Chapter 12
TWELVE
Drip
Dominic
I try to focus on the admissions application papers I got in the mail this week. The blank pages taunt me with questions like, “What previous culinary experience do you have?” and “Where did your love for cooking originate from?”
To which I can only answer honestly, none, and because I grew up starving and had to make shitty food taste as good as possible.
I mull over a few ways to make that sound less petulant and more eloquent.
A soft laugh pulls my focus and my head snaps up to exactly where Celeste sits with Jude “The Hair” on their date.
Celeste is laughing politely at something he’s saying.
It doesn’t feel like a genuine laugh but what do I know?
I turn my focus towards a psychology textbook I found upon my morning perusal of the stacks about a half hour ago.
To gauge the nature of the relationship between the two participants, one must examine the proxemics. If Individual A is interested, say through camaraderie, partnership or romantic interest in Individual B, then they may demonstrate the following bodily actions:
Leaning forward into Individual B’s intimate space - this zone is classified as zero to fifteen inches of space
Mirroring Individual B’s physical position, sitting or standing
Individual A will touch Individual B with unnecessary but sometimes involuntary movements (eg. touch their arm/back/hand)
Feet are an essential indicator - precisely pointing at the direction of interest
I glance up toward the table Celeste and Jude are sitting at.
He’s leaning forwards, heavy on the eye contact, and hands outstretched in front of him, palms down on either side of the coffee I served him almost twenty minutes ago.
Celeste is…leaning back, arms crossed over her chest and her legs are turned slightly away and crossed one leg over the other.
Based on what I just read it seems like he is definitely interested whereas she…
is not? I’m not an expert, but from here it seems she’s not exactly swooning over the guy.
Celeste asked if it was okay to bring him here for their date so that it was a public setting and casual enough for just coffee, and not a mafia disaster or another ambush by someone’s mom.
A small smile passes across my lips and I turn back to my applications.
Vic and Rick had coaxed me into at least thinking about starting the application process for culinary school.
From the day I arrived on their doorstep, fresh out of high school and financially unable to afford any kind of secondary schooling—let alone any interest in one—they took me in.
I was shit at drawing despite my interest in becoming a tattoo artist. Rick laughed, but Vic asked me to help make some of the food for family dinner.
It’s become a tradition for every family gathering since.
She’d pushed my novice culinary skills to a new limit, throwing every intricate recipe she could find online or through heirloom cookbooks passed down through her family.
My love for Italian food sprouted from Maria’s gentle nudge, but grew with Vic’s constant pushing and testing my culinary limits.
She showed me how to measure by eye, and “never cook in a bad mood, it will only spoil the flavour.”
I sigh looking over the documents in hand.
Can I really do this? I mean, financially I’ve been saving up every cent from first working clerical and clean up jobs for Rick and Vic at the parlour, to now working as a barista at the cafe.
I can definitely apply for a loan to help make ends meet without going into unbearable debt.
But mentally? I know I’m a decent home cook but in comparison to other applicants I feel like the admissions people would see mine and feel…
underwhelmed. I have no experience in a professional kitchen and the closest thing to getting paid for food services I have is when people add a baked good to their coffee order here at Biblio & Brew.
I massage my temples. I shouldn’t have pulled out these papers during my break, it’s too stressful during the small window I have to relax.
In reality, my job at the counter isn’t crazy, even during busier hours.
The cafe is still new enough that it isn’t well-known, and most students are still away for summer break.
It’s just me and Dazey, a single mom in her thirties.
I run the cafe part, she runs the books part.
Our manager spends most of her time at the on-campus bookstore as they hold all the inventory for current textbooks and things students actually need for school life.
I like the pace here though. It’s calming.
I like not having a demanding manager to report to all the time.
I take another glance down at the applications in front of me and frown. Could I even manage working in a busy kitchen if this was what I preferred? Suddenly I feel lost. Overwhelmed and utterly lost.
I glance up to the date unfolding in front of me and feel like taking a sigh of relief. At least Celeste clearly isn’t into The Hair. I audibly scoff then inwardly scold myself. No. I want Celeste to be happy, why am I wanting this date to fail?
God dammit, Dominic, YOU set this date up!
I’m just invested in Celeste’s happiness and clearly, she isn’t interested in him. A delightful airy feeling warms my middle. Okay I guess I’m very invested in Celeste’s happiness. A little worm of envy speaks on my behalf in my brain.
If you’re actually invested in her happiness, you’d find her better suitors.
To be fair, Jude did tick off many of Celeste’s boxes on her list. He was tall, clocking in around six feet, about two inches shorter than me, and he was handsome.
Too handsome, perhaps? He looks like a teen heartthrob from the nineties.
Even as a heterosexual man I was secure enough in my masculinity to appreciate another man’s beauty.
And Jude was just that, beautiful. I could only draw comparisons from Ryan Phillippe in the nineties cult classic, Cruel Intentions, another favourite of mine that I make a note to rewatch soon.
Jude also comes from money, a large chunk of it actually funding the cafe we’re all currently dwelling in.
Also, he’s set for his future. From the number of times he mentioned his upcoming trust fund being released soon, to the various estates his parents own and have gifted him and his siblings, he’d never have to worry about money.
A gifted estate. As if a house were the same as a new sweater opened on Christmas morning.
I can’t even fathom having that kind of wealth, that kind of reach.
He clearly isn’t shy to flaunt it either.
From the way he continuously leans in towards Celeste it’s clear he isn’t intimidated by her smart mouth and quick retorts.
So he ticks off almost all her boxes. For me, he just ticks me off.
I grind my teeth so hard my jaw is aching and feel the application papers half crumpled in my fist, when movement catches my periphery.
Celeste and Jude are getting up from their table, he leans forward and gives her a hug.
She reaches up on her tiptoes to hug him back, not too intimately but not too casually either.
Just as she begins to pull back he lands a very swift kiss to her cheek.
I can’t tear my eyes from the scene, nor can I gauge Celeste’s reaction to it.
I swallow something hard and jagged in my throat and look down at the blank admission papers once again, cursing under my breath as I begin smoothing down the edges.
I feel a pit form in my stomach at seeing something that wasn’t meant for me.
I certainly didn’t even qualify to be a contender to Celeste’s heart so the least I could do was find her someone who was.
Just not Jude. I shuffle my papers away and head back to the coffee counter, my break ending several minutes ago, but no one had needed me anyway.
No one needs you.
I try not to let that evil little thought bury itself too deep in my psyche, but I feel it setting up camp somewhere in the back of my brain.
It was true, though. No one truly relied on me for anything serious.
Yes, Rick and Vic asked me to help cook for family dinners, but that was for my benefit and practice.
Yes, I work here at the cafe and if I were to take time off or was sick, sure my manager would need to find someone to cover my shifts so Dazey wasn’t overwhelmed working both registers.
But has anyone truly needed me? My parents have never needed me, drugs, yes, but me and my sister?
No. We were unfortunate byproducts of their youth.
My sister barely speaks to me except for the occasional holiday text and check in to see if I’m still alive.
I wasn’t an essential part of anyone’s life, not their immediate family, or work husband, best friend, or boyfriend.
Realistically I knew it was because I don’t have much to offer, my childhood memories are vague and grim and I honestly just want to make enough money to pursue my only interest, cooking.
I guess that categorizes me as ticking off another one of Celeste’s points on her list: loyalty to my love of food.
I’d love to work in a real kitchen, be screamed at by real chefs, and make really delicious food that leaves people speechless.
But I don’t know how to get there, or whether culinary school is the right choice or not.
The indecision wears on me and I distract myself thinking about a few new recipes that I’ve been wanting to try recently as I clean out the tiny ceramic espresso mugs, letting the theoretical flavour combinations settle my brain.
“Hi,” a voice chirps from behind me. I whirl to find Celeste standing on the other side of the counter.