I think about that as I walk around the grass—the idea that two people can just grow apart. My mom and dad have been together for more than thirty years, through ups and downs and overtime, but they’re the exception, not the rule. I’d figured Paul and I would also be exceptions, but now… I’m not sure.
I missed him before the party, but my night was so much fun without him. Lately, it felt like I expended a ton of energy trying to make him happy, and most of the time I failed. Without him, I just enjoyed the night and didn’t worry.
Wait, I’d texted him. Before my shower.
My phone must still be in the bathroom.
I slide open the patio door, kick off my shoes, and racewalk to the bathroom vanity. Next to the diffuser thing only Cari knows how to use sits my phone.
Phew. Thank goodness I found it.
I check the notifications: Emily apologizing for being late. She came at nine, which was totally fine. June texting me about my mother looking for me. And Paul texting back at 11:05 p.m.
I hold my breath and click on his message.
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♥ Paul ♥
Thanks. I miss you.
I know. But right now we still need time and space.
I stare at his text. I stare at it for a good long time, getting stuck on different parts of his eleven-word message.
First: “I know.” Not: “I miss you too.” Just… yeah, of course.
Second: “right now.” It leaves the door open, doesn’t it? Earlier this week I would’ve jumped on that, analyzed it to death, and clung to the hope of him changing his mind before August 1. But now it seems cruel. Like he’s trying to bait me into hoping he decides sooner.
Third: “we need.” Who’s “we”? What he means is “I need.” Because I never said I needed to be apart. And isn’t saying “we” pushing it back on me?
Last: “time and space.” Not only did he want to “explore our options,” but it was also his idea that we shouldn’t talk or spend time together this summer. Because it “wouldn’t be real.”
Anger courses through me and suddenly things are crystal clear. I don’t know how I missed this before, but I get it now: he wanted to date other girls but keep me as a safety net. And I was just going to sit here waiting to catch him with my eyes closed.
I stare at my screen for so long with my lip curled that my face hurts when I stop. And for the first time ever, I don’t reply. I slip my phone into the pocket of my pajama pants and go into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee for everyone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It’s Sunday night, which means I’m pretty much alone. I wasn’t scheduled to work at Berry Plum this weekend, and the animal shelter is long closed. We spent the day with family, but now we’re all on our own. Davey is off playing basketball or a hideous war video game at a friend’s house. Mom left for work a few minutes ago to make that overnight holiday money, since tomorrow is Memorial Day, and Dad is doing his rideshare thing. He has a five-star rating and says he loves talking to new people and catching up on audiobooks in the car, but I still wish he didn’t have to do it.
Cari is here, but she’s locked in her soundproof closet recording something. Seriously, it’s soundproof. She moved her clothes into a wardrobe and installed those egg-crate foam things once she got ad sponsors in order to “up her production value”—that was an actual thing she said. She even has a sign on her bedroom door for quiet when she’s recording. At U Miami, where it’s too noisy in the dorms, she uses the campus radio space. She negotiated time in their booth in exchange for shouting them out on her podcast and Instagram.
My sister is driven, laser focused, and always gets what she wants. She’s everything I’m not.
Anyhow, everyone is busy but me, and for the first time since before Burrito Friday, I’m in the mood to cook. Maybe it was the amazing food at the party. Maybe it’s something else entirely. But before the feeling fades, I take the keys to the Rolla and drive to Publix.
Publix, in case you didn’t recognize, is the World’s Best Grocery Store. It’s decently priced, always clean, and quiet on a Sunday night when I pull into the parking lot.
I grab my reusable shopping bag and a cart that was left between cars, and I walk to the store entrance. I pause at the automatic doors. Grocery stores in Florida are always ridiculously cold, so I slip on my sweatshirt.
Instead of the Korean Greek goddess of yesterday, I look like Winnie-the-Pooh in a red cropped sweatshirt over a crop top, and yellow shorts that are a little snug. I hadn’t thought to change from what I’d been wearing around the house, and luckily, it’s deserted in here.
I head straight to the meat and seafood counters. Starting with proteins is the easiest way to find inspiration when you don’t know what to make. I scan the glass cases. The beef looks picked over. Not surprising since it’s such a big grilling weekend. The shrimp have seen better days. But they have PEI Mussels on sale, and they’re fresh and clean, so that’s what I go with.
Mussels are all about the broth. People complain they’re a lot of work for little payoff, and while that’s true protein-wise, a bowl of mussels is an excuse to dip a loaf of bread in deliciousness. The shellfish is a bonus to an already complete dish.
I can do the mussels in a white wine broth—there’s still some chardonnay left over from the party. I’ll add blue cheese, bacon, Vidalia onion, and some brightening green. Maybe parsley.
I love this part of cooking—the brainstorming, where my mind pulls together a dish. My parents and siblings know I like to cook, but they think of it as a hobby. Only Aunt Jay ever knew I was serious about it. And she’s the reason I haven’t wanted to become a chef since I was fourteen. Because whether it was mean or not, she was right: I’m not good enough.
But here, alone in the grocery store, it’s different. Here I can dream. I grab bacon like I’m on Top Chef, then spin my cart for the cheese section. I’m so overly focused on getting to their blue cheese that I don’t see another cart peeking out of an aisle.
It’s too late to stop.
My cart crashes into the other one. With the clang of metal, I’m jostled forward and right back to reality. I make a lovely “oof” sound when my chest hits the cart handle.
“Oh my God, I’m so—” I begin.
“I’m sorry, I—” he says.
Then we stare at each other. Because when I look down the aisle, the cart I crashed into belongs to Eugene Matthews. Because of course it does.
He’s in a white T-shirt and jeans, and unlike me and my plain outfits for work, he makes it look good. Tattooed Sanskrit scrolls on his biceps, his light brown skin perfect even under the crappy store lighting.
I immediately regret everything about the way I look and kind of hope he doesn’t recognize me. But we just met last night, and we’re staring too long for this to be casual.
“Jasmine?” he says.
Great.
“Um, yeah.”
Did I mention I’m also wearing Tangled flip-flops I bought at Disney and my hair is in a messy bun? Because all these things are sadly true. If I could evaporate into a nearby drain, that’d be great.
“I’m sorry I hit you. I was just… in my head,” he says. His eyes take on a far-off look before refocusing. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“No, no. It’s my fault,” I say. “I really wanted cheese.”
Kill me.
I grit my teeth so hard, the tension radiates in my skull and down my neck. Who even says that? And why?
He laughs, his expression amused. “Well, cheese is really important. What kind?”
“Blue. Maybe Roquefort, depending on what they have,” I say.
“Blue cheese and mussels?” he says, peering into my cart.
I nod.
“Interesting,” he says.
He gestures for me to go, then rolls up beside me. I inhale, and he smells just as good as he did last night. I can’t put my finger on the exact scent. It’s a combination of soap, deodo
rant, cologne, and just boy, I guess. But it fills me with warmth, and I can’t inhale deeply enough.
I’m moving closer without thinking about it and accidentally knock my cart into his again. I jerk it away. He has the grace to pretend like that didn’t happen.
“Bacon too, huh?” Eugene says. “Bold.”
“I’m going to do it in a white wine base,” I say.
“You may want to sauté in some cherry tomatoes for brightness. Depending on what you’re going for.”
“I was thinking parsley,” I say.
He nods, and just like that, we’re grocery shopping together.
“Are you making frites, too?” he asks.
“Well… now I am,” I say, and that part-time dimple of his appears. “I got an air fryer for graduation and I’m dying to try it. But I didn’t know I was making mussels until I got here.”
“You shop proteins first, huh?” He smiles. “Interesting. So, you love to cook?”
I startle and turn toward him. “What makes you say that?” I say.
He looks away, then shrugs. “Just a hunch.”
An awkward silence blankets us, and I’m not sure what I did. I just want to return to our fun banter.
“Well, good hunch,” I say. “I do love to cook.”
I don’t know why it’s so easy to admit it to him. I normally downplay the fact that I love it by saying something like “a girl’s gotta eat.” But he is a chef, so he’ll understand, and there’s something about him that makes me unable to hide.
He smiles as we arrive at the cheese section. His gaze roams over the array, and he plucks out a French bleu with a lighter rind.
“You want one that won’t overpower the dish,” he says. “Traditional Roquefort will be too strong for what you’re going for. I think this or even Gorgonzola will be better. At least, it would be my pick.”
He hands the cheese to me like he wants me to inspect and approve it. I was sold the second he touched it, but I look over the marbling and light-blue rind and place it in my cart.
“Do you love to cook?” I ask. I already know the answer. I’ve seen a picture of him on the line with his dad. I just hadn’t realized it was Eugene at the time.
One side of his lips quirks up and that dimple deepens. “That’s a complicated question.”
“Is it?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “It can be when you’re the son of a famous chef and everyone wants you to follow in his footsteps. And you’re not sure if you want to.”
I pause and blink at his words and tone. I… wasn’t expecting that.
“That was way more of an answer than you were looking for.” He smiles at the ground and rubs the back of his neck. His teal eyes peer up at me, a little shy. “Sorry to lay it out there like that. It was one of the things I was thinking about when I ran into you. Um, yeah, I do love to cook. That’s how I should’ve responded on the first take.”
I vigorously shake my head. “No. No… I… it was honest,” I say. “I get it. It’s complicated because it holds more weight for you.”
And I do understand, because although I love to cook, anytime I think about actually becoming a chef, I remember the little office Jay used to have at Ventura’s Bistro. I remember the red past-due bills on her desk. I recall the fallout on my parents, on Mom’s relationship with Jay, and I remember that I can’t be a chef. And even though Eugene has what it takes, following in his dad’s footsteps can’t be easy.
Eugene’s eyes meet mine, and his shoulders drop away from his ears. And for some reason, seeing him relax makes me feel like my chest is on fire.
“That’s exactly it,” he says.
Now I’m fully blushing. Heat speeds up my neck and into my cheeks. And I really wouldn’t mind the floor opening up and delivering me from my own awkward.
We start moving toward the produce, and I’m thankful for the distraction, even though I want him to say more. He talks with an openness that’s rare. People in school wanted to play it cool—even June and Emily. They couldn’t be too into something or they’d get made fun of. Pretending like they were above it all was the rule. But there’s none of that in Eugene. He’s intense and I like it.
We’re both eyeing the vegetables as we pass. For him it’s probably a reflex. I love the smell of celery and pick up a bundle. I discretely sniff it. He grabs red potatoes and bags them. I can’t glean from the ingredients what he’s making, but he may be normal food shopping.
“So, do you work with your dad part-time or full-time?” I ask.
“How’d you know I work for him?” he says, putting the potatoes in his cart.
Shit. “Oh, the delivery yesterday… or were you just doing a favor?” I ask.
Thank God I actually covered that.
“Oh, right. Plus all my foodie knowledge,” he says with a smile. “I’m full-time in the summer and winter break. I go to Marist in New York, so I’m up there the rest of the year.”
“Oh.”
For some reason, it hits me hard that he’s in college. I don’t know why—most people our age are. But, it’s not like he’s in Miami or even Gainesville. New York is just so far away. That means he’ll be leaving in August, September at the latest. I deflate like a balloon. It doesn’t make sense for his college to impact me at all. I don’t even know him. But feelings don’t have to make sense.
“I’ve worked for him almost all my life,” Eugene says. “When I was young, it wasn’t even a second thought that I wanted to be a chef. I couldn’t wait to be old enough to help in the kitchen. There’s video of me as a toddler and I’m in my dad’s arms stirring a pot. At five I was carrying ingredients. Ten and I’d learned knife skills. Sixteen and on the line when one of the cooks called out sick.”
“That’s pretty amazing,” I say. I feel a prick of jealousy, but not because I begrudge him anything. More that I wanted that too. I desperately wanted to work on the line with Aunt Jay, but I never got the chance.
He nods. “It was. My dad loved that I wanted to learn. His family disowned him when he was young, and my mom’s family disowned her too, so it’s been just the three of us since I can remember.”
“That must’ve been… I can’t imagine,” I say.
And I can’t. My huge family is a lot, and sometimes way too much, but I can’t fathom being separated from them. It’s part of the reason Paris could never be real—I’d never want to be that far from my family. Or, well, I’d want to, but it’s not realistic.
I wonder why both of Eugene’s parents were disowned, but it’s deeply none of my business.
His eyes take a far-off look before refocusing on me. “They got through it and put their lives into opening the restaurant three years ago, and I do love it. I know they’re proud of me, but… I don’t want to take a path just because it’s expected, you know?”
I don’t know. I don’t know at all. But I nod because I like the way he talks about things. I like that he’s okay with uncertainty, with making his own path. That he confronts everything that scares the bejesus out of me.
“And your parents are… good with that?” I venture, while inspecting the parsley.
My mom was thrilled when I said I might want to be a nurse. The day after my chef dreams had gone down in flames, she’d casually asked what I wanted to be. I said I didn’t know but nursing seemed steady, and somehow that morphed into following in her footsteps. Between her excitement and my simply not having a better idea, I started down this path. I haven’t been able to get off it since.
“Oh, they want me to want it,” Eugene says. “They encouraged me to go to college and try things out and see what else interests me. I think because of what happened with their families, they don’t want me to feel trapped. The pressure is there anyhow, though.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
Eugene opens his mouth but looks past me. I turn to see what caught his eye, and it’s Amberlynn and Crystal walking in with their baskets. For the first tim
e I kind of don’t want to talk to my family. I want to continue in this private conversation with Eugene. But that’s not a good thought, so I smile.
“Hi, cuz,” Amberlynn says. She looks from me to Eugene and back again with her brown eyes wide. Splendid. She’s not going to attempt to play this cool.
“Look who it is!” Crystal says loudly, walking toward me. Then she notices Eugene and stops dead in her tracks. She eyes my outfit, which frankly I’d forgotten about, but now I painfully remember, then looks at Eugene again.
“Hi, Eugene. I’m Crystal Yap. We met at the party last night,” she says. “And you met my sister, Amberlynn, too.”
I quirk an eyebrow. I don’t know why she sounds like a bad stage actress.
“Hi!” Amberlynn says with a little wave.
Crystal and Amberlynn both wear stylish jeans and tanks, with perfect hair. They are how I would’ve wanted to look if I’d thought anyone would see me.
Eugene offers a polite smile. “Yes, I remember. Nice to see you guys again.”
“Are you two shopping together?” Amberlynn says. Amberlynn is twenty-one and Crystal is twenty-two. But they seem like they’re twelve from their barely contained glee, and it’s weirding me out.
“No,” I say at the same time Eugene says, “Kinda.”
Amberlynn and Crystal exchange glances and look like they’re about to burst.
“Well, we should go get the limes mom wanted. She’s been taking a Thai cooking class, and yeah…” Crystal shudders.
“Let’s pick up emergency chicken tenders too,” Amberlynn says. “I don’t have a lot of faith that Ms. Tammy’s Pad Thai will go according to plan.”
“Good idea,” Crystal says. She turns to me. “Great party last night. You two have fun.”
They walk away whispering to each other and taking out their phones. Crystal says either “winning” or “twinning,” and neither makes sense.
The Jasmine Project Page 7