “Is this a bitter-chocolate sorbet? To set off the custard?” I look up at her in awe. “That’s genius!”

  “Sure,” Avis answers noncommittally.

  I wonder, not for the first time, what it would be like to be such a prodigy that you can’t even recognize how special your work is. I hold the crumpled bill with a bit more reverence.

  “You want me to help you with this?” I ask her.

  “I want you to make it completely.”

  I am more than a little taken aback. The idea of making these creations, even if I am just recreating her recipes, is more than a little disconcerting, given who’ll be eating them.

  “But should you . . . I mean, you typically handle the special orders,” I say, grasping the paper a bit harder.

  “Stork,” she says, sounding slightly exasperated, “I’m a guest at the dinner, which makes it a little hard to fire the dessert in a timely manner.”

  Of course she’d be invited to the dinner. Avis is easily as famous as the other chefs she mentioned, and Marcus Balmain is her boss, even if I’d never seen them interact with each other.

  “Um, OK,” I answer, fighting the sudden need to throw up my breakfast. “When is this dinner?”

  Please be next month, please be next month, please be next month.

  “It’s on the first,” she answers, shoving the cigarettes into her pocket, a sure sign that she’s grown tired of the conversation and is about to walk away.

  “Of August?” I ask hopefully.

  “Of July,” she answers with a roll of her eyes.

  “As in . . .” I choke on the words.

  “As in Thursday of this week. Stork, you better get on it.”

  With that, Avis turns and leaves me staring at the empty space she just occupied. Three days to figure out three new recipes and their plating. Then I’ll need to prep and serve them to twenty-two VIPs for a dinner hosted by one of the biggest chefs in the nation, who also happens to be my boss’s boss.

  I start manically making a shopping list: eggs, milk, butter, cocoa.

  And oh yeah, some crack, because surely I’ll need to be smoking some in order to believe I have a flipping prayer of pulling this off!

  “OK, so this is the final plated version,” I explain, placing the rectangular plate down in front of Taylor on the table with the same reverence you’d give an operational nuclear warhead.

  “It looks unbelievable,” he says, looking down at the food before him.

  All the tension falls out of my shoulders.

  “Really?” I squeak.

  Chocolate-brown eyes catch mine.

  “Really.” He picks up a fork and waves it at me. “Now do the thing.”

  “I don’t want to. It’s stupid. I’m not a real—”

  “Do. The. Thing,” Taylor demands.

  I roll my eyes, fighting embarrassment and a ridiculous urge to giggle.

  “OK.” A sigh falls from my lips. I point to the first dainty dessert on his plate. “This is a sticky toffee pudding made with dates from an organic farm just outside of Palm Springs. It’s finished with a caramel whiskey sauce and some Baileys-infused whipped cream.”

  Taylor makes a sound deep in his throat. I laugh and keep going.

  “Next is a buttermilk panna cotta finished with a Meyer lemon zest and fresh seasonal berry compote. Last is a caramelized banana custard topped with a bitter-chocolate sorbet, which you need to eat before it starts to melt,” I admonish.

  Taylor digs into the custard first as I knew he would. I learned a while ago what a sucker he is for anything with chocolate. He moans into his spoon, and I roll my eyes again rather
than admit how ridiculously happy it makes me that he likes what I’ve created. He reaches out to try the next dessert and asks, “Will you give that little speech tomorrow night at the dinner?”

  The slide of fur against my bare foot stops me from answering for a moment. I reach down and rub one hand over Holden’s hideous face. He deigns to accept the caress. It is just like the ridiculous cat to ask for attention and then receive it like a magnanimous sheikh. He flips over onto his back as I stand up again, but I use my foot to rub his belly. Sometime over the last month this thing and I have come to a truce. He isn’t allowed in the kitchen with me, but if I step out of it, I will pet him. Most of the time he allows it.

  “I don’t know,” I tell Taylor honestly. “I’m not sure if she’ll want to do it herself. Also, Harris and Ram are staying to help me, so it’s not like I’m the one to take the credit.”

  “You deserve some kind of credit,” Taylor says, spooning up another bite, “or an award or something. The fact that you can make heads or tails of her recipes is a sign of divinity or a special power at the very least.”

  I shrug at Taylor, more than a little uncomfortable with his praise. When I remove my foot from the soft belly below it, Holden hisses in annoyance and bounds away.

  “Ingrate,” I call after him.

  I head back into the kitchen to clean up the disaster I left in my wake. I haven’t been in there for more than five minutes when Taylor comes up next to me and starts loading the dishes I am rinsing into the dishwasher next to him.

  “You don’t have to help,” I say while scrubbing a particularly difficult bit of caramel off a bowl.

  “I know,” he answers, picking up another plate.

  “You didn’t make the mess, though, and you’ve already helped me clean up every night this week.” I hand him the now-rinsed bowl.

  “Because you’re the least tidy person I know.” He bumps my shoulder. “If I didn’t help, this would take hours. Besides, this is a good workout.”

  He makes a show of using a whisk as a dumbbell before putting it into the proper receptacle in front of him. Taylor has a weird OCD thing about the precise way to load a dishwasher. I’m not about to fight it, though, because it means less work for me.