Chapter 4
FOUR
Double Double
Dominic
A few weeks go by without Hoot coming into Biblio & Brew.
That’s okay, I can play the long game. Summer has only just begun.
It’s warm but not too hot outside yet, so I don’t have a lot to do with most students off campus for the break.
The few people that are here are outside soaking up the sunshine.
It’s nice actually. I get to read a lot in all the down time.
I pull out my newest book, What an Owl Knows.
I’m not sure why, but this particular book seemed to jump out at me from the shelf.
I pour over the interesting facts on owls.
I absorb everything from their different types of feathers to their keen sense of hearing and sight.
Just as I’m about to dive into a bit about binocular vision, a flash of tan fabric steals my attention.
Toward the back of the cafe, I see her. She’s unmissable.
Hoot’s arm stretches in the confinements of a light tan trench coat, aiming for a book that is clearly out of her reach.
I observe in amusement for a moment before deciding to help end her struggle, but someone beats me to it.
My eyes snag on a tall blonde dude sauntering towards her.
I can practically smell his ego from here.
I watch the interaction unfold like a cinematic display just for me.
A movie I’m not particularly keen on watching.
The guy smiles at Hoot, she smiles back.
She giggles at something he says, which I guarantee wasn’t that funny.
He reaches up to grab the book in question, slowly passing it to Hoot while offering her what only a romance novel would label as a “dazzling smile.”
Good grief this guy is laying it on thick.
She accepts a slip of paper from him, and I crane my neck to see…
a business card? Yikes. As he stalks off I whip around towards the back counter, flipping switches on the espresso machine.
The whirring sounds are a monotone comfort as my eyes flit back to my book on owls and I wait for my black coffee to spill into the awaiting mug.
The words are a jumbling mess and I have to reread the same sentence three times.
“Like what you see?” A silky voice asks from behind me. I turn, coffee in one hand, my owl book in the other. Hoot stands there with her arms crossed, smirking at me from the other side of the coffee bar.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I offer as nonchalantly as possible, taking a sip of coffee and pretending to read my book.
“Oh please, I felt your eyes like lasers drilling holes into Tyler’s head.”
“Burr holes are nothing to joke about. Didn’t you watch Grey’s Anatomy?” I ask in mock concern.
“Ha. In that case you’d need a drill at close range, intern.” She smirks.
“So you have seen it.”
“A drill at close range? No, unfortunately I have not. I’ll add it to my bucket list. Coffee?” she asks, eyeing my cup.
“I thought you were a tea person?” I question her, but move to make a coffee anyway.
Hoot smiles, an amusing thought crossing her mind that I’m not privy to.
“Only after I’ve had several coffees. Tea is my heartwarming drink, coffee is my addiction,” She moves to toss Tyler’s business card in the trash.
I catch her eye with a raised brow in question and she flips the card so that I can read it.
Tyler McLaughen
Cryptocurrency Guru & Entrepreneur
She tosses it in the trash without a second glance.
“Can’t argue with that. How would you like it?” I ask readying a marker and a napkin.
“Two cream, two sugar, please and thank you,” she says.
“Okay, and a name?” I ask, glancing up catching her stare on my forearms. My tongue runs along the inside of my cheek as I try not to grin.
“I believe that’s called a ‘double double’,” she quips, feigning ignorance.
I tilt my head and continue to stare at her.
“Okay, fine, Celeste. My name is Celeste.” She holds her hand out as if we were truly meeting for the first time, in a real conversation and not just idle chit chat waiting for a coffee order.
I offer her a small half smile, taking her hand in mine.
Her skin is smooth and soft in mine. I restrain myself from running my thumb over her delicate fingers.
“I’m Dominic Miller. Nice to meet you, Celeste.”
“Likewise, Dominic.”
* * *
The recipe I’m cooking from insists on using chestnut flour, and although it mentions that regular flour will do, the chestnut flour will enhance the dish and add a nuttiness to the gnocchi.
It took me three days and four phone calls to suppliers to get the right flour delivered to Remington Hills, unwilling to venture out of our small university town myself.
Not to mention the rest of the ingredients. But flavour is flavour.
My oven dings, the timer for the potatoes and squash chirping their readiness. I pull on oven mitts and gingerly ease it out of the oven, placing it on top of the stove to cool. I turn to the opposite counter, trying to even out the hollow well shape I’ve created using the damn chestnut flour.
I busy myself first with scooping out the flesh from the potatoes and squash, mashing them together, then combining them with the flour, eggs, salt, and cheese.
My mind is blissfully calm as I move through the motions.
The rolling of the dough feels meditative after years of homemade pasta attempts.
It was Maria who had first shown me how to make pasta at home with flour and eggs.
A simple method, using ingredients that are usually found at home, and one that most kids will eat.
Maria had told me, even at eight years old, that if I wanted to help out and be a leader among the other children she was fostering, making a cozy meal would always soothe the soul and make them feel a little more at home.
I made different kinds of pasta so often some of the other kids that came and went through the system exclusively referred to me as “Noodle.” It didn’t help that I was pre-pubescent and very much looked the part.
Nevertheless, I kept at it, sometimes using Maria’s ice cream shoppe during closed hours to roll out dough when I was frustrated over something.
Other times I’d hand cut pieces when I felt creative.
I’d make use of only flour and water when money was tight and Maria couldn’t afford to give me spare eggs.
Finally, by the time I was eleven I was making tagliatelle with dough thin enough to read the newspaper through.
Pasta was my jam. It was around that time that I had to leave Maria.
I was heartbroken, having to leave after finally finding what felt like home.
As I cried in her arms, she whispered that she’d never be too far for me to visit or call.
Then, from what seemed like out of nowhere, she pulled out a small box.
I looked up at her in confusion, wiping my puffy eyes.
“It’s a pasta laminator, Dominico.” Maria had explained with warmth, her nickname for me feeling like a hug around my young heart, “You take it with you always, and keep practicing.” I hugged her so hard I thought my bones would break.
I pull from my memories, focusing on slowly adding my gnocchi pieces delicately to the boiling water, sighing as I wait the few minutes it takes for them to rise back up and greet me.
I glance to my right where my pasta laminator sits proudly and smile at the memory.
It wasn’t the best laminator on the market, not even close.
But it was mine. At eleven years old, I didn’t have much to my name, not even a home.
But I had that. Of course, I always found my way back to Maria, sometimes in the middle of the night from other foster homes.
Then eventually through visits to her ice cream shoppe.
I had Maria, my laminator, and a novice skill set that had grown from necessity.
I release a sharp exhale, knowing exactly how Maria would feel about the culinary institutes I requested admissions packages from almost a month ago.
She would want me to try. She’d cheer for me to put myself out there and see if I measure up, with so much optimism it would make me dizzy.
Unfortunately, and despite her best efforts, optimism was not something Maria could pass on to me.
Frankly, taking that leap and putting myself out there to be judged like that scares the shit out of me.
I’d love to pursue something with my passed down cooking skills, but I’m not quite sure yet which direction to take.
The packages I requested were from institutes all over the world.
It almost feels too daunting just thinking about applying to institutes in France or Switzerland.
But besides my tattoo parlour family and Maria, there’s not much keeping me here.
Until I can formulate some sort of plan, I won’t bother telling anyone about the culinary school applications.
I don’t want to get their hopes up only to be let down by my inadequacy.
My phone buzzes on the counter pausing my background music.
I grumble and glance quickly at the caller ID.
It’s Ellora. Of course she calls just as I’m supposed to be taking the gnocchi out of the boil and having a slight panic attack at my indecisive future.
I click it quickly, immediately putting her on speaker.
“I’m kinda busy right now, Lor,” I say briskly.
“Oh look who’s alive.” My sister’s sarcastic voice fills my kitchen and I swear the gnocchi deflates a little. I roll my eyes because she can’t see me.
“I can feel you rolling your eyes, Dominic. Don’t worry, I’m not selling any bibles. Just checking in to see if you’re still alive.” Her tone is clipped but I know her intention is coming from her heart. Her cold black heart.
“Yup, alive, doing well. You?” I ask, wincing at how much of an asshole I sound, even to myself.
Ellora, historically, has never been well, even when we were kids.
Where I moved on from our junkie parents, she tried to carry them with her.
Shoulder their burdens. Unfortunately, those burdens included owing drug dealers money and never having jobs to actually support their own kids.
“I’m good. Really good, actually.” There’s more positivity in her voice than I’ve ever heard before. It makes me pause, wondering where it must be coming from. A slice of panic ebbs its way under my ribs.
“Listen, I know we don’t do the whole…sibling bonding bullshit or whatever,” she starts, sounding like she’s begun pacing around.
My laugh is saltier than I intend. We’ve never been very brother-sistery, more like two kids that happen to live in the same home before being picked up and dropped into the foster system while we happen to be related genetically.
Being siblings did not guarantee living in the same foster home.
“But I’ve found a good career, I’m sober, almost five years now, and I’m seeing someone.
” I audibly hear her swallow and my panic deflates.
It’s never been easy for Lor to open up to anyone romantically, especially once she became sober.
I’ve had girlfriends, but Lor has mostly only dated her dealers.
Five years sober is an achievement I was always scared would never happen for her.
Emotion sticks itself inside my throat and I suppress tingling sensation that forms across the bridge of my nose.
I clear my throat. “Good for you, Lor. Those are some really great things you have.” I try not to add onto the end, so don’t fuck it up like our parents did, you deserve better. But I know she knows I’m thinking it.
“I’m moving actually. I’m done with the east coast and this new place has more to offer.
” She sounds decided, decisive. A trait I wouldn’t have paired with my sister.
I’m proud of her, but the words get stuck in my throat.
Our relationship has always been on thin ice.
She sided with my parents, begging them to change, while I walked away the first chance I got, ready to never speak with them again.
She turned to drugs and I began cooking.
Sometimes I wish we had been given the chance to have a better relationship, a friendship even, but those were not the cards we were dealt.
I had Maria for a critical moment in my childhood, I don’t think Ellora ever had that.
She bounced from foster homes more often than I did, always causing trouble and trying desperately to get back to our parents.
“Good for you, Lor, do you need help getting movers or…?”
She scoffs. “No, Dom, I didn’t call you to pay for my movers. I was just letting you know where I was. That’s what family does.” Her casual tone sharpens with her last sentence.
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose as I begin sautéing the gnocchi in my butter sauce. “Don’t start Lor. I want nothing to do with them.” I try to make my words come out with finality, but it sounds more like exhaustion.
“They’re doing better, Dom. If you just opened your heart a fraction, you’d see they’re just people who’ve made mistakes.
” My parents. Her parents. Lor has continued to contact them, tried to get them in rehab so many times, but more often than not she’s out of money and they’ve taken off.
“Dominic. They just want to see who you’ve become, how your life is…
” she continues in a rush, frustration lacing every hurried word, “Hell, Dom, I don’t even know where you live!
You don’t even trust your own sister to tell me your address!
” If I had been holding the phone to my ear I’m sure my eardrum would have been blown right off.
“Ellora, I don’t trust them. Listen, I’m right in the middle of a complicated recipe and I don’t want it to spoil,” I rush, needing to get off the phone.
Once I had acquired my own apartment, I knew there was no way I wanted my parents to know where I was.
I had my first permanent home that was all mine, and I was not going to risk them coming here.
“Fine. Talk again at Christmas I guess, fucking asshole.” The call disconnects.
I plate up my food, glad to be off the phone with her but also happy to have heard her voice, knowing that she’s doing well.
Disappointment ruminates in my gut as I realize maybe I don’t trust Ellora either.
I shake my head as if the heaviness of our conversation would slip out of my ears and onto my couch.
I flip on whatever show happens to be cued up and eat mindlessly.
I had been so excited to make this Ossola style gnocchi with sage butter sauce, but now every bite tastes like ash on my tongue.