Finding Yvonne

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Finding Yvonne Page 15

by Brandy Colbert


  “This is it!” Lou exclaims after swallowing his first bite. He’s grinning so proudly, you’d think I’d just won a televised baking competition. “This is what I’m looking for. Technical proficiency, excellent taste, exquisite presentation.”

  My cheeks are hot from his praise. “Really?”

  I take a bite and that answers my question. The crust is perfectly flaky, the apple slices beautifully caramelized, and the apricot jam brushed across the top is just the right complement to the tartness of the Granny Smiths. I knew this version felt different, but I wasn’t sure if I’d actually achieved what I thought I did. It took me so long to realize how my relationship with violin had changed, I’m never quite certain if I can trust in my abilities.

  “It’s fantastic, Yvonne. What did you do differently this time?”

  “Nothing,” I say slowly. “But I guess… it seemed like I was in a different state of mind, if that makes sense.”

  He forks up another bite and nods thoughtfully. “Yes, of course it does. Sinclair isn’t very flowery, so he probably never talks about this, but I wholeheartedly believe that the amount of love you put into your food reflects back in the finished product. How were you feeling when you made the first tart?”

  “It was the last thing I wanted to do.”

  “What was different this time?”

  I’m pregnant. But I can’t say that.

  I’m not sure I can articulate what was different, just that I let everything go and concentrated fully on the preparation. As if the French apple tart would be the most important task of my life. And it felt right, like the other night when I played the violin at home for the first time in a long time. I was doing what I was supposed to be doing—not only for Lou, but for myself.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m learning.”

  He leans against the counter. “Are you enjoying this setup we have?”

  “Yeah… I am.” I press the tip of my index finger into the crumbs on my plate. “I never expected to, but it’s kind of nice.”

  “Just kind of?”

  I frown at him. “What are you saying?”

  “Well,” he begins, looking at the tart before moving his gaze to me. “If you really like baking and you want to learn even more, I’d love it if you staged at my restaurant for a while.”

  “Stage?” He pronounces it with an ah sound, and it’s a term I’m not familiar with.

  “It’s our word for internships in restaurant kitchens. Staging was what chefs did before the culinary school boom, but it’s still prevalent today. I did it and your father did it. Warren staged at my restaurant before he went to work for your father. It’s a good way to see the inner workings of a kitchen and test yourself.”

  “You’d do that for me?” But when I think about it too much, I wonder if it was Lou’s idea at all. Has he been conspiring with my father this whole time? Dad likes it when I have something to keep me busy. Maybe this was his way of trying to help since I told him I wouldn’t be applying to music programs.

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” I begin, then stop. “That’s so nice, Lou, but I’m not good enough to be a pastry chef.”

  “You are,” he says easily.

  “But I’ve never worked in a kitchen before.” I’m trying to force him into saying this isn’t worth my time because I can’t believe he thinks I have natural talent. Just because you enjoy something doesn’t mean you’re good enough to pursue it. I’m too old to dupe myself into believing that again.

  “Which is precisely why you’d be staging. To learn. I wouldn’t suggest you go for this if I didn’t believe you could excel. And then if things go well, perhaps we’d look at enrolling you in a proper pastry chef program. You know, there’s a very famous one in Paris that I’ve always wondered about….”

  Staging. Culinary school. Paris. My brain is spinning. I’m finding it hard to come up with words. Where will I be in a year? Or six months? I don’t know what choice I’m going to make in the next few weeks. These potential plans are exciting, but I wonder if they’ll still be an option for me, whatever I decide to do about my current problem.

  “Your father and I didn’t jump to where we are overnight,” Lou says. “Even the most talented people have to work hard to become the best. Writers don’t just pop out award-winning novels on their first try. We all have different paths, and we all learned a lot along the way. From school, our peers, our mentors.”

  “Have you talked to my dad about this? You’re…” It’s hard for me to say the words, but I have to know. “You’re not just doing this for me because you like him?”

  Lou shakes his head firmly. “I don’t have time to waste on someone who doesn’t have potential. And maybe I’m wrong, but you and I seem to have our own relationship independent of your dad. As your godfather, I’m pretty proud of that.”

  I smile at him shyly, glad that he likes our time together as much as I do. “You’re not wrong.”

  “Good. And I haven’t told your father what I just proposed, but he won’t be surprised. I used to give him little tests like these when he was starting out. He was furious with me during the beef bourguignonne assignment—I made him go back to the kitchen ten times before it was good enough.”

  That makes me laugh. Patience isn’t one of my dad’s strongest qualities, which doesn’t pair well with his lifelong quest for perfection.

  “Just promise me you’ll think about it,” Lou says, cutting another piece of the tart.

  “I promise.”

  26.

  Warren has a rare Saturday off, so when I tell him earlier in the week that we need to talk, he says to come over that night.

  I wish I could blurt out my news over the phone because I don’t want to see Warren’s face when I tell him. I usually know what to expect with him, but this is the most serious thing I’ve ever had to talk to him about, by far. And every time I think about how I have to explain Omar, I want to cancel on him and stay home.

  I don’t feel any better when I get to his place. I planned to stand outside the door for a few moments to calm my nerves before I went in, but Warren must have heard my footsteps on the stairs because he pops his head out before I’ve stepped onto the doormat.

  He pulls me into the apartment and kisses me. He smells so good, like he’s just showered. His hair is still damp.

  “That was a nice greeting,” I say when our lips part.

  “I guess I missed you,” he says. “It’s been a few days…. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

  I shake my head. Then, when he kisses me again, his hand slides lightly across my stomach and I jump back immediately, startling both of us.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I…” I trail off because when I look over his shoulder, I notice the table in the background.

  It’s set for two, and he’s done it up with a crisp white tablecloth and folded cloth napkins. Two long white candlesticks sit in the center, tips freshly lit and glowing.

  I look around. I was so caught off guard when I came in that I didn’t realize the entire room is bathed in candlelight.

  “This is me trying to make up for your birthday.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. “Better late than never, right?”

  “You didn’t have to do this, War,” I say softly.

  “I wanted to.” He smiles. “I even got another cake.”

  And then, after I’ve seen all the trouble he went to, making me dinner on his night off, I know I can’t tell him until later tonight. After we’ve eaten. It doesn’t seem right to let all this food and his efforts go to waste. My appetite is already shaky; I won’t be able to eat a bite after we talk.

  “I got some wine,” he says. “Red and white. And I have beer, too. I sprang for the good stuff.”

  “Um, actually, I’m good with water.”

  Warren frowns. “You hungover from last night?”

  “No, I didn’t go out. I just don’t feel like drinking,” I say,
hoping my voice is strong enough to be believable.

  Even if I end up having an abortion, drinking doesn’t seem like the greatest idea in my current emotional state. I burst into tears this morning while watching a milk commercial.

  Warren starts us off with a cheese plate on which he’s artfully arranged some Brie, Gouda, and manchego, along with a handful of almonds, crusty bread, and a small jar of cherry preserves. I nibble at a little bit of everything except the Brie—I hate Brie and he loves it, something we’ve argued about far too often—while he talks about the new cheese shop he visited in Eagle Rock.

  “They recognized me from the SoCal Weekly piece,” he says, pride shining through in his voice.

  “Do you feel better about the article now?”

  He smears a glob of preserves onto a hunk of bread. “I think I felt better about it after seeing my dad.”

  “Have you talked to him since the brunch?”

  “We’ve been emailing some, but I’m keeping my distance. I’m not ready to have dinner with him and his family or whatever.” He sighs. “I haven’t told my mom yet.”

  “Are you going to?” I’ve met his mom a few times. She’s a sweet but no-nonsense woman with Warren’s smile.

  “If I see him again, yeah…. Does this make you want to find your mom?”

  “Yes and no. I feel like if she wanted to be found, I’d have already found her, you know?” And my father made it very clear that this probably won’t happen, no matter how much I’ve wished for it.

  “It’s her loss, then,” he says. “Completely.”

  Warren serves rack of lamb next. He leans over my shoulder to place the platter on the table, then dips his head to kiss my earlobe before he returns to his seat. The lamb is cooked to a beautiful medium rare, just the way we both like it, and the outside of the chops are crusted with fresh herbs. I can smell the rosemary and thyme before I begin cutting into the meat.

  This is by far the most romantic dinner I’ve ever sat down to, and I can’t fully enjoy it since I have no idea where things will stand with us after I tell him.

  “So, you wanted to talk?” he says as if he’s peeked into my thoughts. But his voice is so light he couldn’t have guessed what it is.

  “It can wait.”

  “Well, good, because I wanted to talk to you, too.” He clears his throat. “I know things were a little rocky with us for a while, but I love you, Yvonne, and I don’t want to see anyone else.”

  I pause in cutting my lamb chop. “You want to be exclusive?”

  “Yeah,” he says almost shyly, and then his face pinkens. “I want you to be my girlfriend.”

  I take exactly one bite of lamb before I start to cry.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He stares at me, confused. “I thought everything was good with us or I wouldn’t have—”

  “Everything’s great with us, Warren,” I choke out. “But not with me.”

  He shakes his head, not understanding.

  My voice is so wobbly I don’t know if he’ll comprehend what I’m saying. But if I wait to speak until it’s steady and strong, we’ll be waiting forever.

  “What did you say?” He leans forward as if the extra few inches will make a difference. The table is tiny. Our knees touch underneath.

  My voice hiccups on every word the next time I try. He still doesn’t understand.

  I close my eyes the third time. It’s a lot easier to say something so difficult when I don’t have to look at him. “I’m pregnant.”

  There is no sound. Not a peep. It’s so quiet that the dull hum of the refrigerator is loud as a bullhorn.

  When I open my eyes, Warren is staring at my plate, his mouth slack. The color has drained from his face. He breathes in and out a couple of times, but he doesn’t move. Just stares.

  “Warren?”

  He blinks and swallows. “I—wow. This is—this isn’t what I expected. I mean, we were safe, right? Every time?”

  We’ve only been together a few times since that first afternoon, and we used a condom each time. I insisted on it.

  “Yes, but Warren… there’s more.”

  “Oh, God. Have you told Sinclair?” He looks more upset about the prospect of my father knowing than me being pregnant, which makes me feel as if the blood in my veins has been replaced by hot lava.

  “Jesus, Warren! Not everything is about my fucking father!” I practically shout.

  “Okay, sorry. You’re right.” He picks up the napkin from his lap, squeezing it into a ball with one hand. “Go on.”

  I close my eyes again, but it doesn’t help this time. The words are still stuck in my throat, and after a while, I feel stupid sitting here with my eyes closed, in complete silence. I can’t look at him, though, so I focus on my lamb. The pinkness of it, which looked so appealing a few minutes ago, turns my stomach.

  “I was seeing someone,” I say in a low voice. “It wasn’t serious, but I was with him… the week before our first time. Only once, but—”

  “But you slept with him.”

  “Yes.” My eyes burn a hole into my plate.

  “The week before our first time together.”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Warren’s chair screeches back so quickly that it topples over. He doesn’t right it. He walks to the kitchen, like he’s going to serve our next course, but he only stays there for a second before he’s stalking across the floor to the other side of the room.

  “So you don’t know whose it is?” His voice is wooden.

  “No, Warren. I don’t.” My heart is in my throat.

  “Did you use protection?”

  “Does it matter at this point?”

  “Yes, Yvonne, it goddamn matters! You hooked up with some random guy and then you slept with me. I deserve to know if I could have some sort of disease. What if our condom broke and—”

  “Fuck you, Warren. Of course I used protection. You think I would do that to you?”

  “I honestly don’t know what you’re capable of.”

  I jump up from the table and throw my napkin to the floor. That isn’t satisfying enough, so I sweep the silverware off the table, too. Then I march over to him until we’re standing face-to-face.

  “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m garbage just because I was with someone else. You and I weren’t exclusive. You abandoned me on my birthday to score points with my dad, even though you knew how much it would hurt me. You know how hard that day is for me, and you still fucked it up. So don’t you dare talk to me about possibly hurting you when you actually hurt me and I’m still here.”

  He doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t look at me, but I can see he’s breathing rapidly. When he speaks again, his voice is low. Restrained.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just… This is a shock. Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  I shake my head. “The woman at Planned Parenthood said I can check paternity a few ways, but you have to wait until you’re a certain number of weeks, and I don’t think I can do that.”

  I can’t sit around letting this…thing grow inside me, waiting to learn whose it is. What if I don’t like the result? What if I decide by the time I find out that I don’t want it, no matter who the father is?

  “So you’re going to have an abortion.” His tone isn’t judgmental, and it’s not that wooden voice from before. It’s somewhere in between, and that doesn’t make me feel any better.

  “I’m not sure.” I hesitate before what I say next, because there’s a very good chance he’s not going to give me an answer I like. But I have to know. “If it was yours… would you want me to keep it?”

  He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t know.”

  He doesn’t look at me, and somehow that seems more hurtful than his words. I don’t know what I want, either, but this feels like rejection. It feels fucking terrible.

  “I’m going to go.” I walk to the futon, where I dropped my bag earlier.

  “Yvonne…”

  I c
an’t stick around here. I don’t blame him for not having the answers, for not saying exactly what I wanted to hear, because I’m not sure what that would be.

  But I can’t stay in this room and listen to him work out his feelings on this.

  I can’t make him feel okay about this situation when I don’t know how to feel okay about it myself.

  27.

  Ms. Ortiz is standing at her podium looking over some papers when I walk in after school on Monday.

  She smiles big when she sees me. “Well, this is a nice surprise. Am I in trouble?”

  I smile back. “No, but I was wondering if you have a few minutes to talk?”

  “For you, of course.” We sit down in the front row. “What can I do for you, Yvonne?”

  “I wanted to ask you about music therapy.”

  “Oh!” Her face lights up. “Well, I’ve never been through a program myself, but I’m sure some of my former students would be happy to talk to you about it. One of them is currently studying in the undergrad program at CSUN. She was very happy there the last time we spoke. What is it about music therapy that appeals to you?”

  I knew I’d probably have to answer this question, but I still feel shy when I start talking. “When I first started playing, I loved everything about violin. I felt special, like I’d found something I could be really good at. Something I could maybe do forever.”

  Ortiz nods.

  “And my dad… He’s great at what he does. One of the best in his industry, so I always felt like I needed to be the best, too. Especially with all the money he was paying Denis for my private lessons and how much we spent on the violin.”

  “I never got the idea that your father put pressure on you.”

  “He didn’t…. He doesn’t. But with his work, it seems like there’s no in between. There’s either perfection or failing, and that’s how I started looking at violin. It was the only thing I knew how to do, so I figured I had to be at the top of my game. And that’s when I started thinking about conservatories and playing professionally, but I realized that’s not what I want. I don’t like that sort of stress. I don’t like feeling competitive, and to be honest, I don’t even feel like I want to perform. I just want to play.”

 

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