Love À La Mode

by Stephanie Kate Strohm

  “Worry about my vitamin intake later,” Yumi said. “This is a meat conversation. Little Miss Zombie.” Yumi turned to Rosie, her voice gentle. “You wanna tell us what happened?”

  And so Rosie told them. She told them everything. As Yumi demolished the never-ending bread basket and Priya listened with her chin in her hands, Rosie talked about meeting Henry on the plane, talking to him on the roof, kissing him by the Seine. The waitress dropped off thinly sliced steaks and mountains of fries drenched in a velvety sauce, and Rosie told them about Henry getting so stressed-out about his grades and Bodie actually liking her and Chef Martinet asking her to leave, and before Rosie knew it, she was scraping the bottom of her empty plate, suddenly starving. Probably because she hadn’t eaten all day. For the first time in her life, Rosie had forgotten to eat.

  “You could have told us some of this earlier,” Priya chided her gently.

  “I know.” Rosie watched the waitress return and fill everyone’s plates back up with more steak and more fries. This place was magic. “I was embarrassed. I kissed Henry, and then things got weird, and I thought he didn’t like me—”

  “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Yumi used her steak knife to point at Rosie. “Let’s deal with the big issue first. Food is more important than love.”

  “Food is love,” Priya interjected. “And I don’t mean that in a ghastly, Bridget-Jones-sobbing-into-her-ice-cream way.”

  “Spare me the culinary metaphors. I’m talking about Chef Martinet.” Yumi cut an impressive bite of steak and popped it into her mouth. “You’re not going home, Rosie. None of us are. And I am personally going to guarantee that your final meal is a superlative symphony of dining that blows that oni away.”

  “How?” Rosie asked.

  “I’m gonna taste it for you. Like you’re gonna taste mine. Marquis is down in the École kitchen right now tea-smoking ducks until he’s got them perfected. And that’s what we’re all gonna do with our final meals until we get them right. Practice. Taste them. Help each other. Because we’re friends, and that’s what friends do. So I don’t want to hear any I can’t break down a chicken or I can’t bake from either of you.”

  “This isn’t about me!” Priya protested.

  “Figured you were here so I might as well mention it.” Yumi polished off her steak, and the waitress returned with more. “You’re only supposed to get two rounds of steak-frites, but in case you didn’t notice, I’m kind of a big deal here. Okay. Moving on to the other thing.”

  “Henry,” Priya said. Even hearing his name made Rosie feel all shaky and unsettled. She swiped a couple fries through her sauce and stuffed them into her mouth. “He’s mad for you, Rosie. Don’t you think you should just talk to him?”

  “I should talk to him,” Rosie admitted. “Of course I should. And I’ve tried to talk to him before. But the way he talked to me last night . . . the way he looked at me . . . if he did like me, I don’t think he does anymore.”

  “Yeah, how dare you commit the unspeakable crime of leaving the building,” Yumi said sarcastically. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Priya agreed. “But I do think it’s rather up to you to do something about it now.”

  “I know.” Rosie couldn’t stop eating the fries. Gosh, they were good. So crispy and golden-brown and perfectly potatoey. Henry would love them.

  “So what do you wanna do about it, Radeke? Ball’s in your court. Ugh.” Yumi blanched. “I can’t believe I just used a sports metaphor. Gross. Maybe I have been spending too much time with Marquis.”

  “I’m going to talk to him,” Rosie said firmly. “That’s what we needed to do this whole semester. Talk. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me he was struggling so much with his classes. If he’d just told me, everything would have been different.”

  “He was probably self-conscious,” Priya said.

  “I should have known,” Rosie said. “I mean, he kept falling asleep. I should have figured it out.”

  “Again, not your fault,” Yumi said. “We could unpack a lot here about how the culture of toxic masculinity doesn’t teach boys how to ask for help, but maybe that’s a discussion for another dinner.”

  “I’m going to help him,” Rosie said. “Like you guys are gonna help me with my dishes. I’ll make sure his grades are good enough to stay.”

  “We can all help,” Priya said.

  “I’ll check my schedule and let you know,” Yumi said, but Rosie knew she’d help.

  “And then . . . and then I’ll make sure he knows exactly how much I like him.”

  Rosie watched Priya nodding at her with concern and Yumi waving the waitress over to make sure Rosie got more fries. Part of Rosie wished she could stay here forever, swallowed up in the warmth and the light of the restaurant, safe with her friends. Part of Rosie wished she could turn back the clock, so she could have gone out with Henry instead of running off with Bodie. And another part of Rosie wished she was just back home in Ohio, reading in bed, where maybe not much of anything happened, but at least everything was familiar. Safe.

  No. Rosie was done with safe. But she wasn’t done with fries.

  And just like that, with yet another deep-fried, starchy bite, Rosie knew exactly what she was going to do for Henry.

  Rosie was avoiding him. This past week, she’d skipped every meal in the cafeteria, been completely absent from the lounge, and slipped in and out of class like a ghost. He hadn’t even had time to say hi to her, let alone to explain himself, to apologize. And as Henry watched her sprint out of the kitchen, it looked like today wasn’t going to be any different. Maybe he’d get to talk to her at dinner. She had to eat eventually, right?

  But as Henry scanned the cafeteria that evening, he didn’t see a single one of his friends. Maybe they were all avoiding him now. Henry loaded up his tray with some kind of meaty brown stew that didn’t look even remotely appetizing and took a seat as his usual table. Alone.

  “Eh-hem.”

  Henry looked up to see Hampus standing over him, clearing his throat.

  “Dude, aren’t you gonna sit?” Henry asked. “Where is everybody?”

  “You have alternate dining arrangements this evening, my friend.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This way, please.”

  Henry followed as Hampus grabbed his tray and headed back down into the kitchen, dumping the stew as they went.

  They were all there. Priya, wiping her hands on an apron. Marquis, with his arm around Yumi. And right in the middle, there was Rosie. She looked exactly like he’d seen her on the very first day they’d met, in her jeans and gray hoodie and V-neck tee, her braid resting on one shoulder. She looked hopeful, and nervous, and that’s when Henry noticed what was on the station behind her. The whole thing was covered in dishes. Plates and bowls and platters on every available surface.

  “What is all this?” Henry asked, looking from plate to plate. “Are those . . . are those potatoes?”

  “Um . . . Yes.” Rosie laughed. “Baked potato. Mashed potatoes. French fries. Potato salad. Hash browns. Potatoes au gratin. Twice-baked potatoes. Potato skins. Potato chips. Hasselback potatoes. Rosti potatoes.”

  “The rosti potatoes, they were my idea,” Hampus said proudly.

  “We had to reheat most of them, so the texture might be a bit dodgy, but the flavor’s bang-on,” Priya said.

  “Potatoes,” Henry said again.

  “I thought you’d like it better than chocolate,” Rosie said. “Or flowers.”

  “How did . . . how did you even do all this?” Henry marveled.

  “She stayed up all night making this stuff, and then stored it in the walk-in,” Yumi said. “Literally all night. So you better be worth it.”

  “I’m trying to be,” Henry said seriously, looking right at Rosie. She smiled, and it lit up her whole face, just like it had back on the plane when she’d seen his magazine.

  “Well, you’re welc
ome. Just FYI, so the two of you know, we have lives,” Yumi said. “We can’t just sit around facilitating your grand gestures all day. You’re both officially cut off from grand gestures.”

  “But if you ever need a small gesture,” Marquis said, “like, I dunno, man, maybe some help with your homework? We’re here for you.”

  “Marquis has a lot of opinions about where the commas are supposed to go,” Yumi said.

  “They’re not opinions. They’re facts about grammar.”

  “Thank you,” Henry said, before Marquis and Yumi really got into it. “I’ll ask for help. I promise.”

  “Sounds great. But before finals? I’m proofreading your English paper whether you want me to or not,” Marquis said.

  “And I’m here to listen to your French project,” Priya said. “Well, Seydou said he’d help me listen to your French project.”

  “And I have made flash cards for history!” Hampus added.

  “And I know you’re probably sick of math packets,” Rosie said, “but I did make us a review packet for the final.”

  Henry didn’t know someone talking about a math packet could sound so wonderful—or look so beautiful.

  “I think that’s our cue to leave,” Marquis said, gently pulling Yumi toward the stairs.

  “What, we don’t even get to see her big declaration?” Yumi asked. “After all that?”

  “You microwaved a potato. It was hardly a Herculean effort,” Priya said as she, Marquis, Yumi, and Hampus disappeared up the stairs.

  Now it was just the two of them, alone, in the kitchen. Rosie stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

  “Hold out your hand,” she said.

  He did, and she pressed something small and plastic into his hand. Henry uncurled his palm and looked at it: a set of pilot’s wings.

  “You kept these?” he asked.

  “I kept them.” Rosie took a deep breath. “I like you, Henry. I always have. Always. From the minute I saw you on the plane, reading through that magazine. I knew. I couldn’t stop looking at your hands, all scarred and beaten up, just like mine. And the hairs on the back of your neck. And your forearms—I didn’t know a person could have hot forearms, but you do. Everything about you. I couldn’t look away.” He shifted, angling his body toward hers, almost unable to believe what he was hearing. Rosie thought he had hot forearms?! “So I—I wanted to start over. And give you wings. And this time, I want to tell you I like you right away.”

  “I don’t want to start over,” Henry said, and he watched a little bit of the light in her eyes dim. Crap. Not what he meant. “I just mean that everything we’ve done together this semester? I wouldn’t start over because I wouldn’t want to lose that. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Not even for the tasting menu at Alinea.”

  “I don’t know, Henry. I’ve heard that’s a lot of courses,” she teased.

  “I mean it. You’ve been part of everything for me this semester—no, you’ve been everything for me this semester,” he clarified. “I couldn’t imagine Paris without you. I wouldn’t want to. There’s no one else I’d rather eat with.”

  And maybe that was sort of a weird thing to say. Maybe he should have complimented her hair or told her she was beautiful or commented on her fine eyes, like in that movie Priya was always watching on her iPad in the lounge. But Rosie must have known what he meant, because she closed her eyes—which were, actually, very fine—and she leaned toward him. Henry barely had time to close his eyes, too, before they were kissing. Her lips were soft and warm, and she tasted like powdered sugar. Henry could smell the vanilla scent he always thought of as hers, and something else, something warm and buttery. He felt her hands snake around his neck, shivered as the calluses on her fingers brushed his sensitive skin back there. Rosie fit into his arms as perfectly as she had the first time they’d kissed. Henry could have kissed her forever, but he had something he wanted to say first.

  Reluctantly, he pulled away.

  “I like you, too, Rosie,” Henry said, still cradling her face in his hand.

  “Well, good.” Rosie leaned into his palm. “Otherwise that would have been really awkward.”

  Henry stroked her cheek with his thumb and felt something wet. Tears? Nope. Butter. He was pretty sure it was melted butter.

  “Rosie,” he said. “You have butter on your face.”

  Henry started laughing. And Rosie laughed, too, and they couldn’t stop laughing, like Rosie having butter on her face was the funniest thing that had ever happened. They were laughing so hard they were clutching each other, so hard that Henry saw tears spring to Rosie’s eyes. This, he knew, was his favorite sound in the whole word. Rosie’s laugh. Better than even the sizzle of butter as it hit a hot pan. And as much as he liked kissing her—and he really, really liked it—he might have liked laughing with her even more.

  “Butter.” Rosie hopped up to sit on the station behind them, the one that wasn’t covered in potatoes. Henry joined her. “Really elegant, huh?”

  “I like that you have butter on your cheek,” Henry said. “Just like I like the way you always end up covered in flour. The way it settles on the tip of your nose, on your eyelashes, in your hair.” He brushed her hair back, out of her face, smoothing it into her braid. “And I like the way you look when you taste something you love. The way your nose wrinkles when whatever you’ve bitten into isn’t what you were expecting. The way your whole face lit up every single day we were in the kitchen with Chef Petit. The way it lights up every time I’ve seen you turn on a stand mixer. Or pick up some brioche. Or look at a cake in a magazine.” Her face was lit up just like that, right now. Looking at him. “I like everything about you, Rosie Radeke.”

  “I like everything about you, too, Henry Yi.” She reached out for his hands and squeezed. “I like how you always order way too much food and you’re impressively committed to finishing it, but you always insist I get the first bite. I like how you’ll try anything, even some strange weed Hampus plucked out of a crack in the sidewalk. I like how easily you laugh, like you expect the best from everyone. I like how you make me laugh, more than I’ve laughed in a long time. I like how focused you are in the kitchen, how you execute even the smallest steps with incredible precision. Except with salt. You throw salt into your food like a crazy person. But I like that about you, too.” She smiled. “I even like your weird potato obsession.”

  “What are you talking about? Potatoes are incredible! It’s not weird—”

  “It’s a little weird. But it’s okay. I like it.” Rosie squeezed his hands again. “Guess we should have really talked about all of this a long time ago, huh?”

  “We should have. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize—”

  “I do have to apologize. About last week. I was a jerk,” Henry said. “I was upset we missed the reservation, and jealous of Bodie, and stressed about all the stuff with my mom, like I have been all semester. I took it out on you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “I’m sorry I missed dinner.”

  “That was not your fault. And we can probably go back, anyway.” Maybe. Henry hadn’t responded to any of Dad’s e-mails blaring WHAT HAPPENED?!?! and WHERE ARE YOU?!?! He hadn’t answered any of Dad’s calls either. Henry should probably let Dad know he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere. And that he was really, really sorry about Les Oies.

  “I don’t care about Les Oies,” Rosie said. “I don’t even care about chocolate soufflé. I care about you.”

  And Henry kissed her again. He wanted to lose himself in her, in her vanilla smell, in the softness of her lips. Something metallic fell to the floor and reverberated with a clang so loud, adrenaline shot through Henry like he’d fallen off the precipice of something. As if there wasn’t enough adrenaline coursing through his body already.

  “Sorry. Oh man. Sorry. That was me. My foot. I kicked over a knife block,” Rosie apologized. Her hair mussed, escaping from her braid, her lips pink
and swollen. “I don’t even know how my foot got up here,” she added, confused.

  Henry laughed, and Rosie laughed, too. What had they been waiting for all these months?

  As their laughter died down, Rosie looked at him, seriously now, like she was considering him. “I want to tell you something.” She took a deep breath. “My, um, my dad died a couple years ago.”

  That was not what he’d expected her to say.

  “Rosie,” he said, “I’m so—”

  “It’s okay,” she said, cutting him off. “Thank you. But it’s—it’s okay. It was more than a couple years ago at this point, honestly. But it felt like . . . like something broke inside me, when that happened. And that since then, I haven’t been able to get back to being me. That I’d be places, with people, but I was never really there, you know? Always just looking at it from the outside. Doing things that I knew should make me happy, that used to make me happy, but I couldn’t feel happy, not the way I used to. Except when I was in the kitchen. Baking. Where things make sense.”

  He nodded. He couldn’t know how she felt, not really. Henry had never known loss, not on that level, not of that magnitude. He’d barely known loss at all. But he knew, at least, what it meant to be in the kitchen. Where things made sense.

  “And I’m not saying this to, like, make you feel bad, or anything—I don’t even know why I started talking about it.” She sighed. “I guess—I finally started to feel like myself again here. The Rosie I was before. The Rosie who hangs out with her friends and laughs and actually is where she is. The Rosie who is present. The Rosie who can have crushes.” Rosie smiled at him, shyly.

  Henry wanted to say the right thing, but wasn’t sure what it would be. He took her hand and ran his fingers over the faded scars on her thumb.

  “Did your dad—did he like to cook?” Henry asked. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say. But it was what he’d thought of.

  “No. No, definitely not. But he loved to eat.” She grinned. “Didn’t matter what I made, even if it was a disaster, an experiment gone wrong, he’d finish it. He was also great at helping with cleanup, washing dishes, that kind of thing. He was in the military, and he’d done KP duty, back when he was younger, when he’d first enlisted. Dad was like a machine in the kitchen. No matter the mess I made, in under ten minutes, you’d never be able to know someone had been cooking in there.”