37. Noa
NOA
Aarti’s been swept into a whirlwind of rehearsals, lighting tests, and last-minute rewrites for Monday’s premiere. Which means I’ve had three long days to disappear into my lab work and ignore the complicated emotions swirling in my gut since Wednesday’s pierogi dinner.
It’s Saturday morning at the BFI but I’ve been here since the late hours of Friday night, unable to sleep. Just me, the chicken scratch in my notebook, and the impossible task of distilling Aarti Nair into thirty-two ounces of frozen perfection.
Spread across my workstation like evidence in a crime scene are all the elements I’ve extracted from our weeks together:
The cherry ribbons Stella originally conceived–bright, grabby, an allusion to her cultural impact on Midnight Live , their stability improved with the addition of aged balsamic, oxidized much like the rust of her childhood schoolyard.
Orange blossom and marigold essence crystallized into yellow-flecked rock candy–her Los Angeles roots tangled with her Indian heritage, expressing the tactility of her climbing and the crunchy beats of the West Coast rap that soundtracked her first-gen upbringing.
A matcha syrup infused with fenugreek leaves from her mother’s garden–the caffeine that fuels her tireless work ethic, made bittersweet by her family’s expectations.
Lavender and ube sprinkles–the scent of Arjun’s patio blended with the pure sugar of the food truck owners and bus drivers who watched over her when she was young.
I line everything up, rearranging and pairing various combinations, trying to solve a puzzle where every piece feels essential.
This is different from my usual process.
Normally, I’m just chasing the best version of a flavor, no limitations other than the usual constraints of upholding the Jen & Mary’s brand.
But here, every choice is about so much more than flavor.
I’m deciding which parts of Aarti the world gets to taste and which parts stay hidden.
The truth is, I don’t want to get rid of any of it.
The thought arrives with such clarity it makes me gasp. I love every contradictory, complicated piece of her. The way she can command a room and then curl into my arms like she needs protecting. The sharp wit that cuts and the tenderness that heals. The performer and the person underneath.
I love her.
Love.
The word sits heavy in my chest, undeniable and terrifying. When did it shift from attraction to… this? This bone-deep certainty that she’s it for me?
And suddenly, I see it. The vision arrives fully formed, like when you’ve been staring at one of those Magic Eye pictures and the image suddenly snaps into focus.
I grab clean containers, working with the fervor of divine inspiration, and it all comes together.
A rich mango kulfi base, free of the basil and saffron that complicated my previous mango experiments. At its center, a swirl of all four elements lined up at my workstation, contained and concealed within the mango so that only the dense orange cream is visible when the pint is first opened.
It takes twelve attempts to get the viscosity right, to ensure each aspect maintains its integrity while swirling together into something that makes my heart race. When I finally nail it, when I dig my spoon into the center and see that perfect rainbow spiral, I actually laugh out loud.
Then immediately want to cry.
Because this is it. This is Aarti. Every hidden piece, every beautiful complicated truth about her, frozen in time with sugar and cream.
And it can never, ever leave this room.
The euphoria of creation crashes into cold reality. I’ve made the most perfect flavor that will never see the inside of a grocery store. A love letter that has to stay sealed.
I label it simply: Sweet Talk . Because isn’t that what we’ve been doing? Sweet-talking the world into believing we’re just colleagues with good chemistry?
With shaking hands, I set the pint aside, return to my workstation and pull out my notebook.
Turning to a dog-eared page, I locate the safer recipe I sketched out weeks ago, before Aarti and I really got to know each other–a facsimile of who I thought she was and what I thought her audience would want.
Building off of Stella’s cherry ribbons as well, but beyond that, purely rooted in aesthetic and taste cohesion.
A brown butter base accented with a chai spice blend and midnight snacking elements.
Pretzel swirls, caramel chunks, chocolate-covered espresso beans.
I work mechanically on this version, and it comes together quickly, which normally would please me, but instead leaves me feeling empty.
It’s delicious. It’ll sell. It says nothing real.
I have a name for this one, too, one that’s cutesy and superficial and broad. I scrawl Aarti After Midnight on the lid.
“You’re here early. Or late, depending on perspective.”
I jump, nearly dropping my spoon. Stella stands in the doorway, looking oddly casual in jeans and a Stanford sweatshirt instead of her usual lab coat armor.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I manage.
“Hm. Me either,” she admits. “I’m used to everything happening on my timeline in ice cream-land, but my ankle is determined to teach me a new lesson.”
I think it’s the most honest thing she’s ever shared with me.
She crosses to my station, her cane tapping a steady rhythm. “May I?”
I slide the safe pint toward her.
She tastes it methodically, letting it melt on her tongue before speaking.
“Brown butter, nice choice. The pretzel provides textural interest without being gimmicky.” She nods. “The network will love it. Safe but sophisticated. Well done, Hart. I’m impressed.”
There it is. The approval I’ve been seeking from my boss for oh-so-long.
“Great,” I say, moving to store both pints, desperate to get the rainbow one out of sight.
But Stella is eagle-eyed. “What else are you working on? Another mold-breaking monstrosity from home?”
“Oh, that’s nothing–”
But she’s already reaching for it. She pops the lid, her eyebrows raising slightly at the kulfi. She scrapes a small spoonful off the surface and looks at me, confused.
“Delicious, but where’s that Noa twist? Even the chai in that brown butter was unusual, if not toned down for your normal speed.”
“Dig deeper,” I tell her.
She does, and the spoon reemerges with the mango kulfi on top of the red-orange-green-purple swirl beneath it.
Stella takes a bite and closes her eyes.
When she reopens them, they’re twinkling.
“ This is extraordinary. Why aren’t you submitting this one?”
The words stick in my throat. “It’s not… Aarti hasn’t approved it.”
“Ah.” She sets down the spoon carefully. “She hasn’t or she won’t?”
Stella has always been perceptive–you have to be, to taste the intricacies of a flavor as both a chef and a scientist.
“I can’t totally explain it,” I say, hesitant, “without sharing information that’s not mine to tell.”
Her brows scrunch together and she closes one eye as she inspects the ice cream again. “I suppose the swirl isn’t particularly subtle.”
My only answer is silence.
Stella pops the lid back on the pint. “You’re talented, Noa. You have real vision. Don’t make the mistake of overthinking your cherry ribbons and forget to watch your step.”
Stella heads to her office and closes the door behind her.