So… I went with their choice.
Eugene is in dark blue trunks and a T-shirt, and he looks great. He has on old-school aviators as he drives.
I try not to read into the fact that he chose to spend his only day off with me.
Spoiler: I’m totally reading into it.
We park next to an access point for New Smyrna, a smaller beach near Daytona.
“Do you want to leave your phone? I’m going to put mine in here,” he says.
I’m surprised he’s so easy about leaving the world behind. There’s no way I’d convince Emily or Cari to give up their phones for a whole day. Even Davey would push back because he needs to be in touch with his gaming buds and bookmaking business. He’s already branching out into taking family bets on fantasy sports, I guess.
I try to think if there’s anyone I want to reach, but I’m with the person I want to talk to. I slide my phone into the glove compartment with Eugene’s. They look nearly identical next to each other. He takes off his watch, then locks everything up.
And that’s it. We’re off the grid. There’s something freeing and unsettling about that—pretty much being with Eugene in a nutshell.
“I’m going to grab the stuff from the back,” he says.
“I’ll help,” I say.
We grab the chairs, cooler, and beach totes, and tread across the sand. We agree on a spot near, but not too near, the water. Eugene gets to work, and we soon have everything set up except the food. I can’t wait to see what he brought.
“I’m going to rent an umbrella,” he says, glancing up at the sun.
“Oh, I can do it,” I say.
“Nah, I got it.”
He wanders off toward the rentals. There’s always some guy with either a truck or a van who loans out chairs and umbrellas for the day. My family never gets them, as my father would rather go to war than pay for rented beach gear, but I’ve always been jealous of people who had them.
I reach for my phone but realize I don’t have it. Instead of scrolling, I listen to the waves crashing and the gulls cawing overhead while I apply my SPF 10,000 sunblock. It’s weird to be this… present.
Once I’m done, I sit on my chair and open the latest rom-com by Sandhya Menon. I’m only through the first page when Eugene comes back. He brings a guy with a large umbrella, which he plants between the chairs. The shade immediately feels great.
“So, are you hungry?” Eugene asks.
“Starving,” I say.
He smiles, that dimple winking at me. “Good. Let’s start with samosas. I made them this morning.”
He takes a warming bag out of his beach tote and passes me one. I take a bite.
“Oh my God,” I say, talking with my mouth full.
“I also made tandoori chicken skewers,” he says.
Or I think that’s what he says. Hard to tell with the flavor explosion in my mouth. The pastry is perfect and the potatoes are spicy without being overpowering.
“Marry me,” I say.
“I’m not done.” Eugene grins, then flips open the cooler. “We have white-bean truffle dip with toasted pita chips.”
“Will you judge me if I eat that with a spoon?” I ask.
“Not even a little.”
He rifles through the containers. “Assorted cheeses with honey-poached quince paste—because I remember someone really likes cheese. There’s also ridiculously good speck. A corn salad. A potato salad that’s pretty good if I say so myself. And ham, brie, and apricot sandwiches. I grabbed some candies from the restaurant and some other snacks. To top it all off is the best lemonade on earth. I can’t take credit because L&Js’s bar makes it, but I did go through the hassle of stealing it. What do you think?”
Eugene stops and looks at me.
“This is officially the best date ever,” I say.
It truly is. It’s beyond what I could’ve imagined for myself a month ago. He put so much thought and effort into this—things I never would’ve expected from Paul. Even if every bite is inedible, he’s tried for me in a way no one else has.
Eugene smiles and takes a bite of samosa. “I’m glad.”
We dig into lunch, and my little foodie heart is in heaven. He pours me a cup of lemonade and it’s perfect—both tart and sweet at the same time.
As I sip, I know there’s nothing better than this moment, with this boy, and this lunch, on a sun-drenched beach.
“It’s really good lemonade,” I say. “Almost as good as the potato salad. Almost.”
He smiles and sits back with his sandwich. I know that pleased expression. I’m the same way when someone appreciates the food I made. It’s the contentment of bringing happiness and also being recognized for creating something special.
We finish eating at a relaxed pace and close up the cooler. He throws some crusts to the seagulls, who waited a good twenty minutes for this opportunity.
“Thank you isn’t enough,” I say. “But thank you so much for lunch.”
“My pleasure. You can return the favor by cooking for me someday,” he says.
“No. Nuh-uh. Not with all of this going on.” I gesture to the cooler. I can’t compete with a lifetime in the kitchen. Like, thanks for the five-star meal, Eugene—here’s peanut butter and jelly.
“Hmm,” he says. “Let’s go for a walk.”
He stands and offers me a hand. I take it to hoist myself out of my chair. I’m super full, but I’ll still have seconds when I can shove more deliciousness into my face.
To my surprise, he keeps holding my hand as we walk through the sand. And this is classic boyfriend/girlfriend, right? This is what couples do—stroll the beach hand in hand? Paul didn’t really like holding hands, but this is what I’d imagined.
Eugene and I walk along the tide and the cool water feels good on the soles of my feet. His hand in mine makes the dream a reality.
“So talk to me. Why are you so scared?” he says.
“It’s a charming facet of my personality?” I say, hoping to switch topics. We should talk about other things, like the recipe for that white-bean dip. Or him marrying me and us having a dozen foodie babies.
“Do you think I’d judge your cooking like a restaurant critic?”
I shake my head. “It’s not that… well, it’s a little bit judgment. But more that I know I can’t cook the way you can.”
“Just like you couldn’t pass me on the track?” he says.
I see the challenge in his face.
I shake my head. “That’s different. You’re not the son of a Daytona 500 winner.”
“Cooking isn’t genetic, but I know what you’re saying. Yes, I’ve had my dad mentor me since I could walk, but you’re related to Jay Ventura. My dad says she’s one of the best chefs in Florida. She didn’t teach you how to cook?”
“She did, but…,” I say, trailing off into my thoughts.
Suddenly, I’m not on the beach anymore. Mentally, I’m fourteen and reaching for the back door of Ventura’s Bistro. Every Monday, instead of going home after school, I took the bus to my aunt’s place.
It was our little secret, and the only one I’d ever kept from my family. Mom was too afraid of everything hot and sharp in the kitchen to let me help out at the bistro. But after the bonfire, when I dreaded going to school that Monday, I confided in my aunt. She was the only one I told the details of what had happened with Kyle. Jay said if I was brave and went in, she’d teach me how to make her special French onion soup after school.
From there it became a tradition that on Mondays, when the restaurant was closed, I’d stop by and help her prep for the next day. Every time, she’d teach me a new skill or a new recipe.
But that Monday was different. The back door was open as usual, but the kitchen was dark. There was no bass-pounding music, no lights, no amazing aromas coming off the stove. I got an awful sinking feeling and maybe everything would’ve been okay if I’d listened to my gut, but I didn’t. I forged ahead, searching for my aunt.
At that ti
me Josephina Ventura was a force to be reckoned with. She was frequently in the paper or tagged on social media, either because celebrities came in or it was just the buzz about her restaurant. She was everything and I was so proud of her.
But that late afternoon I found her in her office with her arm curled around an empty bottle of wine. It wasn’t even dark out, but she was asleep on her desk. It was hard to take in the sight of my passed-out aunt, but other things caught my eye. I went a step closer and saw bill after bill marked past due in angry red stamps. Legal papers crumpled up. There was a tearstained envelope in her hand that just said, “Goodbye.”
I couldn’t decide whether to stay or go, but Jay raised her head.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. She rubbed her face then hastily swept the bills and the envelope to the side.
“I thought… well, I thought we’d prep or cook today,” I said.
She breathed out a laugh. “What for?”
“Well, for tomorrow. It’s Monday.” I hoped to jog her memory. I could tell she was drunk.
She shook her head like she was sorry for me. “Go home, Jasmine.”
And maybe I should’ve. So many times I wish I’d just left then. But I didn’t.
“I just… I can help,” I said.
Jay finally focused on me and narrowed her blue eyes. “You think you can help me? Like you’re so special?”
The bite in her words was so unlike her that I was stunned for a second.
“No,” I said. “But you are. You can do anything.”
Her face softened a little.
I took a small step toward her and found the words to say what was in my heart. “I want to be just like you. I want to have my own restaurant one day.”
Her expression changed, hardened. She closed her eyes like the thought was painful. “Jasmine, you don’t have what it takes. No one does. Now get out.”
She didn’t need to say the last few words, because I was already backing out of the office.
I ran to the bus stop, and as I waited her words shredded my dreams. I cried waiting for the bus, on the bus, and then walked around for a bit after my stop until it looked like I wasn’t crying at all. The tears faded, but the hurt never went away.
Within two months, Ventura’s Bistro was closed. Jay bounced around for a while trying different jobs before opening her catering company. When my mom asked what I wanted to be, my dreams having died the night before, I said maybe a nurse. She was so happy, so proud that I wanted to be like her that I’ve never found a way out. And my aunt and I were never the same.
“I can’t…,” Eugene says. “I can’t figure it out.”
His voice brings me back to the present. To the beach. To four years later. I shudder off the memory and look up at him.
“Figure what out?” I ask.
“Why you have all this strength, but you won’t use it. I can’t understand why you don’t go after what you want.”
Something about the way he says it gets under my skin. Maybe it burrows because I was just reliving the moment when I lost my dreams. Maybe because I’ve been through things he couldn’t possibly understand. He doesn’t have any fears. And he’s never had to struggle. He’s had the keys to the kingdom handed to him, and the worst part is, he doesn’t even know if he wants them.
“What are you so afraid of?” he says.
“Everything!” I yell. I drop his hand and my palms slap against my thighs in frustration. With the memory, with him.
Eugene stops walking and faces me.
I continue on. “I’m afraid of hurting my family. Of failing. Of not being good enough. Jay was so talented and her restaurant closed. Tens of thousands of my parents’ money, just gone, and our house put in danger because they gambled on her skill. My parents have struggled to pay two mortgages because they weren’t afraid and should’ve been. And if Jay couldn’t make it as a chef, I have no shot.”
He opens his mouth, but I’m not done. The frustration I’ve felt since I met him bubbles over and the words fly out.
“Look, I don’t view life as this adventure where I can take off to Spain by myself or step in as sous-chef at the best restaurant in the country on a moment’s notice. I’m not you. I haven’t been given everything yet stand here wondering if I actually want it. I know what it feels like to struggle to keep the shreds of what I have. You don’t. You’ve never been told you’re not enough.”
Eugene is silent for almost a full thirty seconds. My heart pounds, and as the anger fades, regret floods in. What the hell did I just do? I yelled at him. I yelled things at him I don’t share with anyone—even June and Emily. The debt my parents went into. The jealousy I feel at how he can choose, that it occurs to him to walk away from the dream I can’t have. That the deepest fear I have is that I’m just not good enough.
As the moments drag on, I realize he couldn’t have known about the restaurant debt or how I wanted to cook professionally. For all he knew, I was vaguely interested in cooking as a hobby. I don’t know why he kept hammering me on it—like he suspected I wanted to be a chef. Maybe I haven’t kept it as secret as I thought. But either way, I’m positive that he’s about to say we should leave. Paul would’ve and I wouldn’t even blame him. Who acts like this? Who raises their voice to someone they like?
Eugene quietly gives me that appraising look.
“Restaurants can fail for any number of reasons,” he says. “Jay’s restaurant closing doesn’t mean yours would too. Unfortunately, the business isn’t always skill. The right venue, the right kind of cuisine can take off while others that were better fail. And I understand how I must come off to you—poor heir to an empire. Poor prince who doesn’t know if he wants the throne. Believe me, I know. I see it. But at least I know what I want and I’m honest about it.”
“What do you want?” I ask. I lean forward toward his certainty.
He stares at the horizon beyond me. “I want time. I want to know that when I walk down a path, it’s because I chose to put my foot on it. But my dad wants me to decide now, because he wants to convert the upstairs into a communal dining space and strike while the iron is hot. Because restaurants are about timing and I do understand that. But I’m not ready. Not yet. Yet if I hesitate, time could decide for me. I’ve thought about it since my freshman year ended. It was what I was thinking about when we ran into each other in Publix.”
He refocuses on me. “But what do you want? Really want?”
“I just want…” I trail off.
What do I want? I want the restaurant still. Even after everything that happened, even after getting my heart broken, even after seeing my parents struggle, I never stopped wanting it. I pushed it down and away, but it never disappeared. Not fully. I still cooked. I still watched YouTube tutorials, still experimented in the kitchen, still consumed endless documentaries and articles about the chefs who did make it. But I also haven’t tried to pursue it. Because my mom would be so disappointed. Because it would be a slap in the face to everything they worked so hard to avoid. Because although I’m not enthused with going to Valencia and becoming a nurse, it’s real and it’s stable.
“I want things to be safe,” I say.
“That’s all?” he says. “That’s what makes you feel alive?” He doesn’t look like he believes me for a second. Like he knows there’s more I’m not saying. And I wonder if I really am that transparent.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. I want to stay where I am and that’s okay. I want to stay on dry land. I don’t even swim!”
Eugene’s teal eyes drift from corner to corner. “You don’t know how to swim?”
That… that’s what we’re going to talk about? He raises his eyebrows and lowers the tension between us.
“I know how to swim,” I sigh. “But I don’t go into the ocean. There’s current and it’s just… it’s too unpredictable.”
I close my eyes for a long blink. I really am eighteen going on eighty. This was one of the things Paul would mentio
n—that I wasn’t fun anymore. I’m not sure I was ever fun to begin with, not by the time he met me. I’d resolved to be a different person in high school, to not take the risks that would get me hurt like I did with Kyle or Jay.
Eugene purses his lips. “So between cooking for me and getting in the water right now, you would choose…”
“How are those my choices?” I say.
He stares at me.
“Swimming, I guess.”
I can’t believe this is what we’re debating.
“Well, I happen to have lifeguard certification and it’s pretty warm out,” he says.
I knit my eyebrows, trying to figure out his meaning. Before I can say a word though, he takes off and dives, yes, dives, into the ocean. I’m left standing midgesture as his feet disappear under.
WTF.
I stare at the surface where he went in. One second goes by. Two. My breath catches. What the hell? Where is he? Did he hit his head? Is he unconscious? Has he been caught by a riptide? It’s not hurricane season really, but it’s possible. How do I unlock his truck and call 911? Do I have the strength to haul him into shore? I’ve seen people under stress pull trucks and things with their teeth, but maybe those video clips were fake? I don’t know.
Eugene breaks the surface, and relief courses through me. He laughs—because of course he does.
“You’re killing me,” I say.
“Seems like you’re fine. You’re still standing there looking cute,” he says.
I smile, despite myself. Despite the fact that I was trying to figure out how to save him a moment ago, and that I kind of want to strangle him for a few different reasons. I don’t know how he’s managed to take my mind off everything, but suddenly all that matters is the two of us calling to each other over the tide.
“The water feels great,” he says. “What would it take to get you in with me?”
“A miracle!”
He laughs. “I don’t think I have any of those. How about bribery? You join me for a swim and I take you to dinner this weekend?”
Oh. Oh no. Bribery is so very effective on me. I worry my bottom lip considering it. To get in the water, I’d have to leave my comfort zone, and that keeps me in place.
The Jasmine Project Page 17