Chapter 15 Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing #2
A tingle of embarrassment runs up my spine.
He’s seen me around the ship? Without me noticing him?
The thought of being watched isn’t creepy, not from Nolan, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about what he saw.
I know I can get pretty into what I’m doing, and sometimes I lose track of what’s going on around me.
Once, I stood in the middle of a rural road for far longer than I should have, and when I finally pulled away from my camera, a car was barreling toward me.
“I’ve enjoyed gardening,” Nolan continues, ignoring his previous comment as if it wasn’t a big deal, “but it’s not really a career I’ve ever felt drawn to.”
“What about music?”
“Oh no, I haven’t got an ear for music.” He lets out a husky laugh and I soften, recalling his off-key rendition of “Tubthumping.” He’s so nonchalant about all these things he’s simply not good at. As if it’s just a part of life, and not the end of the world.
It feels foreign to me.
I had always been expected to be good at what I had chosen to do, because I was taking a risk by going into the arts.
Dad had mentioned on more than one occasion how I would regret not getting a unionized job with a pension, and that it was a blessing that I was talented, because that may end up translating to success.
Meanwhile, Kyla’s interest in math and science was praised as the right choice, in comparison to my decision and my dreams. When she got accepted into one of the best schools in Canada, things got even worse, with Dad trying to encourage me to go back to school, to give up on filmmaking and try my hand at something more lucrative.
His words, not mine.
I had been so determined to prove him wrong; to show him that I could create something incredible and be successful doing it. It was why I was trying to make my documentary happen.
But he never got to see it.
And I never got the chance to see him proud of me.
I shake my head to clear those thoughts, and ask, “So, cooking?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles again. His head is cocked to the side, almost as if he can read my expression, see the flash of regret and shame that likely passed over my face as I thought of my own shortcomings.
But it’s gone a moment later, and he says, “Actually, it was pastries, first. When I was a teenager, I spent a lot of time in the café that was across from the hospital where Mum had a lot of doctors’ appointments.
She had cancer, but she’s okay now, thankfully.
Kicked it that year and has been cancer-free ever since. ”
I let out a sigh of relief for him at the thought of how hard that year must have been, but at the same time, a pang of jealousy hits me square in the chest. Followed closely by shame.
I know what it’s like, to see someone you love consumed by a disease you can’t fight. I would give anything for Mom to be here still…and Dad. So, while I envy Nolan, I’m also grateful he didn’t have to go through what I did when I lost them.
“Anyway, I’d sit and watch the woman who owned the shop bring out these incredible fresh pastries—jam-filled doughnuts, pains au chocolat, éclairs, strudels.
And each person who bit into them would have this look on their face, like, holy shit, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I loved seeing that. I loved seeing the way something she put her whole heart into made someone feel like that. ”
I can totally understand what he means.
I’ve also felt that way about pastries.
“Eventually, she started testing out new recipes from around the world. Every week there was something different, and I got to taste it all while I sat there doing homework. One week she’d make churros, the next week, baklava.
She even tried mooncakes, although we both agreed that one wasn’t a favorite.
” He smiles as he talks, and I find myself mirroring him.
“Obviously, after that, baking became a passion. I got a part-time job there in my final year of high school, and then the following year I was off to pastry school in Italy.”
“So, how did cooking come into the mix?” I smirk at my baking pun, and he side-eyes me before humming thoughtfully.
“I fell in love with cooking in Italy,” he explains.
“After I graduated from pastry school, I’d spend my mornings working in a bakery, then head to a restaurant down the street to work the lunch service.
I learned a lot from that job. After a few years, I saw a posting for a chef position on the Gemstone—it asked for someone versatile, who could jump in on the line or pick up slack when the pastry chefs needed help.
I was hired, and eventually, I was offered the executive chef position when my old boss left. ”
“And the rest is history?” I offer, and he chuckles.
“Exactly.” His eyes light up, and I can feel my cheeks starting to heat.
“Okay, my turn,” he says with a sly smile. I smirk at him in challenge.
“Alright, what’s your question?”
“Hmm…” He’s quiet for a moment as he moves the cast-iron pan with the steaks off the stovetop and into the oven, then pulls a new frying pan out from one of the shelves and sets it on the hot stove. “Favorite movie?”
“Oh, easy,” I mumble, my mouth half-full of corn bread. “The Mummy. Yours?”
“Dune. The old one. Or Ratatouille. It’s a tie.” His expression is completely serious—no hint of humor. But then he shoots me a wink, and the corner of my mouth quirks up.
“I like the genre diversity.”
“Thank you. Okay, let’s try something deeper…”
“Wait, that wasn’t a deep question? I mean, you didn’t even ask me why my favorite movie is The Mummy.”
“Is it…Brendan Fraser?”
My hand flies to my chest, and my jaw drops in mock offense.
“I am not even going to dignify that ridiculous question with a response,” I reply primly.
Nolan shoots me a sardonic look as he dumps a bowl of sliced mushrooms into the frying pan.
I concede his point fairly easily, if only to get him to stop looking at me so intently.
“Alright, fine, it’s Brendan Fraser. But to be fair, I’m pretty sure George of the Jungle was my sexual awakening… ”
“I don’t think that’s a very unique experience for a millennial woman,” Nolan deadpans.
I scoff at him and wrinkle my nose. “Rude.” He chuckles.
“It’s your question again,” I say, trying to anticipate what he might ask next.
I’m enjoying getting to know him in such an easy way.
When you talk over dinner, the conversation can seem forced, but with Nolan’s hands occupied, I don’t have to worry about where to look or what to do with my body.
I’m not obsessing over what my face is doing.
I’m relaxed, for once.
“Tell me about your family.”
And then my smile falters. I exhale sharply as my body tenses up completely. Nolan must have felt the air get completely sucked out of the room, because he turns slightly and catches my expression.
“Unless you don’t want to, it’s totally fine—”
“No, it’s okay,” I cut him off, blowing out another shaky breath. Nolan had been so effortlessly open with me about his mom and her cancer, and I don’t want him to feel that I’m not willing to share that part of me as well. “I just wasn’t prepared for that question. It’s…complicated.”
What a stupid word.
I say that it’s complicated because I don’t want to be rude; because I figure most people will accept that response point-blank and stop asking questions.
Although, I’m starting to get the niggling feeling that my use of the word “complicated” is not because it hurts to talk about, but perhaps because of something deeper.
“You don’t have to talk about it if it’s going to be difficult,” he offers, giving me a look that doesn’t feel like pity or sadness. His eyes are just…kind. Compassionate.
“I should, though,” I say, taking a steadying breath. Nolan is quiet as he adds the asparagus to the pan. I can’t be certain, but it feels like he’s giving me the space I need to collect my thoughts, and I’m grateful. “Well, my mom died when I was eleven. Breast cancer.”
He pauses at that and stiffens. I think maybe he’s going to say something, but instead he lowers the heat under the pan, sets down the tongs he’s using, and steps away from the stove. Then, he leans back against the island and folds his arms over his chest.
Our eyes meet, and for a moment all I want to do is look away. Somehow, manage to hold myself steady.
“She passed within a few weeks of us finding out. Then it was just my sister Kyla, my dad, and me. Kyla was only two. She was just a baby, really.”
I think about the handful of photos Kyla has with Mom. Practically nothing, compared to the three entire albums I filled in secret over the years, careful not to let Kyla see. I never wanted her to feel like she had missed out.
Because she had. I knew she had. I couldn’t bear to think about all the moments stolen from Kyla, and from Mom. Moments they would never get to spend together.
“God, that’s awful, Chloe,” Nolan says softly. I nod grimly. “What was she like?”
“Mom was the best. She was just…she was so in love with life. There wasn’t much that could really, truly upset her.
And when she did get upset, usually it was at something like ‘Why aren’t more people adopting all those stray dogs?
!’ or ‘What’s everyone’s problem with two men getting married?
!’ She was the opposite of cruel or unkind. ”
I can feel tears pricking at my eyes, and I swallow the lump growing in my throat.
“Anyway, after Mom died, I helped my dad take care of Kyla. I guess, in a way, I became her replacement Mom. Plus, Dad was such a doting father that she kind of got the whole family unit, even if Mom was gone.”
“That’s a lot for a preteen to carry,” Nolan says, concern knitting his brow. “Raising a child when you’re still one yourself.”