And he’s crying.
Tears and red eyes and sadness and I know it then. I know it then like I knew it all along. Of course he wanted this. Of course it is destroying him that he didn’t get it. Of course he didn’t give me the victory.
It stabs into my chest all at once, a flurry of arrows.
I’m not going to comfort him. I can’t.
I’m still furious and I bet he’s still furious and this is private.
This is not for me.
I walk away.
And let him cry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The kitchen feels like a battleground.
I mean, I guess it could be what with all the knives and fire, but I don’t plan on murdering Riya, and as far as I know she doesn’t plan on murdering me. I allow my mouth to curl up when I look at her, standing on the other side of the kitchen, fingers tapping on the counter.
She smiles back at me, and I’m glad it’s her. Of everyone.
I shut my eyes. Exhale.
Will is here, at a chair beside the judge’s table. There’s an empty chair next to him, which hurts my heart. I feel guilty but I also feel mad, because how immature. Just not to come.
It’s fine. I don’t need him here.
That is painful to think because he’s been a constant in my brain in the kitchen since day one, and somewhere along the line, that all shifted from hating him to . . .well.
But I’m standing here on my own, and it’s true. I earned this. This is mine and it’s not his and I do not need him in this kitchen in order to function.
Dr. Pearce says, “Competitors. You will be given ten ingredients.”
Ten. Damn.
“You may choose to use them in whatever way you please, in however many courses you feel you can complete in ninety minutes. Every ingredient must be used. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” we both say, just slightly off-rhythm of each other.
We get our baskets and there is a host of things here. Some odd, some totally commonplace. Peppers, shrimp, chocolate milk powder, some kind of big stalked vegetable thing I think is called a cardoon. Both of us will absolutely use the first ten minutes at least just planning.
Dr. Pearce smiles big and bright and says, “Begin.”
I stare at the ingredients and begin separating them. A soup, where I can use the cardoon, braised, probably the shrimp. A beef main course where I’m going to use the chocolate because dessert is too easy for that. The peppers can go in the dessert. Radishes in the beef. And it goes on like that until I think, I think I have something worth serving. By the time I make my decision, Riya is already firing up the oven and the stovetop, setting bowls and spoons on the table. Thankfully by now we have good cookware.
I start with the soup base, let it boil and the flavors seep in through everything, really get character in the liquid. Then I marinate the meat and start grinding peppercorns. I lose myself in it. Let it melt into me, this thing that I love more than anything. I’m completely overtaken in spice and the taste of everything savory on the air, in the steam that rises from the pot, in the smell of brown butter in that pan—so overtaken, in fact, that I almost don’t notice when Reid walks in.
He shoots everyone at the judge’s table an apologetic look and ducks in front of them to sit beside Will. And when he does, my eyes have left him about eight hundred times because I am focusing on this food. But he locks eyes with me.
Does this almost-smile that lights me up.
It’s uncertain, shaky, a question mark. But it’s a peace.
I take a breath of a moment to consider it, and then I go back to this.
To what I came here for.
The clock ticks down in a wash of broth and Parmesan crust and spatulas and sizzling pans. Until the time comes to plate. We are used to this by now. There is none of that beginning-of-the-summer last-minute dash to desperately plate, no question as to whether we’ll make it on time. Of course we both will. We are smooth and composed and each have everything done a full sixty seconds before the time runs out. Mine looks good. The soup is beautiful and golden brown, the meat is perfect, that chocolate intermixed with Panko and about a thousand other ingredients. The soufflé with the raspberry and pepper is a work of art.
So does Riya’s, though. It’s more pastry, baking, scientific, like she said she loved to begin with. There’s this breathtakingly beautiful salad with giant croutons she clearly baked herself. A main course of portobello mushroom and shrimp over this rice thing that looks so good I want to crawl over the counter and eat it all right now with a spoon. Cake, at the end. I can’t decide the flavor but everything, everything looks incredible. From both of us. We look like we can compete.
For the first time in maybe ever, I am absolutely certain I deserve to be here.
We both do.
I look straight ahead while the judges taste, offering little commentary.
And I wait it out alone when they dismiss us. Everyone does, I think.
It is in the dead heat of the day when they finally call us to the amphitheater. Just like they used to.
We all sit in the front row—me next to Riya, Riya next to Will, Will next to Reid. Will and Riya are holding hands and my heart jerks but it’s fine. It’s fine it’s fine.
Dr. Lavell stands on the stage with the rest of the judges and tells us she’s so proud to have worked with all of us, she wishes us the best of luck on our futures, she hopes to see every one of us at the Savannah Institute of the Culinary Arts next year. It’s all a blur. I’m praying for it to speed by so I know the end, and slow down so I can savor this with a clarity of memory, all at once.
She says, “In fourth place, with a half tuition scholarship, Will Malik.”
Will stands, smiles wide, and approaches the stage. He shakes hands with Dr. Lavell while we clap. Accepts his award.
We know the next award will go to Reid and he takes his time walking up those stairs, confident as hell like always, accepts the three-quarters tuition scholarship with a smile and looks directly at me. I don’t smile, but I don’t look away from his eyes. I clap as hard as anyone. God, this hurts.
Then, the moment of truth. They announce that the second-place winner will receive a full tuition waiver. That these awards thus far are higher amounts than they’ve ever given, but that this year, the competition was outstanding, and they’ve been given an allowance. First place gets everything. Room, board, books, everything. But full tuition would maybe be possible. I think maybe . . .
I grab Riya’s hand and her knuckles whiten around mine.
“Second place goes to . . .”
Every organ in my body has squeezed up into my throat.
“Carter Lane.”
The breath leaves my chest. Riya starts crying.
I walk up those steps, proud and thrilled and . . . I take the award. Sit.
A little sad.
But Riya’s eyes are bright and she’s laughing so hard when she accepts that award and I just love her and I think I knew, I think we all knew that Riya deserved to win. That she is better than every one of us.
I glance over at Reid, but he’s not looking at me.
He’s smiling and clapping for Riya.
That’s okay. That’s good.
I wish he had his arm around me. I wish I could be so happy but be comforted right now.
I understand, suddenly, how you can be happy for someone and sad for you all at once.
CHAPTER THIRTY
No one has much time to hang around after judging is over. We have time to grab our bags and get to the airport. We’re all in one bus, which is nice, but it’s crowded, and that only matters because I don’t . . . I don’t get to talk to Reid.
I want to talk to Reid, basically need to talk to him, but it doesn’t really matter. Because I can’t. I can’t say what I need to say in front of all these people. And I don’t know what I need to say, really. I definitely can’t fumble through it.
Maybe I shouldn’t.
>
I don’t know.
I’m so tired, in this adrenaline comedown, and everything is sinking in. I didn’t win and Pell Grant won’t cover everything I need, but I can take out some loans. I can go. To Savannah. I’m going to. I’m going to.
That’s a dream, it’s incredible.
We all go through security together. Shoes off, bags laid out, all scanned. We part ways at the gates, and I hug Riya so hard she chokes. She swears she’ll request me as a roommate next year and I swear it back and she and Will go.
Reid’s hand jumps to the back of his neck and he opens his mouth to say something.
Then he stops. Looks away. Says, “Have a safe flight.”
I say, “Yeah. You too.”
And that’s it. The end of it.
Not like it really had a prayer of working out in the first place. Not like relationships that start out with as much raw hate as we had wind up these amazing forever things that change your life.
Now that everything is setting in and roommate promises are being made and I’ve called my best friend and my parents and my sister, the thrill is giving way to the loss. Because it was infuriating and he was infuriating and I’m sure I was, too, but it was . . . something. And I think maybe I had started to love him.
And I can be excited.
And hurt.
All at once.
The next hour and a half goes by slow. The clock ticks down and time feels like viscous liquid. Nothing like it felt in the kitchens, like there was never enough. I’m having a hard time not rushing through everything now, actually.
Just sitting.
Not anticipating.
I’m so tired now. I could just nap right here.
Boarding begins.
I wait until all rows get to board because I’m of course in the cheapest category, then I stand and get in line.
And I think maybe I’m in a movie, because I hear, “Hey, Purple Haze.”
I freeze. I don’t turn around because it’s not him, there’s no way it’s him. It’s the first thing he ever called me, but it can’t be him. This is over.
Again, his voice. A little closer. “Pumpkin.”
A smile jabs at my mouth and I am reluctant to let it take over.
Very close. “Princess.”
I inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Force my heart to beat.
I turn around. “You lost?” I say.
“Nah.” He shakes his head.
“I wondered if you’d be in the air already,” I say.
“Not yet.”
“Go back to your gate, Reid.”
He smirks. Says, “This is my gate.”
“Prove it,” I say and I reach for his boarding pass. He snatches it back out of my reach—tall jerk—and smiles.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Well you picked a lousy time to do it. We’re boarding.”
Reid says, “So get out of line and wait ’til the end. Or stay and ignore me and I’ll just stand here, giving this speech to no one.”
I look at him, his eyes so dark and earnest, and my heart is beating out of control and of course. Of course I get out of line.
Every cell in my body wants to apologize, but I don’t. Maybe I will later but not yet.
Reid can breach that line. If he wants.
There’s a foot of space between us but his voice is low, like there is no one else in this crowded airport. Like the sounds of takeoffs and landings and crying babies and stressed adults yelling into cell phones don’t exist here.
He says, “I’m in love with you, Lane.”
And that is not what I expected to hear. My mouth drops open.
“I’m sorry about being an asshole. Back there. It’s just . . . you get it? You get that it’s hard to untangle shit? I’m glad you won. I’m glad you beat me if you deserved it and you obviously did. Okay? I shouldn’t have been a jerk about it, not then.”
I look at the ground. My hand finds my bicep and I run my fingers over the skin to ground myself. “I should have just . . . been confident on my own. Not basically forced you to choke out that you lost. I was an asshole, too.”
“Well,” he says.
I look up at him. “I saw you crying. Out there by the river.”
He looks up at the ceiling, “Oh, awesome.”
“I was a jerk.”
“We’re both jerks. That’s kind of the way this works.”
I grin, in spite of it all.
“I love you, Lane,” he says again. “Like I tried to just sit still in this airport and wait to board like everyone else, pass the time sucking down a shitty coffee and reading some celebrity gossip magazine someone had left lying around, but I couldn’t even focus on a heavily photographed article about Harry Styles because you wouldn’t get out of my head. Do you understand the kind of hardcore feelings it takes to distract me from Harry Styles?”
I laugh. Hard. Just in surprise, I guess. “You love me? You sure about that? I’ve made your life hell all summer.”
“That’s how I prefer it,” he says. “I bet you love me. If you really thought about it.”
“You must be the cockiest boy alive.”
He shrugs. “Who has a magazine? I could give you the Harry Styles test.”
The line moves forward.
“You’re exhausting.”
He says, “Yes.”
“And infuriating.”
“Obviously.”
“I wish we had more time to do this.”
He says, “I don’t. When I ask you, in a few seconds, if you love me, and you say no, I can just walk back to my gate and by the time I get there, you’ll be in the air. It’s the perfect strategy.”
“And what if I say I do?”
Reid swallows hard. “Guess I’ll reconfigure.”
It’s quiet.
The line shrinks.
“You love me?” he says.
He’s . . . nervous. I can see it. He’s not really that cocky; he’s so freaking anxious he can’t stand still.
And I don’t think about it. I just say, “Yeah. I do.”
Reid smiles, teeth on his bottom lip. “If this was a movie, I’d say, Then don’t go. Stay with me or something, but I’m going to Colorado.”
“That’s not that far from Montana.”
“Hop, skip, and a jump.”
“And a year isn’t that far away.”
“Nah.”
I say, “Are you gonna go? To this school?”
“Of course I am,” he says. “If nothing else, I’ll get several opportunities next year to kick your ass, princes—”
I grab him by the shirt and kiss him. He only needs a heartbeat to recover and then we’re kissing like today never happened, like we never split up, like mileage between us doesn’t mean a thing. His hand curls around my neck, in my hair. The other slides down my back.
I feel everything in every cell of my body.
And we don’t break apart until the ticketing agent clears her throat. It’s just me left.
Reid says, “I’ll see you.”
I say, “Yeah, you will.”
And I go. I don’t turn back.
I board the plane, and I already have a text waiting.
Reid: So tomorrow night. Pencil me in for like a FaceTime competition. You and me and cooking with NO UTENSILS.
I smile so hard my face might actually break.
Carter: You’re on, Yamada.
Reid: Yamada. Always with the sass.
I put away my phone.
Take in all the safety info.
The plane hurtles down the runway, its wheels lift, and it hits the air.
I fly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In my experience, a book, without other people, is a jumble of words that never gets shaped into a story. This one was no exception.
Thank you first, to you, dear reader. To anyone reading these words, anyone who has blogged or said anything on social media o
r said words to friends or who picked this book off a tangible or digital shelf anywhere at all, THANK YOU. You are why I get to do this.
I also want to shout things out to my crit partners, who had a significant hand in the making of this book. AS ALWAYS, you are my favorites. Sara Taylor Woods, actual soul twin—thanks for so consistently being such a moderating influence. Rae Chang, loveliest sharpest foodie, someday we will band forces to craft the greatest meal the world has ever seen. Tabitha Martin, greatest cupcaker of all time, thank you for being an utterly magical human.
To my agent, Steven Salpeter, for believing in me and my work so enthusiastically (and always having excellent tea advice). To my editor, Nicole Frail, thank you so much for making this writerly dream of mine real.
To all of you in my little corner of the writing community, you are always helpful in a million ways, and make this solitary profession so much richer.
Lastly, to my amazing husband, and my boys, for not only tolerating but loving late nights and hurried dinners and tangents and rambling imagination and all the things that come with being my people. (And being my people when I’m on a deadline.)
To anyone I may have forgotten, to anyone reading this, again, thank you.
The Art of French Kissing Page 19