3. Maya
3
MAYA
I stare at my laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The review of Adrian Vale’s Valentine’s collection glares back at me. The words cut deep, but they’re true. My reputation as Chicago’s most trusted food critic depends on honesty, no matter how magnetic his blue eyes are or how his presence sparks a rush of excitement across my skin.
“His latest collection lacks depth, a hollow shell of technical perfection without soul. While the craftsmanship demonstrates Vale’s mastery of chocolate, the emotional resonance falls flat?—”
A knock at my office door breaks my concentration. Amelia pokes her head in, her curls wild from the winter wind. “Ready for lunch? I’m starving.”
“Just...” I hit publish and close my laptop with a satisfying click. “Done.”
“Another review?” Amelia raises an eyebrow. “Who’s the victim this time?”
“Adrian Vale.”
“The hot chocolatier from that fancy event?” She perches on my desk. “I thought you liked his stuff.”
I feel heat rush to my cheeks at Amelia’s casual mention of his “stuff.” My mind recalls that truffle that tasted of delectable virility and lust. I don’t doubt what made that particular chocolate so… potent.
“I did, but...” I grab my coat, needing to move and shake off these thoughts. “Something changed. His latest collection is different.”
“Different, how?” Amelia slides off my desk, following me to the door.
“It’s hard to explain. The technical execution is flawless, but there’s this emptiness.”
“Maya.” Amelia steps in front of me, blocking my escape. “Your face is bright red. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.” I push past her into the hallway. “Can we just get lunch? I’m dying for some pad thai.”
“Fine, keep your secrets.” She links her arm through mine. “But you know I’ll get it out of you eventually.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it, but the weight of it burns against my thigh.
The winter wind whips around us as we step onto Michigan Avenue. Amelia huddles closer, her portfolio case banging against my hip.
“I swear, one of these days, I’m moving to California,” she grumbles. “No artist should have to suffer through Chicago winters.”
“You’d miss the deep dish too much.” I dodge a patch of ice. “And who would critique your latest paintings over curry?”
“Speaking of critique...” She shoots me a sideways glance. “That review of the Indian place was harsh, even for you.”
We duck into Thai Palace, the warmth hitting us like a wall. The hostess waves us to our favorite corner booth, the one with the view of the L tracks. Before I can deflect, Amelia’s already ordering our usual—pad thai for me, green curry for her.
“So.” She sets her hands flat on the table, leaning toward me. “Tell me about these chocolates.”
I fiddle with my chopsticks. “They were just empty. Like biting into beautiful packaging with nothing inside.”
“You’re doing that thing with your face.”
“What thing?”
“That scrunched-up look when you’re holding back. The same one you had when that gallery owner hit on me at your birthday party.”
“He was married!”
“And you waited three whole weeks to tell me.” She kicks me under the table. “Spill.”
The server drops off our Thai iced teas. I take a slow, satisfying sip. “There was one piece. A dark chocolate truffle that tasted different.”
“Different good or different bad?”
“Both? Neither?” I press my cold hands against my flushed cheeks. “It’s complicated.”
“Honey, you’re the only person I know who can make chocolate complicated.” Amelia reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “But that’s why I love you.”
“Says the woman who spent six months painting nothing but broken mirrors.”
“That was art.” She grins. “You’re just being neurotic.”
“Says the woman who alphabetizes her paint tubes by shade gradient,” I shoot back, stealing a sip of her Thai iced tea just to annoy her.
“That’s called organization.” Amelia snatches her drink away. “And at least I don’t catalog every restaurant receipt by cuisine type, date, AND emotional resonance.”
“It’s a filing system! How else should I track which places make me feel what?” I spread my hands. “Last week, I had pad thai that tasted like pure chaos.”
“Normal people just use Yelp stars.” She taps her chopsticks against the table—one-two-three, one-two-three. “But no, my best friend has to create spreadsheets with color-coded emotions.”
“Says the person who won’t start painting until her brushes are arranged by size down to the millimeter.”
“That’s different. It’s about flow and energy alignment.”
“Right, and the fact that you count your brush strokes isn’t weird at all.”
“Hey!” She points her chopstick at me. “That one time I lost count at 2,847 and had to start over was justified. The composition was off.”
“And you called me at three a.m. to complain about it.” I arrange my napkin so it’s perfectly square with the table edge. “Which, by the way, I logged in my ‘Amelia’s Art Crises’ journal.”
“You did not.” She pauses. “What color tab did you give it?”
“Midnight blue. For both the time of night and your mood.”
We burst out laughing, drawing looks from nearby tables. Amelia resumes tapping her chopsticks, and I avoid snatching them and aligning them with her placemat.
“We’re a mess, aren’t we?” she sighs, but her smile is fond.
“A perfectly organized mess,” I correct, finally getting the napkin corners just right.
Our food arrives, steaming and fragrant, but my mind keeps drifting back to that truffle. The way it enveloped my tongue, decadent and velvety, with an unmistakable finish that could only be...
“Earth to Maya?” Amelia waves her hand in front of my face. “You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry.” I taste the pad thai, but the noodles taste flat compared to Adrian’s chocolate. “Just thinking about work.”
“About work or about tall, dark, and chocolatey?”
I choke on my noodles. “What?”
“Please. Every time I mention Adrian Vale, you either blush or zone out. Sometimes both.” She stirs her curry. “And right now, you’re doing both.”
“It’s not...” I take a sip of water. “There was something in that last chocolate. Something... personal.”
“Personal how?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “You know how my synesthesia works. How I can taste emotions, intentions...”
“And?”
“And there was definitely something intimate in that final piece. Something that felt like...” I lower my voice. “Like him … his essence. ”
Amelia’s eyes go wide. “Wait, are you saying he?—”
“I think so.” I push my pad thai around the plate. “But that’s not even the strangest part. The Valentine’s collection had this other ingredient. Something sinister and empty. Like biting into a void.”
“That’s creepy.” Amelia shudders. “Maybe he’s using some weird experimental ingredients?”
“Maybe.” But I sense it goes beyond that. The taste lingers in my memory, a black hole pulling me in. Part of me wants to run far away from Adrian Vale and his chocolates. But another part, a wicked part I didn’t know existed, craves more.