She, Myself & I

by Whitney Gaskell

  The restaurant was closed on Mondays. It was the only day off most of us had.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head.

  “I’ll teach you how to make an omelet. The right way,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You said you wanted to be a chef. The first thing every student learns is how to make an omelet.”

  “Okay. Um, where?” I asked.

  “My apartment. I’ll pick you up here at seven,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said again, trying to ignore my heart, which was thudding in my chest, as heavy as a potato.

  And only after I’d climbed out of the car and watched him drive off did I wonder, Was this a date or a teaching exercise? Either way, I didn’t care. I’d take whatever I could get.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “What are you looking for?” Sophie asked me.

  I’d lured Sophie away from her budding photography business for the afternoon, and convinced her to come to the Arboretum with me under the pretense of catching up. What I really wanted was advice on how to handle the whole Oliver situation. And whether buying black stockings and a garter would be overkill for a first date.

  We’d eaten subs, and stopped in at Gymboree, where she bought Ben a T-shirt with dinosaurs on it, and the Gap, where I picked up a skirt on clearance, and then I steered her toward Victoria’s Secret. Sophie was pushing Ben in a stroller, and he’d fallen asleep, his head lolling to one side. His navy blue hat was tipped forward, covering his face.

  “I’m just browsing,” I said.

  “Do you need panties?”

  “Actually, I’m looking for something a little more . . . sophisticated.”

  “You mean like a thong?”

  “Maybe a matching bra-and-panty set. Or maybe a teddy,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  “A teddy? Mickey,” Sophie said, grabbing my arm and turning me toward her. “Who is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever it is you’re sleeping with,” she hissed.

  “I’m not sleeping with anyone!”

  She looked at me, head tipped to the side, eyebrows arched. “Yeah, right. You’re just shopping for a teddy to what, wear around the house? I don’t buy this stuff, and I’m married.”

  “Okay, fine, there is someone. Nothing’s happened yet, but he’s invited me over to his place for dinner tonight,” I said.

  “Your first date, and you’re already shopping for lingerie? Don’t you think that’s a little fast?”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little judgmental?”

  “I’m your big sister, it’s my job to be judgmental. Seriously, are you really going to go bed with him so soon?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m not even sure it’s a date,” I said, turning away from her so that I could browse through a rack of silk nightgowns. They were in pretty jeweled colors—deep purple, azure blue, crimson—but definitely not what I was looking for, unless I showed up for dinner wearing one under a raincoat. Definitely overkill.

  “If a guy cooks you dinner, that’s a date. No, it’s more than a date, it’s a seduction ploy,” Sophie said.

  “We work together. He’s the head chef at Versa. It could just be a collegial thing,” I said.

  “Yeah, right. How hot is he?”

  I sucked in my breath. “Really, really hot,” I admitted.

  “So it’s a date. Shoot. I had a really nice guy I was planning on setting you up with,” she said, pausing to pick out some gray cotton briefs from a round table in the middle of the store. She held a pair up to me. “See, this is what you wear when you’re old and married. God, I feel fat.”

  “I think you look great. Haven’t you lost weight?”

  “A little. At least I’m not wearing my maternity pants anymore.”

  “Who did you want to fix me up with?”

  “Ben’s pediatrician.”

  “The sexy Indian guy from the gym?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “The one you have a crush on?”

  “I don’t have a crush on him. I told him all about you, and he asked me to give you his number,” she said.

  “Paige warned me that if you ever tried to set me up with anyone, to run very fast in the other direction,” I said.

  “Very funny. And I can’t believe she’s complaining, since I was the one who set her up with Zack,” Sophie said.

  I pulled a corset-and-garter set off of a rack and held it up. “What do you think of this? Too much?”

  Sophie considered it and then nodded. “Yeah, you don’t want to look like you planned this out. If things go in that direction—although I think you should wait a little longer and go out with the guy a few times, that’s all I’ll say—you want it to look more casual. Like you just happen to be the kind of woman who always wears sexy underwear. You want something that says, I’m a fascinating, erotic woman. The corset says, I’m going to an S&M club after our date.”

  “Point taken,” I said, and put down the corset.

  Sophie wheeled Ben over to a rack of bras and rummaged through them for a few minutes, before pulling out a black lace push-up bra. “This is what you want. Simple yet devastating. What size are you?”

  “Um, 32B.”

  She checked the tag. “Here you go. And these panties, too,” she said, handing me the bra and a matching pair of black bikini panties. “Unless you want the thong.”

  “I’ll take the panties.”

  “Do you want to try the bra on?”

  “No, let’s just go. I’m sure it’ll fit,” I said, suddenly feeling shy and strange shopping for lingerie with my big sister. Up until now, I’d always bought my underwear at Target, the cotton kind that comes in a six-pack. My college roommate had been into the more exotic fare, and often announced that she felt underdressed if her bra and panties didn’t match—“I’m a set girl,” she’d giggle—but I’d always thought it was just an affectation. Maybe she had a point. She certainly got laid more than I did, even during the years when I had a steady boyfriend.

  I paid for the underwear, and the salesclerk handed me back a pink-striped shopping sack. Sophie and I headed back to her SUV, loaded Ben in—somehow he stayed asleep even when Sophie lifted him from his umbrella stroller and buckled him into his car seat—and then climbed in. Sophie pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto the access road for the highway.

  “Have you talked to Paige recently?” I asked.

  “Not for a few days, no. Why?”

  “Zack asked her to marry him,” I said.

  Yes, I was aware that it probably wasn’t my place to tell Sophie this news, but this is what sisters do. Paige had to have known she was taking the risk when she told me.

  Sophie screamed, slammed on the brakes, and yanked the SUV over to the shoulder.

  “Jesus. What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to get us all killed?” I asked, grabbing onto the side of the door, as though this would protect me if an eighteen-wheeler slammed into us.

  “Tell me everything,” Sophie said. “And don’t swear in front of Ben.”

  After my adrenaline level returned to normal, I gave her the highlights, and when I was through, Sophie looked more worried than excited.

  “I hope she doesn’t screw this up. Zack’s the best thing that ever happened to her,” she said, flicking on her turn signal and pulling back out onto the highway.

  “That’s so sexist.”

  “I’m a woman. I can’t be sexist.”

  “Of course you can. And Paige is an incredible, accomplished person in her own right, with or without a man in her life.”

  Sophie shrugged. “I don’t mean it that way. Zack makes her happy. Happier than she ever was on her own. It’s like that line in Jerry Maguire—he completes her,” she said.

  Sophie pulled up in front of my building, and I leaned forward to gather up my packages.

  “Coming up?” I asked.

  “I’d better get going. I still need to e
dit the photos I shot yesterday. Mick, you should have seen this child, she was the homeliest baby I have ever seen. I tried putting a headband of flower petals on her, I tried soft-lighting her, I even tried making the photos slightly out of focus, but nothing helped.”

  “All babies are beautiful.”

  “I know that’s what you’re supposed to say, but it’s just not true.”

  “Well, Ben’s pretty cute,” I said, looking back over my shoulder. I could just see the top of Ben’s head over the rear-facing car seat. “Thanks for going shopping with me.”

  “Call me tomorrow and let me know how your date went. And seriously, at least consider taking it slow. I’m not saying you have to be a prude, but sometimes it takes a few dates to get the measure of a guy and figure out if he’s really the kind of person you want to get involved with,” she said.

  “Okay, I will. Think about it, that is. Hey, Soph? Before you go, can I ask you a question?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Like you have to ask.”

  “No, never mind. I know that you have to get going.”

  “I’m fine, don’t worry. What is it?”

  “Um. Would you think less of me if you found out I wasn’t going to medical school next year?”

  Sophie didn’t even pause to think about it, she just shook her head and said, “No, of course not. Why?”

  I hesitated and took a deep breath. “Because I’m not going.”

  “What? Are you crazy?” she yelped.

  “You just said you wouldn’t think less of me!”

  “I don’t. I just . . . why?”

  “It’s not right for me. I know it will sound crazy to everyone, but what I want to do is become a chef,” I said.

  “Wait . . . you said the guy you’re going out with tonight is a chef,” Sophie said, narrowing her eyes. “Is this just to impress him? Like when I pretended to like football when Aidan and I first started going out?”

  “No, absolutely not. I made this decision before I graduated. That’s why I wanted to work at a restaurant this summer,” I said.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this. You never do things like this. You’re always the good one.”

  “It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “You’re kidding, right? It’s a huge deal. Huge. And I take it you haven’t told Mom and Dad?”

  “No. I keep trying to, but all they ever want to talk about is their stupid wedding,” I said.

  “They’re going to flip when they find out.”

  “You think?” I asked. My stomach shifted nervously.

  “Oh yeah. Big-time. And you have to tell them now. Dad’s selling off some of his stocks to help pay your tuition,” she said.

  “What? Shit! Why would he do that without telling me?”

  “Don’t swear in front of the baby. It was supposed to be a surprise,” she said.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll tell them. But promise me you won’t say anything. Not even to Paige.”

  Sophie hesitated.

  “Promise me!”

  “Fine, I promise. But Mick, you have to tell them. And do it soon, okay?”

  “Okay, okay. I guess I should go up, I have to get ready for tonight.”

  “You know, I got you the cake,” Sophie said. I glanced over at her, and saw that she was frowning.

  “Cake?”

  “At your party, the one with the stethoscope on it. I got that for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “If I’d known you weren’t going to med school . . .”

  “What, you wouldn’t have gotten me a cake?”

  “I wouldn’t have gotten one with a stethoscope on it.”

  “Sophie, no offense, but that really seems sort of . . . unimportant right now.”

  “Sure, you’d say that. You don’t know what I went through to get it. I had to find a picture of a stethoscope, which wasn’t exactly easy. . . .”

  “Didn’t you just look online?”

  “No, I don’t like that Internet thing. Anyway, I had to find a picture of a stethoscope, and take it all the way into the bakery before they could decorate the cake,” she said.

  “Well . . . I appreciate that.”

  “Do you?”

  I stared at my sister. “Are you seriously mad at me about this?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m just saying, I thought you should know.”

  “Okay. Now I do.”

  “Okay, then. Bye.”

  “Bye, Soph.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Oliver’s apartment was utterly charmless. Located downtown, just off of Congress Avenue, it basically consisted of two stark white rooms plus a tiny kitchenette and bathroom, and was carpeted in industrial beige Berber. There were no pictures on the walls, nor the normal debris of everyday life—stacks of J. Crew and L.L. Bean catalogs, carelessly dropped sneakers, a discarded newspaper. The apartment contained only the most utilitarian furnishings—a love seat upholstered in navy blue duck cotton, a tan recliner, a pine coffee table, a small television set perched on a metal cart, a cheap dinette set.

  “This is . . . nice,” I lied, standing in the middle of the main room and looking over his dreary home.

  “It’s a shit box. And it’s temporary,” Oliver said, and when he smiled at me, I wanted to fold into myself with happiness.

  It was the first time I’d seen Oliver in street clothes, and it was a little strange. Tonight he was wearing faded Levi’s and a black T-shirt, and he looked so . . . normal. Like any other guy you might run into at the market or video store. Maybe his chef’s outfit was like a superhero’s costume—Super Chef!—and this was his meeker alter ego, like Peter Parker and Spider-Man. And I could tell he’d just gotten out of the shower before he picked me up—he smelled like Irish Spring soap, and his hair was still damp.

  He thought I was worth showering for, I thought, pleasure curling through me.

  “Where are you going to move to?” I asked.

  Oliver shrugged. “I don’t have definite plans yet. My wife and I are separated, so it depends on how that’s resolved,” he said. “But we’ll have to sell the house we own in Miami, and once we do that, I can look into buying a place here.”

  Ah. The first mention of The Wife.

  “I’m sorry. About your wife, I mean,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as disingenuous as I felt. “Are you getting divorced?”

  “It looks that way,” he said shortly. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine?”

  “Sure, wine would be great,” I said.

  He moved into the kitchen, and I heard the rattling of glasses and the pop of the cork. I felt out of sorts, not sure what I should do with myself, so I sat on the edge of the love seat. Oliver had said something about cooking omelets for dinner, but the shabby little table wasn’t set, and there weren’t any obvious signs of dinner preparation taking place.

  Oliver returned with the wine and glasses. He poured out two glasses and handed one to me.

  “Mm, thanks, this is good,” I said, sipping the chardonnay.

  “Are you ready for your lesson?” he asked.

  “Sure. But just so you know, I already know how to make an omelet,” I said.

  “I’m going to teach you how to do it the French way. The way I learned at the Cordon Bleu. It’s always the first lesson you learn at school. Trust me, if you practice and perfect this technique, you’ll be miles ahead of your classmates. Come, I’ll show you,” he said, standing up.

  I followed him into the tiny kitchenette, carrying my wineglass.

  “The first thing to remember when making an omelet is to pick the right pan. It must be heavy, flawless, scrupulously clean. I prefer a stainless steel pan, like so,” he said, reaching into a lower cupboard and retrieving just such a pan.

  He held it up to me, and sensing that he wanted me to say something, I said, “It’s pretty,” and then cringed at how stupid I sounded. A pan, pretty? Oh yes, and the whisk is so sexy. Gah.

  “Crack the egg
s into the bowl—I use two, some chefs use three, I think my way is better, but it’s really just personal preference—and beat them until they’re frothy,” he said, demonstrating the moves while he spoke. I peered into the bowl, expecting to see something magical, but no, they looked like average beaten eggs to me.

  “And then you add some clarified butter to the pan—and this isn’t going to be perfect, because instead of a professional-grade gas cooktop, I have to use this shitty electric range—and add the eggs. Stir the eggs slowly, lifting the edges so that the liquid will run underneath. And here’s the real technique—you move the pan like so—and there you have it,” he said, neatly rolling the omelet onto the plate without the aid of a spatula. “Now you.”

  “Oh, no. I’ll just watch,” I said quickly. The last thing I wanted to do was have his sharp eyes on me while I tried to mimic his demonstration.

  “Here, take these eggs and crack them in the bowl. I’ll monitor the heat for you,” he said.

  I dutifully cracked two eggs into the glass bowl, and of course, tiny fragments of shell toppled into the bowl.

  “Shit,” I said, reaching in to pick them out.

  “No, no, no, don’t touch them. The oils on your hands will keep the eggs from frothing.”

  I beat the eggs until my hand hurt, dropped some clarified butter in the pan, and then turned back for the bowl. The butter sizzled and browned, and when I poured the eggs in, they too began to turn brown. I could feel the weight of Oliver’s eyes on me, although I didn’t dare look at him. I’d heard him berate Ansel for far less serious transgressions.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I breathed, stirring and lifting as Oliver had done, but unlike his graceful execution, the eggs stuck and lumped up in some places, thinned and broke in others. Finally, mercifully, it was cooked, and using a spatula to scrape it, I turned it onto the plate next to the other omelet. It broke midway through and landed with an unappetizing thunk.

  “Now we taste,” Oliver said, holding up a fork.

  He cut off a piece of my omelet and held it up to me, feeding me as though I were a baby bird.

  “How is it?”

  “Okay. Not great. Sort of like dried-out scrambled eggs,” I said.