“I do love it. It’s just… I’ve heard you play. You’re so much better than me.”
“Good, better… it’s all subjective.”
He’s not going to let me get out of this unless I kick him out, and that’s not happening. I pick up the violin and bow as slowly as I can, stalling while I think of what to play. I wish I knew something contemporary, but Ortiz doesn’t let us play around much, and Denis certainly stuck to classical. I can’t play the “Montagues and Capulets” because we just heard such a stunning rendition, and I’d never do it justice.
I settle on a movement from a Vivaldi concerto, the one I played for Ortiz. It’s not the most difficult piece I know, but maybe that means I’ll have fewer opportunities to mess this up. I’m a little rusty at first—there’s no denying that. I don’t look at Omar’s face to see if he noticed because of course he noticed. He plays every single day. I think of all the times I skipped practicing or rushed through it, and I wonder if I’d be prepping for conservatory auditions if only I’d tried harder. If I’d listened to Denis more than I scoffed at him behind his back.
My bow hits a sour note.
I pull the violin down from my chin, ready to make an excuse, but Omar shakes his head and stares at me until I start again.
I try to think of something—anything—that will soothe my nerves, but I just keep thinking how odd it is that I’m standing here in my mother’s dress, playing violin for a guy I’m still getting to know. And then I think of my mother. Did she leave this dress for me, knowing I’d want to wear it someday? What would she think of me now, if she could see me? Why has she never tried to contact me, like Warren’s dad contacted him? I get angrier and angrier, and that ferocity comes through as my bow glides rapidly across the strings.
When I stop, I am drained. I set my violin on my desk and look at Omar, almost with defiance. Daring him to tell me I should be applying to conservatories.
He doesn’t.
But he does walk around the bed and slip his arms around my waist, and he never once looks away from me.
“Do you still think good is subjective?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “But for the record, I think you are good. That was a damn good Vivaldi.”
“Yeah?” I look at him shyly, my bashfulness starting to fade.
He answers me with a kiss. And then another. He kisses me so deeply again and again that I feel dizzy when we pull away.
“I liked you from the first time I saw you,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up and down my lace-covered hips. “But I thought you were too young.”
“Would you stop it with the ‘young’ thing?” I playfully tweak one of his locs.
“Okay, I also thought that guy was your boyfriend.”
“What guy—” Oh. I forgot that Warren was with me the first time I talked to Omar. Omar, who is tall enough that I have to stand on my tiptoes to brush my lips against his neck. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
I feel guilty for a moment, denying Warren like that. But it’s true. And then Omar backs me up until I’m pressed against the wall, and I forget about Warren because we’re kissing again. Omar’s hands cup my ass and then one travels under my dress, running over the lace on my panties, too. He finds the zipper on the back of my dress and sends it dashing down my spine. The air is cool on my back and then the rest of me as he slides the dress from my shoulders.
“Wait,” he says, as I’m unbuttoning his shirt. I don’t stop, but I look up so he’ll know I’m listening. “Is your dad gonna come home and kick my ass for being here?”
I glance at the clock on my wall. “He won’t be home for at least a couple more hours. We’re fine.”
And soon, we’re in my bed. Time feels like it truly stops when I’m kissing Omar. I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel freer with him than I’ve ever felt with anyone—even Warren. Maybe it’s because he touches me so freely, without hesitation. His hands are slow and gentle, but I’m very much aware that he knows what he’s doing. That feeling in the air between us—that spark I felt the first day I talked to him—moves to my body. It crackles through my veins and along my skin. I am electric under his touch.
I don’t know if it’s the high from the performance or that I let myself go enough to play for him, but I feel like I’m floating. And when we’re in that delicate space, the pause between sex and no sex, I don’t hesitate long.
I say yes—with my hands, with my hips, with my mouth.
I give him all of me.
19.
I love Sabina for many reasons, and the fact that she helps me take down my box braids is high on the list. I can do it myself, but it’s faster when I have two extra hands—and always more fun when Sabina is around.
She comes over Friday night, a couple of days after my date with Omar, armed with a large bag of Swedish Fish, salt and vinegar chips, and chocolate-covered pretzels.
“Running out of snacks makes me nervous,” she says when I remind her that a pizza is on the way.
After it arrives, I set the box on the kitchen table while I grab plates and napkins. Sabina starts to sit down, but I look over my shoulder and say, “I thought we could eat in the sunroom.”
When I turn around, she’s frowning. “Your dad’s weed room?”
“It’s not just his weed room. It’s kind of nice in there.”
She scrunches her nose but obliges. We inhale the first slices of pizza without talking. It’s from our favorite place, and we always get the same kind: prosciutto and arugula, which Sabina deemed the most bougie pizza that ever existed until she tried it and fell in love.
“It’s not so bad in here. It doesn’t reek of weed, anyway,” Sabina says, taking a break after the first piece. “But is there a reason we’re in here?”
“I don’t know. I never hang out in here….”
“Honestly, I didn’t think you were allowed in here.” She looks around with her eyes narrowed as if she expects my father to jump out of hiding and reprimand us.
“It’s not off-limits,” I say, though I’m certain my father wouldn’t be too excited by the idea of my best friend scarfing pizza on his love seat.
“Are you trying to, like, figure out your dad or something?”
“My mom.”
She pulls another slice of pizza from the pie. “I don’t get it.”
“Dad said she used to hang out in here… but he doesn’t know why. And I don’t remember her spending time in this room, which is bugging the shit out of me.”
“So you think you’ll get some special feeling that’ll make you figure out why she left?”
“No—yes—I don’t know. It can’t hurt, right?”
We lie around complaining about how much pizza we ate, then clean up and move to my room. Sabina sits on the bed and starts on the back of my head, unraveling the tight plaits from the bottom up, while I work on the ones at the front from my cross-legged position on the floor.
“Has that guy from the beach asked you out again?” She drops a strand of the added hair into the paper bag by my side.
I push my fingers into the loose, soft strands of hair at my neck that she uncovered, feeling it for the first time in weeks. “Not yet, but he called the day after our date to say how much fun he had.”
“I can’t believe you guys talk on the phone.”
“Yeah, it’s weird. Even Warren and I text more often than not. He seems old-fashioned like that… a gentleman.”
“Gentleman? Wow.” She pauses, her fingers working quickly at the back of my head. “All that stuff about him being homeless… that doesn’t bother you?”
“He’s not homeless now. He was. Past tense.” I’m snippy, but I can’t help it. I need Sabina to not pick apart this slice of happiness. “It’s a communal house.”
“Still… he eats food from a dumpster. That doesn’t gross you out?”
I turn around to face her, my hand paused on a braid. “You sound like a snob.”
“I’m not a snob. I—sometimes
I worry about you with guys.” She looks down at her lap.
“You worry about me? What are you talking about?”
“You get caught up with them easily. You slept with that Omar guy so quickly, and—don’t you worry something’s going to go wrong? He busks on the beach and lives with, like, a thousand people.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Neither do you.” She sighs, her eyes meeting mine again. “I’m not trying to be a jerk. I just wonder if this stuff is connected to your mom and maybe you need to talk to someone about it.”
“Is Mama Jess training you to be a therapist or something? I don’t have mommy issues.” My hands are shaking. I can’t believe she’s saying this to me. Judging me. “And God, Sabina. You’re acting like I fucked half a football team in one afternoon. Just because you want to wait to have sex until you get married doesn’t mean I want to.”
“I’m not saying you have mommy issues.” She shakes her head. “I guess I don’t know what I’m saying except I don’t want you to get fucked over by this guy.”
“Is it him, or is it anyone that I date?”
She frowns. “What?”
“Ever since I hooked up with Cody, you’ve been weird about me and guys. If it makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to talk about it, but I don’t like you making me feel bad for doing what I want.”
“I’m not jealous,” she says firmly.
“I didn’t say you were.”
She runs a hand over the back of her head, fingers brushing absentmindedly down the woven strands of her French braids. “I think maybe I should go home.”
“Yeah… maybe.” It will take me twice as long to unbraid my hair alone, but I don’t think Sabina and I can act like everything is normal after what we said to each other. We don’t disagree often, and neither of us knows what to do about it.
I walk her to the door and we don’t hug when we say good-bye, which is unprecedented. She waves at me stiffly and I stand at the door, watching her cross the lawn to her car parked by the curb.
Maybe I don’t know Omar as well as I know Warren, but I know him better than she does. I know him well enough to understand that he makes me feel alive and good about who I am. He makes me feel less lonely, even when we’re apart, and that feels like the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.
20.
It took two more tries—and one burned piecrust—but I finally got the lemon meringue to Lou’s liking.
At first I thought his enthusiasm was forced, that he was just being nice to me because he felt bad that I’d had so much trouble with it. But as soon as I tried it myself, I was relieved that it tasted as good as it looked. My praise was earned.
I get to choose what I bake for him this time, and I wonder if that’s a test, too. Like, maybe if I attempt something too difficult, he’ll think I’m too arrogant to take seriously, but if I go too easy, he’ll lose respect for me. I can’t imagine how pressured my father felt, working right under him for so many years. Lou is the kind of guy you don’t feel good about letting down.
After my braid appointment, I sit at the kitchen table with my mother’s dessert cookbook, starting from page one. Looking at the table of contents, I wonder how many of these desserts are outdated and how many are considered classics. Warren is always saying that food goes through trends, too, and that no one will respect a chef who doesn’t change with the times.
Lemon meringue seems like a mainstay, but what about a Baked Alaska? Although as soon as I see that it involves meringue, I can’t turn the page fast enough. I flip through recipes for macarons (more meringue) and coconut macaroons, Boston cream pie and devil’s food cake, bananas Foster and classic banana splits.
I’ve almost reached the end, wondering if I’ll have to consult another cookbook, when I see exactly what I’m going to make: a French apple tart. The ingredients are simple enough, but the presentation is gorgeous, and if I can get it anywhere near the photo in this book, Lou will definitely be impressed.
I have to make a run to the grocery store, and it turns out post-dinnertime on a Saturday is a great time to shop for food because it’s nearly empty when I get there. I took a picture of the ingredients list, but I have it memorized. I looked at the lemon meringue pie recipe so much it was practically imprinted on my eyeballs, and now it seems easier to just take a few extra minutes to absorb the list rather than having to look at it a million times while I’m working.
I’m in the produce aisle picking over a bin of Granny Smith apples when a memory hits me so hard it cuts through me like a knife.
The sweet, crisp smell of the fruit, the sight of it lined up neatly in rows, reminds me of standing next to an apple bin with my mother. She bought me an enormous caramel apple from the vendor and told me to wait right there, that she’d be back.
I was five, maybe six. She never should have left me alone anywhere, and especially not somewhere like the farmers’ market, where someone could have snatched me up and disappeared in an instant. But she didn’t go far.
She approached a guy standing next to one of the counters. I didn’t know him, and I don’t remember what he looked like. Tall? Back then, everyone was tall. All I remember is he wore a black baseball cap and he stood very close to her. The caramel on my apple was too sticky and tasted too sweet, so I watched them the whole time. I didn’t understand that she would have taken me with her if whatever was going on was completely innocent, but I felt like something wasn’t right.
My chest tightens so much that it’s hard to take a breath. I can barely focus on the task of stuffing apples into a bag before I stumble my way through the checkout. Out at my car, I have to hold one of my hands steady with the other just to push the unlock button on my key fob. Once I’m in, I lean my forehead against the steering wheel and close my eyes.
Was that memory real? Is has to be—right? I couldn’t just make up something like that after so many years. And if it’s true, is the man in the baseball hat the reason she left us? The only person who’d have any idea is my father, and I can’t ask him.
The last thing I feel like doing when I get home is making the tart, but Dad and I are taking it to Lou tomorrow, after my brunch with Warren and his father. I feel sluggish as I move about the kitchen, but at least the dough is already done. I made it last night after Sabina left. And that part was finally easy. I’ve worked with (and ruined) so much pastry dough by now that I feel like I could make it in my sleep.
The apples are an event. I have to peel each one and remove the middle with a melon baller, then slice them almost thin as paper. My hands shake every time I think of my mother at the farmers’ market, and every once in a while I have to stop and set down the knife until they’re steady once again.
I’m happy with the way the dough rolls out and the careful way I trim it and how I layer on the apples. Then I dot the top with cubes of butter, slide the tart into the oven, and wait.
It’s times like this that I wish Omar could text because I don’t feel like talking, just saying hi. I was worried things would feel weird between us after we slept together, but I didn’t feel embarrassed or awkward. The most surprising part was probably how comfortable I was with him before, during, and after. I wish I could make Sabina understand.
Warren would get why this memory of my mom hit me so hard, but I can’t bother him with that now. He’s at work, and I know he’s already sweating the meeting with his father tomorrow. I’m nervous enough for him.
The tart looks impeccable when I take it out of the oven an hour later: The edges of the pastry have appropriately browned, and the apple slices on top have a beautiful golden glow. The kitchen is warm and the air is sweet. The whole project has been easy from start to finish, but I don’t feel good about it.
In fact, I can’t get it out of my sight fast enough. I scribble FOR LOU on a piece of paper and drop it on top of the tart once it’s cooled and covered. I don’t want my father to forget and dig into it when he gets home.
&n
bsp; I curl up on the couch in the living room and turn on the TV to a rerun marathon of an old sitcom. Just for noise. As my eyes start to close, I think I should move to my room, but I’m too comfortable here.
I wake to Dad shaking my shoulder, the remote in one hand. “You should go to bed, Yvonne. It’s late.”
I blink at him and rub my eyes. “What time is it?”
“Quarter to two.”
“Oh.” I blink again. “Dad?”
He’s already heading toward the sunroom, his chef coat draped over his arm. He turns around. “Yeah?”
“Did Mom go to the farmers’ market a lot?”
“Yvonne, what are you talking about?” He’s been pretty patient with me until now, but this time he doesn’t try to mask his irritation.
“I had this memory and I wanted to know if it’s real. We were in a farmers’ market, but I don’t know where. And it was right before she left.”
He sighs, and in the reflection from the television, I can see that his eyes are especially tired tonight. “Is there a reason you want to know all these things about your mother lately?”
I sit up halfway, balancing on one elbow. “We’ve never really talked about her. I don’t know her. All I have to go on is what you can tell me. And you don’t tell me much about anything.”
“Yvonne…” He takes so long to respond that I wonder if he’s going to answer me at all. He sighs again, through his nose this time. “I don’t want you thinking just because Warren’s father showed up, the same thing will happen to you. That’s not how this stuff works.”
“I’m not a child,” I snap. “I know how it works. But it isn’t fair that she left before I could really remember her. You had all this time with her… all these memories.”
“It’s not fair,” he says quietly. “But there’s nothing we can do about it. I don’t want you to get your hopes up for something that’s never going to happen.”
The finality of his statement stings. None of this is fair, and none of it is my fault. But I’m too tired to fight him on this. And I don’t have to dig deep inside to know that what my father said is right.
Finding Yvonne Page 12