Chapter 10
10
Natalia
senior year
“Did you hear the big gossip going around school?” I whisper as I slide onto my stool. Hayden looks up from his notebook. The eraser end of his pencil lightly taps the college-ruled spiral bound as he plays along with my guessing game.
“That Ben and Tina hooked up in the back of her Civic?”
“Ew, no.”
He shrugs. “Well, that’s the big gossip going around school.”
“Yes, but we’re talking about me.”
“Okay, what’s this big gossip going around about you?” He drops his pencil and faces me, looking at my beaming smile with curiosity.
“I got into NYU.”
Hayden’s eyes widen as his lips spread into a grin. “That’s amazing! Congratulations!”
“I know.” I sheepishly smile. “My parents are taking me to tour the campus next month.”
“Wow, you’re finally leaving the nest, huh, Marquez? Spreading your wings and whatnot.”
I cringe. “You sound like my dad,” I say. “Did you hear back from Penn State?”
I’m waiting for his answer while pulling out my bio class necessities. Notebook, pencil, highlighters, etcetera. When Hayden doesn’t answer, I look at him. His gaze is narrowed on the desktop in front of him, not really focusing on anything aside from avoiding my question.
“Uh, yeah. Like a month ago,” he finally answers. “I got in.”
“And you’re going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, congratulations,” I still offer. “It’s still a pretty big deal that you got in.”
He turns to face me with a small smile, one that’s close lipped and full of so many silent words that he’s keeping to himself, spread across his face as he nods. I smile back, squeezing his forearm as we silently look into each other’s eyes. The bustling noise of fellow biology class students starts to surround us as the classroom fills, along with our future and its inevitable plans.
present
The following weeks go by like gusts of winds interrupting a calm breeze. My days continue with the constant current of meetings, conference calls, and emails. Enough to keep my mind occupied. Then, without warning, like a squall unanchoring my feet off the ground, I’m reminded of the five-by-seven-inch cardstock sitting in my kitchen drawer, poking at the pieces of my heart that are far from being put back together.
Why can’t I just move on? Matteo obviously has.
When I showed up at Carmen’s house post tragic breakup, my tear-stained face already telling her everything she needed to know about my change in living situation, she told me everything happens for a reason.
At the time, my response was to stuff my face into her couch cushions and drown myself in my own tears. I took what she said with a grain of salt. Not because I didn’t believe it to be true, but because the ache splintering my heart in two was too painful to view my situation with anything other than a glass-half-empty pessimism.
But now, as I figuratively point my fists to the sky as I scream “why” from the top of my lungs, I can’t help but wonder this “why.” Why Matteo felt it was okay for us to stay in a relationship for four years, one that wasn’t necessarily perfect, but I assumed we were both content in. But when the topic of marriage was broached, he broke up with me. Why this rejection not only tore our relationship apart but left me feeling as if I’m not good enough.
I’m in the middle of simultaneously deciding the best way to destroy Matteo’s wedding invitation, barrel fire sitting at the top of my list, while attaching a SpongeBob GIF in an email to José when my cell phone buzzes on my desk with a new alert. I pick it up to see Carmen’s name pop up with a new text message.
Carmen: Just confirming, we’re still going apple picking this weekend?
I sigh. It’s an annual tradition that we started with Matteo and David, the four of us piling into David’s Subaru and driving the two-hour drive outside of the city to spend the day eating carnival-style foods and picking bushels of apples. Carmen looks forward to it every year. I had all but forgotten about it until Carmen reminded me in passing a couple of weeks ago. It’s one of the few times in the year that she plans her schedule around so she can get a day off and enjoy our little double date. Well, now a trio with me being the third wheel.
Me: Of course.
She texts back immediately with a smiley face emoji. As I’m frowning at my phone screen, I’m interrupted by the low growl coming from my hungry stomach, reminding me that lunchtime is approaching. I stand from my chair and walk the short trek to José’s office, looking for something to distract me from this weekend’s wistful getaway. When I walk through his open office door, he looks up from his monitor, not at all surprised by this usual interaction between us.
“What are we doing for lunch today?” I ask, silently hoping he’s in the mood to make the trek to SoHo for spam musubi and pineapple coleslaw.
“Oh,” José says, his voice deflated. “Jason’s taking me out. He’s showing a brownstone to a client in the area so he’s meeting me after.”
“Aw,” I respond, not bothering to hide my disappointment.
“Sorry, mami ,” he says with a wink. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”
I give an understanding nod in José’s direction before walking back to my office. I guess I could have a solo lunch ordered in today…But with the sl ight damper this weekend’s plans put on my mood, I need something to lift my spirits.
When the sudden hankering for something sweet and tarty and lemony hits in the deep pockets of my hippocampus—something Carmen informed me one random night about cravings and brain chemistry—I know where I’m going for lunch.
When I walk through the doors at Pour Toujours, I’m greeted by a hostess. She moves efficiently, reaching for a menu with a polite smile as I tell her it’ll be a party for one. Once I’m shown to my seat, I turn to face her before sitting on the long, cushioned bench against the wall.
“Um, is Hayden here?”
She pauses for a second and smiles wider as she watches me slink into my seat. “He is. I’ll let him know he has a visitor.”
“Oh,” I protest. “If he’s busy, it’s okay.”
She nods one last time before walking away. I’m scanning the menu, glancing over the words in French with added flourishes, when I’m interrupted by the scraping of a chair against the hard floor. When I look up, I see Hayden’s face. His smile is so wide and bright, telling me just how happy he is to see me, as he takes the open seat in front of me.
“You’re alive,” he says through his smile.
“Of course I am,” I say, shyly hunching forward in my seat as I lower the menu.
“Well,” he says, linking his fingers together on top of the covered tabletop. “I haven’t heard so much as a whisper from you since the bar, so I thought maybe you were abducted by aliens.”
“Not yet, but keeping my fingers crossed.” I raise a hand with my index and middle fingers overlapping each other. “So what’s good here? I hear the chef is pretty good at his day job,” I tease, leaning slightly forward. Hayden inches closer, mirroring my movements. Instead of answering my question, he plucks the menu from my hands and stands from his seat.
“I gotchu,” he says, winking with a knowing smile before he walks away. I smile back and wait patiently, leaning against the wall behind me. My fingertips graze against the glass goblet filled with water, the condensation already wrapping around the clear surface.
The restaurant isn’t too busy, but there’s the usual lunch rush traffic. People eating in pairs, much like José and I do on a regular basis, chatting work talk over a quick meal that includes warm bread and hard butter.
When I finally see Hayden’s eyes meet mine through the saloon-style swinging doors, his face lights up with an eager smile. He walks through careful steps while balancing two plates in his hand. When he approaches my table at the same time I’m draping my napkin on my lap, he lowers the plates with a look that’s blended between pride and modesty.
“Coq au vin and ratatouille,” he claims as he watches me eye the food in awe. “And I have dessert coming your way once you’re finished.”
“This looks amazing,” I say softly as a pool of saliva collects on the inside of my cheeks. “So…ratatouille is a real thing?” I ask, my curiosity trumping the need to ask such a silly question.
“Of course it is.”
I smile bashfully, shrugging a shoulder as I lower my face. “I just thought that it was a made-up thing that cartoon rat made in the movie.”
He laughs, and his shoulders bounce. “Enjoy your lunch,” he says, the laughter in his eyes twinkling as he turns to walk away.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m halfway through one of the most delicious creations of braised chicken I’ve ever had, alongside a large, heaped serving of warm, summery vegetables to perfectly balance the whole meal. I can’t believe I’ve gone this long thinking that ratatouille was a made-up dish. The way the savory juices squeeze out of each bite makes me crave the next time I get to enjoy a meal cooked by Hayden.
I’m polishing off the last of my meal while making a mental note to visit Hayden’s restaurant more often when he reappears from behind the kitchen doors. I’ve been devouring my food so hungrily that I’ve all but forgotten that Hayden is still in the same building. The only thing present in my existence is the food I just inhaled. And now, the lemon tarts that brought me into the restaurant in the first place as Hayden places a neatly cut slice in front of me.
“I honestly cannot have another bite but you’re making it so hard to say no,” I say with a deep breath.
He pulls out the seat in front of me as he makes himself comfortable and places two forks between us. He picks one up and pierces the lemon tart, then takes a bite before I realize that he’s staying to keep me company.
“You don’t have to get back there?” I ask, gesturing toward the kitchen.
He shakes his head. “The lunch rush is dying down a bit, so I have a minute.”
So we sit, enjoying each other’s company while falling into a rhythm of comfortable silence and my occasional hum of satisfaction over my new favorite dessert. I giggle as I shoo his fork away from the crumbly crust, and he subtly nudges the plate a little closer to me before placing his fork down on the tabletop.
Hayden watches me squeeze the fork through my lips. I make sure I get every last smear of custard while fully aware of Hayden’s narrowing gaze.
“What?” I ask through a half-full mouth. I laugh, suddenly shy that I’ve become the center of attention in the small bubble that wrapped around us.
“Nothing,” he answers, shaking his head. My teeth clamp down on my lower lip, the muscles around my chin tightening as I suppress a smile. And Hayden does the same, one corner of his mouth lifting as the same dimple I’ve memorized presses into his cheek. His eyes flit to my mouth before trailing back to my eyes, and I feel my lips tense, then relax as a weird flutter spreads across my chest. A darkness casts over his eyes as his pupils fill the shades of jade and whiskey. We silently establish this staring contest, both refusing to break away as the iron grip I have on my fork slackens. It suddenly slips from my fingers, landing on the plate with a clatter. Whatever trance crackled between us breaks, pulling us both back down to our cushioned seats and to reality.
A sudden flush crawls up my chest and to my neck. I can feel the heat travel to my ears, and I nervously bring my hand to cover my flustered state, brushing over the side of my neck and hovering over my left ear.
Why do I suddenly feel like I’m sitting on a stage under a bright spotlight, beaming with pressure and heat? Like I’m the center of attention and being noticed for the first time.
I look at Hayden again, smiling shyly. And he does the same, huffing a short laugh before coughing into his fist.
“Uh, so, you doing anything fun this weekend?” Hayden asks, his voice sounding uncertain with his gaze settled on the fork haphazardly teetering off the plate between us.
“Oh. I, um…I’m going apple picking with Carmen and David on Sunday.” I tell my plans rather glumly, and Hayden catches on quickly.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I used to go apple picking with Matteo—my ex—every year, our way of celebrating fall and whatnot,” I explain. “We always went with Carmen and David, and it’s become sort of a tradition.”
“Oh,” he says as if finally realizing why I sound so defeated about my plans.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Anyway, this is the first time I’m going without Matteo, and I’m a little worried I’ll feel like the third wheel. ”
“You can’t bail?” he asks, his fingertips running over the white tablecloth.
“No,” I say softly. “Carmen’s been so excited about going. I don’t have the heart to tell her no.” We sit in a short silence, the clinks of metal utensils to ceramic plates filtering around us.
“I’ll go with you.”
“What?” I ask, slightly confused.
“I’ll go with you,” he repeats.
“Apple picking?”
He nods.
I shake my head. “No, Hayden. You don’t need to do that.”
“I want to.” His serious eyes, ones that don’t carry a hint of hesitation, look at me as if silently telling me it’s okay that I accept his offer. His brows rise and lips curve into a sincere smile. “I’m off on Sunday, and it sounds kinda fun.”
“Are you sure?” I ask rather timidly. I mull over Hayden’s offer, thinking how good it would feel to accept it. A sudden reassuring calm takes over me, knowing I could enjoy a day with my sister while breaking this vicious cycle of heartbreak and tears. All because I would have Hayden by my side to loosen the tightness in my chest that I’ve become all too familiar with.
“Yes,” he answers assuredly. “If you want me to be there, I’ll be there.”
I still hesitate, even with his unwavering confidence that doesn’t show a speck of doubt. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he parrots.