The Art of French Kissing

by Brianna Shrum

  I’m blushing from my head down to my toes; even my feet feel legitimately hot.

  I just stare at the plate, trying to catalogue all the colors and the work that must have gone into this last night. It’s a heck of a lot more than two hours’ insomnia.

  Riya’s voice pops up behind me: “Oh. My god.”

  “It’s nothing,” I say.

  “Yeah. Nothing that’s going in my face immediately.”

  I pick a little pink one with green in the middle and take a bite. It’s amazing. Strawberry lime—light and dense all at once; I feel like I can literally taste the color.

  “Holy crap,” I say.

  Riya is eating a yellow one. “Is this . . . who made you these?”

  I swallow hard. “Definitely not Reid Yamada.”

  Riya laughs until she chokes on a macaron.

  Good.

  Reid is smiling like the devil when I find him in the kitchen, weighing a skillet in his hand.

  “Lane.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “It wasn’t really a compliment but sure, you can take it that way.”

  I roll my eyes. “I meant for the—the macarons.”

  He says, “Oh, those couldn’t have been from me.” And winks.

  The challenge starts, and I’m pink all over once again.

  The cooking itself isn’t too bad. Everyone but me is a little demoralized this morning, and I wonder who compromised on what, who’s cooking what. We’re a little short on time, but it’s nothing too crazy. This challenge was about prioritizing. And actually cooking. Actual skills.

  Afterward, Reid shoulder-bumps me and says, “What are you doing after this?”

  “I have a very busy itinerary of Netflix and iced tea planned for my room later, packed schedule honestly.”

  “Wow. What are the odds that you and I have the exact same afternoon going here?”

  “What are the odds.”

  “Let me present a counter-offer,” he says, shoving his hands down into his pockets as we walk across the grass.

  “Go for it,” I say.

  “Come watch Netflix and have iced tea in my room.”

  I stop walking and my eyebrows shoot up.

  “Shit,” he says, and he throws his hands in the air. He’s already laughing.

  “Are you asking me to Netflix and chill with you, Yamada?”

  “Again with the last name. No, I swear I am asking you to literally Netflix and literally chill and you should literally bring up some literal iced tea. From the literal cafeteria.”

  “I think . . . okay, I could literally be down with that.”

  His mouth tips up. “Well, you could . . . you could be figuratively down with that.”

  “You are such an ass,” I say. But I follow it up with, “Ten minutes?”

  “It’s a date.” For the first time ever, I see Reid Yamada blush. He doesn’t stammer when he corrects himself; he looks cool and collected, all but for that red in his cheeks. “An entirely platonic, Netflix and iced tea two-people gathering.”

  I’m smiling and it’s ridiculous. I have no idea if Em would be thrilled or smug or completely at a loss. Maybe she would think it was un-feminist of me. To be hanging out with Reid, who’s been such a jerk to me all summer.

  But well. I don’t think I care.

  I, of course, shoot her a text about it which she probably won’t get to until tonight, complete with the most panicked emojis I can find and a shot of the macarons from this morning. I caption that picture: HELP?!?!?!?!?

  Then I head into the cafeteria and Reid takes the stairs to his room. Probably cleaning up like, underwear or whatever. Now I’m blushing. About Reid’s underwear. Oh my lord, what is happening to me?

  I am grateful, suddenly, that there are two beds in there; thank you, Reid’s dearly departed roommate, because that’s the only thing that makes this not-weird. I don’t know. Maybe it’s weird anyway.

  I feel weird.

  I feel good.

  . . . I feel weird.

  I snag a couple bottled teas and run upstairs, knock on his door.

  “That was definitely less than ten minutes,” he says when he opens it.

  “I’m nothing if not prompt.”

  He lets me pass and I toss him the tea, which he catches out of the air. Then he plops down on his giant be—“Hey,” I say. “There’s . . . there’s two beds in here. I thought there were two beds in here.”

  “Oh.” He looks down at the very singular monstrosity he’s lying on and then says, “How would you kn—oh right. The cellular privacy invasion heist thing. Well. There were two but I pushed them together. I’m kind of a sprawler when I sleep.”

  My throat is really dry all of a sudden even though it’s the middle of the day, even though he’s not, like, making a move. My heart is beating right up into that dry throat and what even is breathing?

  “I can push them apart if that would make you feel better?” he says. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll push them apart.”

  “No,” I say when I find my words. “No, it’s whatever. You don’t need to rearrange your whole room for me. It’s fine.” I plop down onto his mattress before he has the chance to split them.

  “Okay. You sure?”

  “I’m sure. What’s on Netflix?”

  Reid shrugs and lies back against the headboard, one arm stretched behind his head, the other working the remote. He flips through a few things ’til he hits disaster movies and I say, “Yesssssss.”

  “Really?” he says. He’s grinning.

  “Huge disaster movie nerd.”

  “Ha. Me too.”

  There’s an uncomfortable niggling in my chest, a flutter in my stomach, and I stare hard at the TV. “Pick that one.”

  “Which one, Captain Obvious?”

  “The frog one.”

  “God, that looks ridiculous,” he says. He’s laughing when he hits play.

  The opening scene is one of those highly dramatic evolution sequences that like starts as one cell, and then splits into more, and then eventually you have in front of you this wriggling mass of tadpoles set to extremely ominous music, and the opening credits end zooming out on a frog’s eye.

  The title is punctuated with the most threatening croak I have ever heard.

  “I think you mean amazing,” I say.

  “Not mutually exclusive, Purple Rain.”

  “Purple Rain.”

  “It’s song.”

  “I know it’s a song but it’s not a nickname and you know it.”

  He arches an eyebrow and looks down at me. Stretches his arm when he shifts so it’s resting on one of the big ridges in the headboard. I’m not squished by any means but I am struck with how much space he tends to take up. Just moving, just the way he holds himself. I’m struck by the way I can actually feel it when he trains his eyes on me. “You didn’t object to Purple Haze.”

  “Well,” I say, “that feels like less of a stretch than Purple Rain.”

  He laughs. “‘Purple Rain’ is by Prince. His signature color was purple; if anything, that’s a nicknamed-squared.”

  I just look at him, totally nonplussed, and turn toward the TV. There’s a schoolteacher who looks like she’s from the sixties even though this movie came out like two years ago. I say, still looking at the screen, “Did you Google purple nicknames just for this occasion?”

  I’m deadpanning it. It’s a joke, which is why I’m jolted enough to actually stop and look at him when he says, “Yeah,” with this single almost self-deprecating laugh.

  Almost. Because nothing Reid ever says really totally gets there. Cocky lives in his skin cells.

  “Wait, are you serious?”

  “I was running low on material.”

  I try not to smile and he looks down at exactly the moment I am failing the hardest and smiling the most.

  He doesn’t say anything. He just looks back at the screen, lets one corner of his mouth curl, and watches the frogs devour every living th
ing on the planet.

  “Tell me your favorite food,” he says.

  “Grilled cheese.”

  He doesn’t skip a beat. “With provolone.”

  “Yes. You asshole.”

  That corner of his mouth reaches higher.

  “What’s yours?” I say, and I’m on fire again, because talking about our favorite foods feels like something way more intimate than it should. It’s the thing each of us is most passionate about. It’s like asking a reader their favorite book. Asking a fighter their favorite move. It’s a soul-level question.

  And I am desperate to know the answer.

  This slow smile spreads over his face and he says, “Nabe, for sure.”

  “I’ve never had that.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not Japanese. And nabe isn’t like, American Japanese food; it’s the real deal.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s something my dad makes in the winter. He got it from his mom, who brought it over here from Japan, and I basically beg for it all the time. Mom doesn’t really cook. And she’s white and from Texas so if she does it’s like fried chicken and sweet tea. Season shit with a little salt.”

  I spit out a laugh.

  “So basically nabe is—well. Wait. What if I showed you?”

  I shift on the bed so I’m facing him. Cross-legged and small. The way he’s twisted, looking down at me, it’s almost like I’m right there, like he has his arm around me.

  Stop.

  Stop, self.

  “You want to cook for me again? After all that labor over the macarons?”

  He says, “Maybe I just wanted some myself and made too many. You got the excess.”

  I can’t believe I’m just now noticing the dark circles under his eyes. The slight sleep-crazed note in his voice that comes from pulling an all-nighter.

  “Take a thank-you.”

  He pauses. Then says, kind of quiet, “You’re welcome.”

  I glance down at the bedspread. Smooth my fingers over it. “Can you make nabe in here?”

  “No. Not even a little bit.”

  “Damn,” I say.

  His eyes spark. “Kitchen’s open.”

  I lock eyes with him, and he looks like the incarnation of mischief. Like he’s not asking me to go hang out in a teaching kitchen where we’ve spent way too much time over the summer, sweating in the heat while he makes me food. Like he’s asking me to do something illegal.

  I say, “Okay.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  They leave the kitchen locked, but let us reserve it if we want. For practice. Reid has to run over to their offices and pick up a key card, sign up to use it for a couple hours, but he runs back and I meet him at the kitchen a few minutes later.

  He slides the key card and pushes open the door.

  “Holding open the door for a girl; who even are you, and what have you done with Reid?”

  “Please, I am the poster boy for chivalry.”

  I snort and head inside.

  “It’s weird,” I say.

  Reid raises an eyebrow and breezes past me into the kitchen. “What?”

  “Being in here without the judges. I feel like I should be standing there sweating while a clock counts down.”

  “Have you never used this room to practice?”

  “Have you?”

  “I spend a solid half my time in here.”

  I smirk. “The time you’re not spending running or reading about magic in the middle of the night.”

  Reid’s face isn’t turned toward me, but I see the grin when he dips down into one of the drawers and pulls out a few knives, a couple cutting boards. “Yeah. I mean obviously that’s what I came here for.”

  “I haven’t been in here at all, except when we’re assigned.”

  “Slacker,” he says. He ties an apron around his neck, his lower back, and my eyes are sliding toward the knots. Because aprons are sexy. Aprons.

  “Some of us don’t need all that practice to win,” I say, looking at my nails.

  “You say that now,” he says. “Wait until this nabe knocks you on your ass.”

  I grin.

  “You gonna help me out or?”

  I narrow my eyes because he’s so polite, so charming. Then say, “What did you need?”

  “Get me some soy. And mirin. Sake if it’s back there.”

  “What else?”

  “Cabbage. Naganegi.”

  I blink and he goes to the fridge and pulls out some ground chicken and a few other things I can’t see through his arms.

  “Naganegi?” I say.

  “Yeah. I don’t need much.”

  “Okay but I have no idea what it is.”

  Reid looks right at me then, furrow in his brow, and laughs. “Oh. Right. Shit.” He laughs. He looks so relaxed right now, I’m completely thrown off. “It’s like . . . it’s like this super long skinny onion? White? And it’s—no, you know what; forget that. I’ll get it when I get the mushrooms.”

  I nod and head back to get some ingredients. It doesn’t take me long to find them, with the exception of the naganegi, which I am glad Reid has released me from.

  I head back into the kitchen and Reid passes me. He’s completely focused on the task at hand.

  He comes back and he has those onions, what looks like some tofu. Carrots. Just . . . a veritable shit ton of stuff.

  “Are you going to use every single ingredient in the kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  He pauses before his army of cutting boards, examines everything. Then runs to the fridge and comes back with some pork and shell-on shrimp.

  “Okay. You ready to get your hands dirty?”

  “Always,” I say, and then my face heats, but he’s probably not thinking of that as a totally filthy reply because he’s probably thinking about food, oh my lord, think about food.

  “Pick a vegetable. Start chopping.”

  “How?” I say.

  “Nabe’s a stew. Some people call it nabemono, which is just literally ‘hot pot stuff.’ So. It doesn’t matter how you chop it, dumplin’.”

  I groan and his eyes actually sparkle, but I get to chopping everything. It turns out Reid was lying when he said it didn’t matter how I chopped it—mine is all brisk, efficient, and I move through everything twice as fast as he does, but by the time he finishes a carrot, it’s a work of art. All his stuff is carved into like flowers and stars with way too much detail to be eaten.

  “Show-off.”

  “Nah, this is me slacking.” He winks.

  “You trying to scare me?” I say, setting down my knife. All my stuff is done.

  “I’m trying to impress you.”

  He says it like nothing, like it’s not loaded. Like that’s a boring, neutral sentence that won’t lodge my heart somewhere in the neighborhood of my throat. I say somehow, “And why would you ever consider trying to do such a thing?”

  Reid doesn’t answer. He just slides his knife slowly and methodically through the center of a carrot and arches his eyebrow at me. Even more slowly. More methodically.

  I blush.

  The carrot falls apart into this beautiful spray of flowers.

  Reid surveys what he has and ducks. Starts searching through doors for something, and I don’t know what. I don’t know how to vocalize my question because I’m stuck on that eyebrow raise. That You know exactly why, Lane look that has my heart racing so fast I can’t think over it.

  “Dammit, there’s no way they’re gonna have a—oh hey!” He emerges from deep within a pot/pan/kettle/whatever door with a huge, cheesy grin on his face and says, “They do have a donabe!”

  I give him a thumbs-up even though I do not understand the significance of the statement, but it seems important.

  “Clay pot,” he says. “You cook shit in it.”

  “Ah.”

  “Usually we’d do this over a flame tableside, but we have no table. So. Gas stovetop it is. This thing is giant but you typically make this
for a lot of people, so I hope you are completely starving.”

  “I haven’t eaten for four days just saving up for this.”

  “Prepared and psychic; helpful.” He gets the broth boiling and then dumps like everything in it.

  “So now we wait.”

  I lean back against one of the countertops and he walks over to me, then leans up against it, too. Arms folded over his chest. Easy. Chill. Relaxed.

  “So I have a question,” I say.

  He glances down at me out of the corner of his eye. When he shifts, his hip brushes against mine and my fingers tighten on the counter. I can see every muscle tic through that shirt. Smell his deodorant this close, even though the nabe is starting to smell like something already.

  “Shoot.”

  This has been bothering me for a few days and I don’t know why I feel like now is the time to ask it. But I blurt out, “The other night. The insomnia talk.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did you leave like that?”

  I can see his Adam’s apple move when he swallows. His jaw must be carved from actual stone. Good lord.

  I bet I’m bright pink. I’m sure I am because that’s what happens when you stare at boys’ throats and jaws for this long, like a sex-crazed maniac.

  “Well,” he says. His voice is smooth but he won’t look at me. Even though I’m sure he feels me looking at him. “I, uh. I was thinking that I wanted to kiss you.”

  The boiling water, the buzz of the fluorescents, everything fades to white noise.

  His hand goes to the back of his neck. “And I’m pretty damn sure you didn’t want to kiss me. Don’t. Didn’t. Both tenses. So I left.”

  I blink down at the floor. The world has tilted to a new axis and I need to figure out how to balance on it. Reid. Wanted to kiss me.

  Reid wanted to kiss me.

  Reid. Wanted. To kiss me.

  I am white-knuckling the counter.

  And suddenly what I am is mad.

  I’m mad. Like always now, apparently. “You wanted to kiss me?”

  His eyebrows jump when he looks at me and says, “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

  “YES,” I say. “And let me tell you why, you asshole.”

  Reid’s mouth flattens into a line.

  The whole kitchen smells like divinity, and normally that would be enough to distract me from basically any emotion, but I’m vibrating. “Because you’ve been an ass to me since day one.”