Chapter 18 #2
I nod and drop the crisp back into the bowl, feeling like I’ve just been caught eating someone else’s food from the break room. I rinse the evidence from my mouth with a swig of the wine James’s ex didn’t care much for, as he continues.
“She used to—Riley. That’s her name. Feels like I’m saying she, she, she.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Riley used to come in and steal entire to-go boxes of these things.”
He’s smiling again, but it’s becoming painfully clear that his smiles, like his cheese crisps, belong to her.
“Well, they’re great,” I say, unhooking my purse from beneath the bar. “Will you excuse me for a minute? I’m gonna run to the bathroom.”
—
“Where. Is. Zola?”
James isn’t likely to hear me over the pots he’s banging around in the kitchen, but I still cup a hand around my mouth as I whisper-scream the question into the receiver. Squatting down into the small open space beside the toilet, for good measure.
“What’s going on?” Mom asks, matching my volume. “Why are we whispering?”
“I’m whispering, because your daughter set me up with a guy who’s very clearly in love with his ex-girlfriend—oh, I’m sorry. Riley. That’s her name, Mom. Why do I know her name?”
Mom’s shuffling around on the other end of the line but is quiet for a few beats until she sighs. “You’re making this call from a date you’re still on with a guy you’re still with?”
This is so not the energy I need right now. I need her to find Zola. I need a plan to get out of this. I need action.
In muted exasperation, I pull the phone from my ear to put some distance between myself and the woman I’m irrationally angry at. “He can’t hear me,” I whisper-bark this time.
I leave out the part about being curled into the fetal position inches from the toilet bowl brush.
“Where is he now?” she asks.
“Starting dinner.”
“Oh. So, he’s cooking for you? And you’re hiding. Talking to your mom. About his ex. You sure he’s the problem?” Before I can argue my point, she continues. “People have exes, Kai. I’d rather a guy who’s comfortable mentioning them respectfully than one who swears they’re all crazy.”
The banging in the kitchen has quieted.
I’m running out of time.
“I know people have exes,” I say in a rush. “But do they bring them along on first dates?”
“She’s there?” Mom says, finally as horrified as I need her.
“Metaphorically.”
“So, not literally.”
“No, but—”
“Kaia, is the guy decent? Are you safe?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then why are you calling me? If you’re asking for permission to leave, no. I think you gotta ride it out. It’s an hour of your life, sweetie. Get back out there. And be nice!”
Are mothers even allowed to hang up on their daughters?
I stand, mouth agape, pride wounded, snarling at my reflection. “I’m always fucking nice.”
But I clamp my lips shut at the knock on the door.
“Hey,” James says through the solid oak dividing us. “I gotta run downstairs for more sauce.” He hesitates but hasn’t walked away. Waiting for an answer I can’t seem to conjure up.
I consider the prospect that I may now have to live and die in this bathroom to avoid ever facing James again, but when the aromas from the kitchen waft in from the slit at the doorframe, I know I won’t last five minutes.
I square my shoulders and open the door, prepared to give James my best breezy bathroom exit, but he’s gone. The hallway is empty. So, instead, I follow my nose to find my heartsick personal chef.
—
Compared to the rustic dining room that could’ve been built right into a French hillside, the kitchen, with its sleek steel and hard edges, is straight from outer space. Glistening and pristine as if it’s never been touched.
The only hint of warmth is at the center of a long silver countertop in the middle of the room.
It’s covered in white linen, with the same preloved vases and dainty daisies from the front of the house.
Only this table isn’t set for dinner, it’s covered in already prepped ingredients, waiting to be made into the meal they’ll become.
A private cooking class. It actually would’ve been cute, if only I weren’t on someone else’s date with someone else’s man.
The intensity of my internal conflict, and the fact that I’m most definitely running out of time, is enough to make me do The Thing?.
7:14pm
Me: Would you stay for dinner if your date was in love with someone else?
After minutes of silence that feel like a lifetime, it’s official—we’re not avoiding each other. Ro is avoiding me. I’m about to send a follow-up message claiming the previous text had been a misfire, when:
7:19pm
Ro: I’m lost.
Me: Zo sent me out with a guy who’s in love with his ex.
Me: Like LOVE love.
Ro: Have you considered the possibility that Zola’s fucking with you?
Me: Every day.
I’m still smiling at the first semi-normal exchange Ro and I have had all week, when a wineglass appears on the tablecloth before me.
“You left this out there,” James says as he begins unloading thin silver trays from a rolling cart. “I made sheets of ravioli before you got here. I thought we’d cut and fill them together, but—”
I hold the sip I’ve just taken on my tongue in anticipation.
“Is everything okay?” he finishes finally. “I get the vibe you might not be staying.”
The wine goes down like gravel. “What? Why?” I screech, but at the earnestness in his eyes, I try again. “What makes you say that?”
James points down the hall. “The whispering in the bathroom. And you’ve been staring at your phone all night.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.
I hate that I’m the reason he’s this uncomfortable in his own kitchen.
“You don’t have to stay if you’d rather go.”
I swallow hard. I guess we’re doing this. “I actually got a similar vibe from you.”
James’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead before folding in on themselves in confusion.
I smile to soften the next part. “Riley. It seems like maybe you’d rather be making ravioli with her.”
James’s face falls at the mention of her name. “You’re not the first person to say something like that. It’s why I stopped dating. I told you I was bad at this.”
“You’re not bad at all,” I say honestly. “You’re actually doing pretty good. But I bet you’d be even better if you were doing it with her.”
James places both his palms on the table and drops his head with a sigh. “I don’t even remember any stories that aren’t about her. But we’ve been done for a long time.”
This is the closest I’ve been to one of these declarations in real life, so I’m not sure I’m doing it right. But James looks so broken that I try anyway.
“Is there a deadline on passion?”
James lifts his head at hearing his own words mirrored back to him. And now he’s smiling.
“Okay,” I say, assessing the evening’s damage and the deconstructed meal in front of us. We’re completely off book now. “I still need food,” I start. “And it seems like maybe you could use a friend? Maybe we just agree that’s what we’re doing tonight. Low stakes. High gluten. Friends.”
He rolls his shoulders back, standing to his full height before extending his hand to shake mine.
“Deal.”