Chapter 14
I have never been more in need of a bubble bath than I am right now.
Dragging myself from my ancient Corolla, I close the door and breathe in the crisp ocean air wafting from the Pacific up along the edge of the hill where Marilee’s house is situated. Somewhere, an owl hoots, and the light of the full moon flickers in and out as clouds chase it in the sky.
I rub my lower back, which aches from sitting at Winona’s desk—staring at the books, wondering why-oh-why my BOGO coupons haven’t increased our numbers this week, despite how many people I saw come back through the door. My legs hurt too, from the hours I spent pitching in on the floor because Jason called in sick for the dinner shift, and we needed an extra server during the rush.
It’s Saturday, which means it was busy (thankfully). There were a lot of requests for Tiny’s latest special—a jalape?o burger with Worcestershire sauce, crispy onions, and pepper Jack cheese—and yet, in between serving them, I heard nothing but rave reviews over Blake’s new dessert grilled cheese that he introduced several days ago.
All of that to say, I think a bubble bath is calling my name tonight.
I push through the front door and freeze at what I see. Marilee’s sitting at the kitchen table—despite her early morning shift—and she’s chatting with Blake, who is at the stove. There’s one of Mare’s pink tea towels draped casually over his shoulder, and he’s shucked off his button-up shirt, leaving just a white tee on with his beige slacks and black socks. He’s holding a spatula, and there’s a relaxed curve to his whole body, like he’s settled in and plans to stay a while.
The smell of cooked butter rends the air, and my stomach growls its approval. Not surprisingly, it looks like he’s making some variation of grilled cheese. The counter is strewn with ingredients of all sorts. It looks like it does after Marilee bakes—and yet, neat-and-orderly Blake is the one in the kitchen. Huh.
At my entrance, they both turn and stop talking.
Blake stares at me and presses his lips together. I can’t get a read on him at all. Finally, he nods—polite, but not effusive—and turns back to the stove.
But there’s no such reticence in Mare, who smiles and waves. “Hey, stranger.”
She’s not wrong. I’ve been so busy at work that we’ve been like ships passing in the night since our late-night dish session on Monday.
I hang my purse on one of the hooks to the left of the entrance and shut the door. “Hey, guys.” My instinct tells me to let them have their privacy, to run straight for the bathroom and dunk myself in the tub. To get far away from this domestic picture of Blake.
But I promised Mare that he and I could be friends again. And so far this week, I haven’t had a chance to prove it. Looks like my bubble bath will have to wait.
“Something smells divine.” I toe off my shoes and let my feet sink into the carpet. Mmm, that feels nice. I pad over to the table and pull out a heavy chair next to Marilee. She’s already changed into comfy lounge pants and an oversized, purple T-shirt. “And I’m starving.”
Blake turns toward me with surprise in his eyes that quickly turns to teasing. “Oh, you think this is for you?”
“Well, me and Mare.” I pretend to be confused as I look at my bestie. “Aren’t we re-enacting our high school days when Blake used to cook for us?”
“That’s an excellent idea.” Marilee raises her hand. “I second the motion.”
Blake snorts and grabs a plate from the cabinet. He sets it beside another plate, which must be for Mare. “Actually, this is good. I need you guys to taste test some samples for me.”
Now that I’m not “mad” at Blake anymore, I don’t have to pretend to not want his food. (Just his food, y’all. That’s all I want. JUST HIS FOOD.) “I guess I could be up for that.”
Mare giggles, Blake spears me with a look like he knows what I’m about, and I rub my hands together with a rumbling mua-ha-ha. While Blake cooks up a few more sandwiches—and I do a masterful job at ignoring how his back muscles bunch and gather under his shirt as he reaches for various ingredients and artfully adds them to the pan—Marilee and I catch up from the week. Sounds like hers went much better than mine.
Meanwhile, waiting here is a whole experience. The smell of melted cheese, the sound of sizzling butter, the taste of anticipation on my tongue, the gnawing of my empty stomach. And when Blake finally turns to us with two plates in hand—each one arranged with four sandwich halves—I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs, practically salivating with the need for these sandwiches.
“Ooo, what did you make us?” Mare asks as she examines the contents of her plate.
I take mine as well and can’t help but notice the way Blake studies me. His gaze is intent, his light blue eyes slightly darkened around the edges. His cheeks are flushed, and I can’t help but think he’s the most handsome man in the world here, in his element.
Friends, Lucy. Just friends, my subconscious murmurs in my head.
“Thank you,” I blurt out, loudly and awkwardly enough that Blake rears back a bit.
He rubs the back of his neck, shakes his head, and moves his gaze to Marilee’s plate. Points. “Um, yeah, so I’ve been experimenting?—”
“Ooo, like the s’mores grilled cheese you made earlier this week?” Marilee lifts her shoulders and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “Mmm. So good. Lucy, did you try it?”
Two sets of eyes swing my way.
“No. Haven’t had a chance yet.”
“You’ll have to fix that.”
My forehead wrinkles at Blake’s simple statement, said so casually. And yet—with his arms folded across his chest like that, his eyes blazing with something dangerous—in this case, simplicity can be deceiving. “Guess I will.”
“Good.” He holds my eyes for just a second longer, then points to our plates again. “All right, so I cooked up four different recipes. Just experimentations. I want your honest thoughts.”
The vulnerability in his tone brings a dip to my stomach. There’s something there. Some reason he cares. “Why the sudden burst of creativity? Don’t you already have a full menu?”
“He needs new recipes,” Mare says as she bites into the first sample. Chews. Mmms. Pats her lips with a napkin. “For his restaurant.”
He mentioned a new restaurant the other night—but not that it would be his.
Something like pride wiggles through my chest, and I’m surprised at myself. That I could go so long “hating” this guy, and yet still feel pride for that high school boy who told me all about his dream of someday owning a restaurant featuring his recipes. “It’s happening? That’s awesome, Blake. Congrats.”
And I find that I mean it.
Well, if that’s not the scariest thing in the world, I don’t know what is.
I peek up at him and he’s staring at me, leaning one hand against the counter as if bracing for support. He swallows hard, and I see his throat bob. “Thanks, Lucy.”
The way he says my name—all warm and gooey and filled with meaning—is not good for my peace of mind. Because the whole reason he’s here, serving me food in the first place, is because he’s leaving again.
Remember that. Remember.
But given my knack for critiquing recipes, that’s what I need to focus on right now. While Marilee oohs and aahs over the next sandwich—something with chutney, maybe?—I pick up a different kind and peel back the sourdough bread a bit to find apples and fontina cheese.
Then I bite into it. Chew. Close my eyes. Assess. Flavors pop in my mouth but end quickly. Hmm.
“Well?”
When I reopen my eyes, Blake swims in my vision and he’s…pacing? Like, he’s actually nervous. Does he really care what I think? He definitely didn’t seem this nervous with Mare. Of course, Mare is over there licking her fingers as she devours her last sandwich, and all she’s managed to say is “delicious!”, “amazing!”, and “that’s the best sandwich I’ve ever had in my life”—and two seconds later, “never mind, that one is!”
Maybe he just knows I don’t give out compliments easily. At least, to him. Even in high school when I’d critique his cooking, I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. I was honest, although always upbeat (and slightly afraid he’d hate me for my truth telling). The goal was always to help make his food better. To help make him a better cook.
And, if he’s truly my friend (and only my friend, okay, y’all?), then I will still want that for him. I will want him to knock the socks off the folks in L.A. when he opens his restaurant—his dream—and offers killer sandwiches that will cause rave reviews.
“It’s good. Really good.” I pause.
“But?”
I sigh. I always hate this part. “But something’s missing. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”
“Really?” Mare lets her bun loose, her long brown hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She combs her fingers through it. “I thought they were all amazing.”
“Yes, but you’re only ever critical of your own work.” Blake swoops in and rumples her hair like only a big brother would.
She smacks him in playful protest. “That’s not true.”
He looks at me, a wry grin on his face. “Back me up, Sunshine.”
I can’t help but laugh. “It’s not untrue.”
Standing, Mare puts her hands on her hips in a very poor attempt at a haughty pose. “Well, excuse me for thinking my brother is the best chef in the world.”
“Aw, Squirt.” Then he grabs her in a half hug and kisses the side of her head before swooping in, grabbing her empty plate, and heading for the sink. “You have way more faith in me than I have in myself.”
My heart squeezes at the sight in front of me. I’m so glad for the smile on my best friend’s face, the light of adoration in her eyes. She’s always looked up to Blake, and I know how crushed she was when he left. But now I’m starting to see that it wasn’t easy for Blake either. He lost his parents too. And just because my way of dealing with hard times is to hold tighter to the people I love—to never want to leave them—that’s not the same for everyone.
Some people need to deal with grief by escaping. Not saying that’s the healthiest way, but now I can see that Blake wasn’t escaping forever. He’s come back to himself. Back to Marilee.
Back to me.
Ugh, there I go again. I cannot be thinking like that. He’s not here for me. He’s not. And that’s okay. Even if I’m only ever Marilee’s annoying friend, I’m glad he’s here.
For her sake.
I reach for another sandwich, bite into it. There are hints of cilantro and roasted onions and tomatoes. As Uncle Burt would say—Oh. My. Golly. Gee. “Blake.”
I wait for him to turn from where his hands are plunged in soapy water at the sink. “Yeah?”
“You should have more faith in yourself.” I wave the newest grilled cheese in the air. “Because what we have here is a winner.”