Yin Yang Love Song

Chapter 12 Chryssy

Chapter 12

CHRYSSY

A round midnight, there’s a strange, muted noise coming from Vin’s room that I try very hard to ignore.

“Is that my imagination or are you hearing that, too?” I whisper to Goji, who’s sleeping on my bed unbothered.

I save a blog post for our website about the benefits of TCM and flowers, then make a note in my planner to review it tomorrow. I’m about to research more flower farm partners when the subsequent sound of metal clanging concerns me enough to check in on Vin.

I knock a few times, unsure if he’ll hear me. “Vinnegan!”

I hear him cross the room in five steps before he opens the door just enough for me to see his face.

“What?”

His brows are furrowed, his eyes unfocused. Then his entire expression softens when he looks at me.

“Is that really what my face looks like?” he asks. “I look like an ass.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about the shirt he gave me that I forgot I was wearing.

“But the flames are a nice demonic touch,” I say.

He grunts. “I’m glad it’s getting used. Did I wake you up?”

“I’m still working,” I say.

Vin looks surprised.

“Did you hear that noise, too?” I ask, cupping my hand behind my ear.

He senses my sarcasm and makes a face. “I’m practicing ‘This Is Tomorrow.’ It’s not going great.”

I cross my arms. “It sounds like you’re practicing it right now.”

“That’s the song name. Never mind. Did you need something from me?” he asks.

“Yes. Your sense of time. It’s the middle of the night. Everything okay in here?” I ask. When he doesn’t budge, I wave my hands in front of him. “This whole hiding-behind-the-door thing is a major mood.”

Vin grunts again before opening the door wider. “Be my guest.”

It’s when he takes a step back that I notice that the walls and ceiling are covered in blue and black eggcrate foam, not a fleck of lavender paint to be seen.

“What’s all this? Auntie Violet is not going to be happy,” I mumble.

“Soundproofing,” Vin states. “It won’t absorb everything, but I didn’t want to annoy you when I practice.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re a world-class talent. I would love to hear you play. When did you even do this?” I ask, observing how neatly every foam pad is lined up and cut to the specifications of the room.

“Yesterday when you were in your room all afternoon,” he says. “It was Friday, so you must’ve been recording your podcast.”

This makes me smile. “I was. Thanks for your comment on last week’s episode. Glad someone’s listening.”

He bites down a grin. “Hey, if you ever want to use my room to record, go for it. I can also keep it up when Leo and I leave.”

I push my fingers into the foam a little too hard when he says this, the indent popping back when I remove my hand. “Oh. Yeah. Great. Thanks.” I take in his stressed expression. “So, what’s really going on? Did something happen?”

Vin pushes his hair back, a few strands sticking up. “The terms came back from the label,” he says, his face telling me all I need to know. The contract must not have been what he was hoping for. “I need to talk to Leo, but his phone is off.”

After a few beats, I wave him toward me. “Okay. Come with me.”

He hesitates, looking back at his cello that needs playing, but finally agrees. “Fine.”

“When you’re feeling low, what do you like to eat?” I ask, leading Vin to the kitchenette–slash–living room.

“I don’t know, whatever I have in my fridge or am craving from takeout,” he says.

“Which is usually what?” I ask. “When you think about something comforting to eat, what comes to mind? My comfort food is herbal poached artichoke hearts.”

“Mine’s definitely not that,” Vin says, running his hand down his face as he thinks. “Chryssy, I don’t know. I need to go practice.”

“Humor me?”

He looks up at the ceiling, thinking. “Uh, my mom used to make us risotto after lessons. I liked that. Does coffee count?”

I smile. “Vin, I know there’s nothing more in the world that you’d rather do than go back into that oddly padded room and practice,” I say, “but I can also tell you there’s nothing more that I want in this world than for you to make me a cup of coffee.”

Vin smirks. “You want coffee? Right now. At midnight. You don’t even drink coffee.”

“I’d prefer moon milk, but whatever it takes to get you in the kitchen cooking with me, I’ll do it,” I say.

He puffs out an exhale, his lone curl blowing up over his forehead.

There’s a glimmer of excitement in Vin’s eyes as he walks over to the machine and polishes the touchscreen with his shirt. “I think I can do that for you,” he says.

“How did this machine even get in here?” I ask.

“As soon as I knew we were staying, I asked the brand to send me one,” Vin says as he presses a button. The coffee machine does all the work of grinding the beans. “You prefer oat milk, right?”

When I nod, he grabs milk from the fridge and pours it into a jar. The milk flies through a tube from the jar to the machine, depositing a frothy foam layer on top of the coffee.

Vin presents me with the cup like it’s a delicate heirloom. “There you go. Give that a try.”

I take a sip. It’s surprisingly smooth, the taste not as bitter as I had anticipated.

“What is that, nutmeg? That’s not bad,” I admit, taking another sip. “My turn. Here.” I toss him an apron. “It’s risotto time.”

He accepts the apron but doesn’t put it on. “I… don’t know how to cook.”

This delights me. Watching someone learn how to cook is like watching people fall in love. It’s a lovely mess at first, and then soon enough you’re regretting all the meals you never made.

“The best time to learn is in the middle of the night,” I say, grabbing a shallot. “Why do you look surprised?”

Vin taps out a rhythm on the counter. “This is just another thing I can’t do right.”

I shake my head. “It’s just a song you haven’t learned yet.”

Vin frowns. “Usually when this becomes known in relationships, my girlfriends laugh, express disapproval, mock me. Say things like, ‘You’re a prodigy and yet you can’t boil water?’ Which is wildly inaccurate. I have definitely boiled water before.”

“Lucky for you, I’m not a real girlfriend,” I say. “Let me teach you how to push rice around in a pot, okay?”

He looks at me for a long moment, his expression neutral. Then he concedes and says, “Yes, Chef.”

It lacks enthusiasm, but we can work on that.

For the next ten minutes or so, I walk Vin through the steps of making risotto with Qi broth, peas, herbs, chanterelle mushrooms, cheese, and parsley. I get the broth on heat and soak the dehydrated mushrooms in preparation.

Learning how to cut a shallot is lesson number one. Vin’s a fast learner and easily picks up cutting the shallot both vertically and horizontally.

I peek over Vin’s shoulder to see his progress. He curves his hand over the shallot like it’s the neck of a cello, coming from the top with the knife and cutting downward. Little translucent rectangles, cut at a sharp angle, slide up the blade and onto the cutting board.

“What’s happening to me?” he asks, squeezing his eyes shut. “It burns.”

“Sorry. I need to sharpen the knives,” I say while I pluck sage leaves off their stalk. “The duller it is, the more you cry. It’s the shallot’s chemical compounds.”

I wave my hands toward his face to generate airflow.

“Let me try again,” he says, blinking rapidly as he makes a smooth cut through the shallot. “I want to get it right.”

It’s his first obstacle, but he gets through it.

I add olive oil to the cast-iron Dutch oven, and it crackles against the heat. The shallots and sage sizzle when we slide them into the pot, every inch of the Dandelion filling with one of the Top Five Best Scents Ever.

He gives me a look when I hand him a bottle of white wine. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“This is cooking wine,” I say with a smile, grabbing two small glasses for us.

He pours the gold liquid into the glasses before adding a splash into the shallots. We raise our glasses and take sips at the same time.

I pour arborio rice from the container straight into the pot, eyeballing a cup.

“Now what?” he asks.

“Now we’ll add broth so it barely covers the rice, and stir until it absorbs. Then we’ll add more broth. Rinse and repeat,” I explain. “This is going to be good for us. There’s astragalus and Chinese angelica root in the Qi broth.”

Vin looks at me. “All I heard was how much stirring there is.”

“We’ll call it our Patience Risotto,” I say. “It takes a while to make, but it forces us to slow down. We can’t—and shouldn’t—rush the process.”

“You make this look so easy,” he says.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “Like how you make playing the cello look easy.”

We stand opposite each other on the same side of the stove, hovering over the pot as rice slowly soaks up the broth. In the glow of the kitchen lamps, I can practically see the tension melting away from Vin’s shoulders. The sounds of simmering liquid, our slow breathing, and our conversation punctuate the quiet night.

“If Leo’s unavailable and you need someone to talk to, I’m here,” I offer, stirring the rice.

Vin’s mouth tugs downward, but he’s not quite frowning. After a long minute, he asks, “Have you ever gotten exactly what you wanted at the exact wrong time?”

He holds my gaze a heartbeat too long, and I’m suddenly too warm from the stove’s heat.

“I’ve never gotten millions of dollars at an inconvenient time, no,” I say.

Vin smirks and takes a sip of wine. “If only all the money in the world could fix or solve our problems.”

“Sounds like you’re looking for life to be perfect.”

He shakes his head. “Not life. Maybe love. Is that too much to ask for?”

“These are really hard questions,” I say. “But I get it.”

“I’ve got another hard question for you. What are you looking for in love?” Vin asks. He clears his throat and focuses intensely on the risotto.

I don’t need to think on this one. “Oh, well that one’s easy. I’m looking for interesting but not too interesting, funny but not too funny, handsome—”

“But not too handsome?” he guesses as he adds a few more ladles of broth while I stir. The liquid seeps around the rice, and each grain slowly swells.

I point a rosemary sprig at him. “No. Drop-dead gorgeous.”

“So… in other words, perfect,” he says, half smiling at me. “You’re looking for a Goldilocks relationship.”

I shrug. “Sure, if you want to call it something. It needs to be just right. Because of the curse, it’s safer this way. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, all the breaking up. That my scarred heart would be tough or numb. Especially with what I do. I’m literally around heartbreak in my personal and professional lives. I truly can’t escape it.”

“I don’t think that could be true. That you could be used to it,” he says.

I hand him a block of Parmesan to grate. “Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Because every relationship—or heartbreak—is different, no matter how many times you go through it,” he says, moving the block back and forth as a mini cheese mountain forms. “I’ve played cello for so long that I’ve practiced and performed certain songs thousands of times. You might think that playing the exact same notes would come out sounding identical, but I could sit down right now to play that song again and it would sound different based on my energy levels and the expression I’m trying to convey. The weather, setting, and audience affect the music, too. Every performance belongs to the moment. Like relationships and heartbreak.”

A small smile plays on my lips. “Like how, when my moonflowers blossom, despite being the same type of flower, each one will be different.”

“Yeah. Something like that,” he says, fully grinning now.

I instruct Vin to cut the hydrated mushrooms while I chop parsley and rosemary.

“Thank you. You’ve helped me prove my point,” I say. “I’m better suited for relationships that are casual. One where there’s no risk of getting hurt. Companionship. A solid friendship.”

Something tells me Vin couldn’t be my Just Right relationship. Without barriers and rules in place, he’d become Too Right. I allow myself to think it, though, just this once: Wouldn’t it be nice if he could be? The thought evaporates as slowly as the broth on the stove, lingering a little too long in my mind. I stir this thought in with the rest of the ones that have been sidelined in this moment.

I redirect my focus to adding the remaining mushrooms, peas, herbs, and cheese, and mixing everything together. I scoop out a bite and hold it toward Vin to try. “This is what patience tastes like,” I say.

Vin wraps his mouth around the spoon and closes his eyes. A sound of pleasure escapes his throat. “It was worth waiting for.”

I grab a second spoon, and we eat straight out of the pot.

“So good,” I say before throwing the question back to him. “I want to know what your version of perfect looks like.”

“That one’s easy for me, too,” he says. “I want what my parents have. After all these years, they’re still going strong.”

After what Vin told me at the hotel and on our clamming day, this doesn’t surprise me.

“They got exactly what they wanted at the exact right time. They just didn’t know it yet,” I reflect. “Sounds like it’s not that you don’t want to settle down. It’s the opposite. You don’t want to settle.”

Vin takes another bite. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Maybe you’ll feel it when you meet your perfect person,” I say. “If such a thing even exists.”

Vin nods just once. “I’ll know exactly how it feels.”