She, Myself & I

by Whitney Gaskell

  “Now try mine,” he said, lifting the fork to my mouth again.

  “Wow. It’s . . . succulent. I didn’t even know eggs could be succulent,” I exclaimed, and then smiled ruefully. “I’m awful at this.”

  Oliver smiled back. “No, you did fine for your first time. Just practice, and it will be better every time. Cooking’s the same as playing a musical instrument or painting. Keep practicing, and you’ll improve slowly.”

  “And what if I don’t?” I asked, the anxiety needling at me. My whole life, I’ve been the straight-A student, but it was all just book learning. It’s easy to be good at that. Everything’s already written down, and all you have to do is learn how to study it, commit it to memory, and then regurgitate it back up at test time. Cooking was different. It was all about sensing, tasting, anticipating, creating. What if I never got the hang of it? What if, for the first time in my life, I was a complete and utter failure?

  “You will,” Oliver said, and he put the plate down on the counter and kissed me.

  My shock over this sudden move quickly dissipated, and I kissed him back, savoring the taste of his mouth, the soapy, clean scent rising off his body, the feel of his foreign body as it pressed me back against the kitchen counter. Oliver deftly unbuttoned my black stretch oxford shirt. He slid it off my shoulders, and then broke off the kiss while he gazed down at my newly exposed cleavage nestled snuggly in the black lace push-up bra. The bra pushed my small breasts up and together, creating a pronounced décolletage. Earlier, when I first tried it on, I’d turned around and around in front of the mirror, delighted at the difference it made.

  Murmuring his approval, he slid his hands down my shoulders, and then up my sides, and cupped both of my breasts. Whenever Nick was in this area, he would squeeze and knead at me until I could diplomatically find an excuse to move his hands away. But Oliver’s touch was firmer, more precise, and as he played with my nipples through the satin of the bra, pinching, coaxing, stroking, all I could do was hold on to his shoulders and make mewing sounds.

  “You like this?” Oliver whispered in my ear. “How about this?”

  I just nodded, and swayed, and any thought I might have had of entertaining Sophie’s advice on playing hard-to-get dissipated immediately. Although when he reached behind me to unhook the bra, I stopped him. I’d gone to the trouble of buying a matching bra-and-panty set, and damn it, I wanted him to appreciate it.

  “Wait,” I said, and I unbuttoned my Gap khaki skirt. I slid it off my hips and onto the floor. I couldn’t bend over to pick it up—Oliver had me boxed in against the counter—so I stepped out of the skirt and kicked it away.

  Oliver looked me up and down, taking in the over-the-top sexy underwear, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust. And then he smiled wolfishly, which probably would have frightened the old Mickey, but in my new rush of sexual awareness, it only turned me on even more.

  Oliver rested his hands on my waist and lifted me easily up onto the counter, so that I was sitting with my legs dangling and pushed apart by his waist. He reached behind me and unhooked my bra and slid the straps off my arms, before curling his mouth around one exposed nipple. I nearly died with pleasure.

  I plucked at his T-shirt, wanting to pull it off over his head, but Oliver caught my hands in his and said, “No. In my kitchen, I’m always in charge.”

  And then he went back to licking and sucking at my nipples, this time also sliding his fingers under my panties, up into me, until I was grabbing fists of his T-shirt in my hands and breathing in shallow puffs of breath.

  It was our first time together, and I was naked and trembling before Oliver, who was still fully dressed and in complete control.

  The next morning, I woke up with that slightly euphoric, slightly off feeling I always get when I’m seriously sleep deprived. I rolled over and stared at Oliver’s bare back. We’d been up half the night, making love and eating a Papa John’s pizza with extra garlic-butter sauce that Oliver ordered in. The night before seemed like the most romantic thing in the world, but in the harsh naked light of the morning, it felt a little sleazy, especially looking around at the starkly empty bedroom. Oliver didn’t even have a real bed, he just slept on a mattress propped up on a metal frame. My freshman-year dorm room had been more posh.

  I slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. I had to pee and my breath was foul. I’ve never understood how in movies couples wake up and stare dreamily at each other first thing in the morning, falling into one another’s arms before they use the bathroom or gargle mouthwash. Was I the only person who woke up with a mouth that tasted like something had died in it, and the feeling that my bladder was about to burst?

  After I went to the bathroom and helped myself to Oliver’s toothbrush, I stared at myself in the mirror, hoping that I didn’t really look as strung out as the mirror was reflecting. I combed my fingers through my hair and pressed my hands to my cheeks.

  God, I wish I had a car, I thought. I could get out of here and just go for a long drive by myself. It didn’t matter where I went, but Seal would be on the radio, turned up as loud as I could stand it. I’d sing along, hitting the high notes, tapping out the beat against the plastic steering wheel and not caring what any passing motorists thought when they saw me. And I’d swing by the Wendy’s drive-through, and get two large orders of fries with extra ketchup and a chocolate Frosty. Pure bliss.

  I flicked off the buzzing bathroom light, returned to the bedroom, and slid back into the rumpled sheets. The room smelled stale, and I felt hot and sticky. I thought about taking a shower, but then suddenly felt shy, as though it would be overstepping the bounds of propriety. I guess it was one-night-stand logic: it was one thing to have a man’s penis inside of you, and altogether another thing to use his shower without permission.

  I scooted over closer to Oliver and wrapped my arms around his waist. He had done the same to me at some point in the middle of the night, kissing my neck, reaching around to caress me, and finally rolling me over. Now, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, my urge to get away was replaced by a stronger impulse of wanting to be close to him, so close that I could reach up and feel his chest rise as he breathed. But as I tried to snuggle up to Oliver, he grunted and shifted away from me in his sleep. I rolled back on my back and stared at the ceiling, wondering how long I’d have to wait until he woke up.

  I must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing I knew, my eyes fluttered open again and Oliver was up and out of bed, dressed in white briefs and pulling a T-shirt on over his head. His curly hair was wet from the shower.

  “Hi,” I said, sitting up, wondering if he had been planning on waking me up, or if he would have just left me here.

  “Hey. Are you as tired as I am?” he asked.

  I nodded, drew my legs up so that they were bent in front of me. “I didn’t really sleep much,” I confessed.

  “I know,” Oliver said, and then shook his head, a half-smile on his face. “I should have known better, I’m getting too old for this.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed with his back to me and pulled on his jeans.

  I swung my legs out of bed and reached down for my discarded underwear next to the bed. I didn’t see my clothes, and then remembered they’d been left behind on the kitchen floor.

  “Are you taking off?” he asked, watching me as I self-consciously pulled on my panties and bra, like I was doing a backwards striptease.

  “I don’t have a car,” I said. “Can you give me a ride?”

  “Right, I forgot. I have to go down to the restaurant and meet the supplier, so we’ll have to hurry. Although if you keep prancing around in that getup, I’m going to be really late,” he said, suddenly smiling and reaching for me. When he kissed me, his tongue slid easily into my mouth and I could taste the mint of toothpaste on his breath.

  His hands slid down, discarding my underwear and then guiding me by the hips back onto his bed. We were back to where we’d been last night.

 
Oliver wasn’t rejecting me, I thought. This wasn’t going to be just a one-night stand.

  As he parted my legs and eased into me, I knew with absolute certainty that he wanted me.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Come on, everyone, we’re going over the specials. Front and center,” Adam called out. “Mickey, get over here, you can polish silverware later.”

  I gave Adam a dirty look when his back was turned, but left behind the flatware I’d been rubbing water spots off of and walked over to the steel-topped worktable where everyone was grouped, waiting for Oliver to appear.

  My stomach shifted nervously, and I rubbed my palms against my starched white apron. This was the first time since we’d been together that I’d be seeing Oliver at work, in front of everyone. I’d asked him about it while we were parked in front of my building, eating Egg McMuffins in his car, the greasy wrappers perched on our knees.

  “You sure know how to treat a girl,” I teased him. “Pizza last night, McDonald’s this morning. And here I thought getting involved with a chef would mean round-the-clock gourmet meals served by candlelight.”

  “Well, if you hadn’t distracted me, we would have. But you’re right, I owe you a dinner cooked by the best chef in Austin,” Oliver replied.

  “Where are we going? The Four Seasons?” I asked, laughing, and Oliver pretended to look injured, until I leaned over and kissed him.

  “You’d better get out of here, before I’m any later than I already am,” Oliver said.

  When I got back to Paige’s empty apartment, I wrapped my arms around myself, grinning stupidly and remembering our exquisite first kiss, until the oily hangover from the Egg McMuffin forced me to search through the medicine cabinet for Pepto-Bismol.

  Now, seven hours later, I half listened to Caitlin’s bawdy tale of her night off—“Ohmigod, we were, like, totally wasted,” she giggled—alert for some sign of Oliver. Suddenly the door to his office swung open, and he came striding out, laughing as he talked to someone on his cell phone.

  “Yeah? Love it. That’s perfect. Okay, I have to run, I’ll talk to you later,” he said, before snapping the phone shut and dropping it on the counter.

  Who was he talking to? Another woman? His wife? I wondered, hating how the cold fingers of insecurity were grabbing at me.

  “All right, specials tonight. Hot and cold oysters for the starter. Salad of aged Serano ham, shaved fennel, and baby vegetables with a saffron vinaigrette. Entrée is duck with a rhubarb and cherry compote, and seared foie gras. And for dessert, Kevin has prepared a very nice apple and pear tarte tatin to be served with caramel ice cream. Any questions? No?”

  “How about giving us a taste of everything,” Sarah said, leering at Oliver as she leaned forward, giving him a clear shot of her nonexistent cleavage.

  “How about this. The server who performs with the least amount of mistakes tonight will have the duck special for dinner at the end of the shift,” Oliver said.

  The servers murmured with appreciation, and I heard Opal say to Jasmine, “He’s in a good mood tonight.” My cheeks stained with pride. I tried to catch Oliver’s eye. We’d agreed that morning—or, to be more precise, Oliver had insisted—that we not tell anyone at the restaurant about our relationship. But I was hoping that he’d give me some sort of a sign, a smile or wink or sustained eye contact, so that I’d know I was in his thoughts as much as he was in mine.

  Once he’d finished running the specials, he turned to Ansel, joking about something that had happened when they went out for a beer after work the previous weekend. I’d already heard all about it from Sarah: Ansel had gotten drunk, hit on a coed, and they’d ended up making out in the middle of the bar. Now Ansel was ducking his head and grinning sheepishly while Oliver reenacted how the coed had closed her eyes with drunken abandon while grabbing Ansel’s narrow ass with both her hands. The kitchen staff roared with appreciation.

  Oliver completely ignored me.

  I turned away and walked out to the front dining room to inspect my tables.

  And it only got worse. Not only did Oliver continue to disregard me as the night went on, he seemed to be going out of his way to pick on me. When Sarah or Caitlin swung through the kitchen, he flirted with them—reaching out to pull the end of Caitlin’s curly ponytail, teasing Sarah about her love life until she was practically bursting from the attention. He normally ignored the waitstaff, unless he was yelling at one of us for not standing at attention, waiting with an arm outstretched the second a dinner order was up.

  But everything I did was wrong. Oliver sighed with irritation when my starters sat under the heat lights for two minutes, even though he knew I was running entrées out to my eight-top. He blamed me when Ansel screwed up and put out my entrées before another table had gotten their salads. And he outright yelled at me when a persnickety woman sent back her tuna not once, but twice, insisting that it was first underdone and then overdone.

  “Jesus, Mickey, did you tell her that’s what the fucking tuna is supposed to taste like?” he said, throwing a slotted metal spoon onto the counter with a loud clatter.

  “I did. She said she wants something else,” I said through clenched teeth.

  God, he was such an unbearable shit, I thought, trying to hold back tears while I snatched another plate up and stormed away.

  I planned on leaving as soon as my last table departed. I’d finish my shift, get the hell out of there, and then send him an e-mail in the morning announcing that I’d quit. Or maybe I’d just tape my apron to the glass front door of the restaurant, with a note that simply said: Fuck you, Oliver.

  But then my last table dawdled over coffee and dessert, and I had to stand there, arms crossed, waiting for them, while Opal, Caitlin, and Sarah all finished and took off, chattering over their plans to meet up at the Apple Bar for a beer. And then just to be an asshole, Adam made me run the carpet broom around the entire dining room, even though the cleaning crew would be coming in overnight. By the time I finished and my table had cleared out, the entire place was empty. All of the servers had left, and as I pushed open the swinging door that led to the kitchen, I saw that the kitchen was empty, too. Only Oliver was still there—I couldn’t help myself, I snuck a peek into his office as I walked by—sitting behind the brushed-steel desk, talking on the phone. I heard him laugh and say, “Yeah, that figures. Hold on . . . hey, I’ve got to go, so I’ll call you back.”

  I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, and walked by his open door without making eye contact.

  “Mickey, come in here,” I heard him call out, but I decided to ignore him. No way was I going to be summoned after being ignored all night.

  I continued stomping toward the back door, and just as I had my hand on the doorknob, ready to swing it open, a hand grabbed onto my left arm, spinning me gently around.

  “Where are you going?” Oliver asked, looking down at me.

  Gone was the sighing irritation. Now his mouth curved in a gentle smile, and his blue eyes were warm with interest.

  “Home. I’m going home,” I said sullenly, pulling my arm away from him and trying not to think about the long walk I had in front of me.

  “You seem angry,” Oliver said.

  “Very perceptive.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You haven’t noticed you’ve been treating me like shit all night?” I asked.

  “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to let anyone here know we’re involved,” Oliver said.

  Involved. The delicious intimacy of the word sucked the force out of my anger.

  “We did. But you were going out of your way to be horrible to me tonight. The way you yelled at me about the tuna, and the salad mix-up, and you were nice to everyone else. Sarah even noticed it—she asked me why you were gunning for me tonight,” I complained, folding my arms in front of me.

  “Hey, come here. You’re all crossed up,” Oliver said, laughing softly, and shaking my arms gently apart, so that he could wrap his ar
ms around my waist. “I’m sorry. I was worried that someone would figure out what’s going on between us, so I guess I overcompensated in the other direction.”

  I could feel my resistance weakening, especially when my cheek was pressed against the soft cotton knit of his T-shirt. He smelled of sweat and olive oil, which probably shouldn’t be appealing, but somehow was.

  “I can understand not wanting people here to know, you know—I feel the same way,” I lied.

  What I wanted was for Oliver to pull me to him, just as he was doing now, and kiss me in front of Sarah, so that she’d stop leaving the extra button on her shirt undone to flaunt her cleavage.

  “But you don’t have to be mean to me, either. Can’t you just treat me like everyone else?” I continued.

  “Absolutely not,” Oliver said, laughing down at me. And then he kissed me, and I forgot all about being mad.

  When I walked into my apartment and flipped on the lights at 2 a.m., I was so tired, I didn’t notice the bulging tote bag leaning against the wall in the short front foyer, nor the carton of ice cream sitting on the kitchen counter, slowly melting into butter pecan soup. I’d walked all the way into the living room, carelessly flipping on lights, distracted by thoughts of Oliver and our lovemaking, and wondering if his excuse for dropping me off back home rather than inviting me to spend the night at his apartment—“I need to get up early to go to the produce market, and I’ll sleep better if I’m alone”—was really as lame as it sounded, before I noticed the pregnant woman sleeping on the sofa.

  “Oh, dear God,” I said, starting violently.

  Paige groaned, opened one eye, and then heaved herself up into a sitting position. Behind her the television glowed silently.

  “What are you watching? Is that the Home Shopping Network?”

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “What time is it? Have you been having sex?”

  “What? No. How can you tell?”

  “Your hair’s all messed up.”