Chapter Ten
Basil
Challenge: Invite a neighbor over
Monday, I dragged myself in to my dead-end job.
As I was changing into my chef coat, Ryan, my twenty-five-year-old manager, sidled up behind me. “Hi, Bas. I’m gonna need you to come in early tomorrow. Michael’s got a court date.”
“Okay.” I finished buttoning up.
“And can you stay late on Friday to help get our Thanksgiving inventory orders ready to go out first thing Monday morning?”
I spun around. “Friday night?”
“I’m not asking you to stay here all night. You could come in over the weekend if you prefer.”
I couldn’t protest. It wasn’t like he was asking me to work for free. “Sure. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Michael says we’re low on pasta, but he’s busy grating butternut squash for the soup.” He had to be fresh out of college. He’d probably majored in management. Maybe he’d dropped out of law school to become the manager of a yuppie grocery store. “Can you press some linguine?” He looked at a clipboard. “And tortellini.”
Rolling pasta was among my least favorite chores, but I’d punched the clock. I was here to serve at Ryan’s pleasure for the next eight hours. “Cheese or sausage?”
“Both.” He hung the clipboard on a nail on the wall. “The rest of the orders are on here. We’re already behind, so can you go ahead and get the pasta started?”
The implication was that I’d arrived late, when I’d come in right on time. I bit back my response and nodded. I cleaned up and started the monotonous routine of pressing pasta dough. This mindless activity gave me the time to dwell on how little joy I got from cooking for the sake of it.
I waited for it to hurt, but the ache was so familiar, I’d grown numb to it. It was just another Monday of making food other people would take home and try to pass off as their own. I wished it no longer bothered me.
Cut off from the results of my labor, my soul had died by accepting this as a necessity.
When I’d initially offered to cook for Chelsea, it wasn’t 100 percent altruistic. I missed watching the pleasure on people’s faces when they enjoyed what I fed them. Having her tell me how much she loved my cooking boosted my pride, and I could pretend I was making that food for her to buy whenever she came into the market, but it wasn’t the same.
I’d overheard my parents bragging about my new career when I worked as a head chef—for those five months—and that had been rewarding. I never expected I’d have to downgrade to a grocery store, but pounding the pavement ate at my self-confidence, and in the end, my need for a paycheck superseded my wish for my dad’s respect. What started as a temporary solution had become my life. And now, I was scared to put myself out there again. Who was going to take me seriously?
The clock ticked slowly from noon to one as I finished the pasta.
From one to two, I mixed goat cheese, bacon, and spinach into a Cuisinart and simmered risotto in white wine. From two to three, I cut the faces off crabs and dredged them through cornmeal, contemplating the horrors that awaited me in hell if these guys were there, too.
As closing time approached, I watched the clock, eager to see Chelsea again. Every piece of Saran Wrap I yanked out said Eeeeee! like it shared my excitement.
By five, my shoulders ached. Michael started to tear down the kitchen, and I ran around trying to get out early.
Thankfully, I had three sisters who’d made me watch enough Jane Austen movies to understand the value of courtship. When I’d confided in my sister Zoe about how Chelsea challenged me, she’d pronounced, “Ooh, it’s just like Persuasion . You’re the Wentworth.”
“Oh no!” I’d protested, recalling he’d waited for years. But it was an upgrade. Normally, I’d been labeled the Willoughby, which—come on. I was never a cad.
I chuckled, remembering that conversation as I bleached the cutting boards. The thing about Wentworth was he got the girl in the end.
Maybe Evan was wrong and I could sustain a relationship if I could find the right woman. I wanted love to last forever. I couldn’t know if Chelsea was that woman without getting to know her better, but right now she fascinated me like a puzzle with infinite solutions. She intrigued me, amused me, kept me searching for ways to unlock the mystery of her. And yet, every time I broke through, earned something deeper, my interest in her only increased.
Finally, the dirty dishes went into the massive industrial washer, and Michael, sick of me glancing over my shoulder at the clock, told me he’d stay to put away the dishes when they were done.
“I owe you one, Michael.”
I rushed home, changed into black jeans and a fairly nice light-blue button-up shirt. Evan had already left for work, but Farrid was home, watching a Hot Pocket spin around in the microwave. I shuddered.
“What do you think?” I asked, modeling my look for him as if he had any fashion sense. When he wasn’t in scrubs, he dressed like right now, in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers.
He scanned me up and down. “Hot date, huh?”
I didn’t explain that the hot date had been Saturday. Tonight was about trying to turn friends with benefits into something more, something real . “It’s just dinner.”
“Well, don’t bring her here tonight. I have a date with my bed.”
When I got to Chelsea’s yellow bungalow, my heart surged as I remembered how good she’d felt against me Saturday night. I’d heard songs about kisses like wine, and I believed those lyrics were nothing more than pure poetry. Until I met Chelsea.
Tonight, if I could get out of my own way, maybe she’d let me get a little closer.
When I knocked, Chelsea peeked around the kitchen doorway, waved me in, and disappeared, hollering for me to make myself at home, so I did, by taking off my shoes and dropping on her sofa. I wanted to feel like I belonged. She’d made a conscious decision to show me where to find her, and I thrilled at her invitation to return.
The smell of cumin and coriander hinted at tacos. I considered asking if she wanted help, but that would overstep my role as guest. Chelsea popped out of the kitchen and handed me a glass of wine.
“Γει? σα?,” she said, grinning at my surprise. She’d used a more formal greeting, but I preened with pride that she’d made an attempt.
“Γει? σου λατρε?α μου,” I answered. Hello, my worship, my love . I tried not to read anything, everything into her sudden interest in the Greek language.
Her face lit up at the endearment.
She looked delicious. She’d clipped her dark hair up in a messy twist that pulled it off her neck, out of her face. She reached up to tug the cord on the ceiling fan, her short T-shirt riding up to expose her midriff, gray sweatpants hugging her hips. She winked like she knew her sadistic show was killing me.
Ruthless tease.
Memories on memories overlapped: the first time I’d peeled away her lace bra, the feel of her nipple against my tongue, the way her back arched when I…
“Scooch over,” Chelsea said, squeezing in next to me, and I had to shift to alleviate the growing discomfort under my zipper.
When she bent to grab the remote, I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the V-neck plunging to reveal her tempting cleavage.
She turned on the TV and flipped to a local news story about the construction in town. Before the commercial, the anchor announced the new face of Charlottesville weather, and the camera cut over to Evan, smiling like he was posing for a school picture.
“Oh, he looks nervous,” Chelsea said.
It wasn’t my place to share Evan’s anxiety issues. He was a dork about weather. He could have gone to work for a government service and stayed off screen, but with his looks, he’d been recruited by TV stations early on. It was a wonder he hadn’t managed to move up to a bigger market.
The commercials seemed to last forever, but then the news cut back in, and there Evan stood in front of the green screen with the animated image of clouds converging.
Graphics appeared, and a peculiar image began to emerge. Chelsea said, “Is it just me, or does that storm front look—”
“Phallic?” I said just as Chelsea said, “Oh God. It’s a penis.”
Evan’s hands ran along the projection as he spoke of the mounting pressure of a northern cold front. Then he glanced over and stuttered.
Chelsea’s hands covered her mouth. “Oh no. I can’t look away.”
I tried desperately not to laugh at my friend.
When the segment mercifully ended, and they cut to commercial, my video chat rang. “It’s Evan.”
“Don’t answer that,” Chelsea advised.
Too late. I held the screen toward us. “Hi, Evan. You did great!”
I sounded too chipper. Evan said, “Fuck. Did either of you notice?”
“Notice what?” Chelsea’s voice had risen an octave. She was a terrible liar.
“That it was shaped like a dick. Like a big fat weather wiener.”
I burst out laughing. “I’m so sorry.”
Chelsea kept snorting. “It was brilliant. You looked great.”
Evan said, “Hell of a start to my on-air career here.”
A strange sound very adjacent to laughter escaped my throat despite my efforts to fight it.
Chelsea might have pulled it off, but her lips were already curling up, like she couldn’t contain it, and she blurted, “Don’t let it rub you the wrong way.”
I couldn’t hold back the laugh I’d been bottling up. I had to say it. “It was just a stroke of bad luck.”
Chelsea stood as the timer in the kitchen buzzed, but before she went, she added, “Don’t worry, Evan. I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion.”
For a second, there was nothing but silence, but then Evan said, “I really cocked that up, didn’t I?”
And I doubled over laughing.
Chelsea yelled from the kitchen. “Honestly, I don’t think anybody even watches the news.”
Evan said, “I can still hear you.” And then we were all laughing again.
“Tell Elizabeth hi,” she said as she returned with a glass casserole dish, sizzling with meat, and followed with plates, chips, and shells.
“I’ll see you when you get home,” I said, though I was hoping I might not be home.
Chelsea bit her lip like she was nervous about the food, so I turned my attention to the plethora of Mexican ingredients. “It smells incredible.”
I wasn’t lying. My stomach did flips at this kind of comfort food. Down and dirty and delicious.
And then we dug in. The casserole held layer upon layer of taco ingredients: browned hamburger, melted cheese, diced and baked tomato, sliced jalapenos, and sour cream. I grunted out my appreciation and loved seeing her blush and smile with pride, and God, she was beautiful. I reminded myself to do whatever I could to keep that joy on her face.
Between helpings, I asked, “Can we taco ’bout how delicious this is?”
She choked. “No, I beg you.”
I took a drink and tackled an easy subject. “Where did you learn to make this?”
“This? It isn’t exactly in the recipe books. I call it Mexican mess.”
“I call it delicious.”
She beamed. “I would love to know what you do to tacos. Or anything, really. You make the most delicious food I’ve ever eaten.”
I pushed the plate back, sated. “You must be an epicurean.”
“Huh?”
“Epicurus was a Greek philosopher who recommended indulgence in pleasure, like good food, a comfortable bed, fine art, and”—I let that hang there—“other things.” I took a chance I might overly geek out on her but couldn’t resist adding, “The French have an expression: Sucer la moelle. It means suck the marrow.”
She grimaced. “The bone marrow?”
I chuckled. “It’s like carpe diem . Get everything you can out of any experience.”
“And you think I do that?”
“You’re passionate about what you want.”
“Interesting. Most people tell me I’m a cold-hearted bitch.”
“You just scare people with your spiky outer shell, but I think you’re a huge marshmallow on the inside.”
Chelsea tsked. “Please don’t talk about me like I’m a candy bar.”
“But you’re so yummy,” I said, laughing.
“And you’re so cheesy.” Her eyes sparkled.
We cleared the table, then I dropped onto the sofa with my glass of wine. “That was an amazing meal, Chelsea.”
She settled on the love seat, facing me. “What I can’t work out is why you’re working in a grocery you don’t like.”
Damn. I wanted us to get to know each other, but I hadn’t expected her to pry into my thwarted dreams. My hands clenched, reflexively. She’d driven a nail directly into an open wound. I was well aware my current career was stagnant. As if I hadn’t already heard about all the successes of every single one of my four siblings from my parents. As if I hadn’t gotten the lecture about failed potential from every coach, every teacher, every fucking person I’d ever let down.
“I wasn’t always. I had a head position at a nice restaurant for about six months.”
“Head chef? Where?” She leaned closer, like she was genuinely curious, her hair falling over her shoulder, and I stoked a recent memory of fingers gripping that dark silk, tilting her head back, biting her neck.
“Do you remember that French restaurant on Main?”
“Mistral?” Her eyes popped wide. “I loved that place. That was you?”
I colored in past memories with images of Chelsea enjoying my food. “For a while.”
“Do you ever consider doing that again?” She narrowed her eyes, appraising me, her long lashes framing those green eyes, the sparkle of silver eyeshadow on her lids. So pretty. “Or are you happy where you are?”
Oof. Pretty, but lethal.
“Happy?” Who’s ever happy giving up on themselves? “I’m getting by. I went into this career a bit naive. I didn’t know how hard it would be to land a job as head chef. And when the restaurant closed, I nearly went broke chasing that dream. I had to find work, and grocery store kitchens aren’t that picky. You’re the first person excited about my job.” It felt odd to unload such a bitter confession as if it were small talk. Somehow Chelsea did that to me. Maybe it was that truth serum.
“Ah, but I’m your best customer.” She licked her lips, and I wanted to grab her wrists and pull her into my lap so we could stop talking and make out. “You kept looking for work, though, right?”
That was a dash of cold water. I frowned rather than answer.
“Why wouldn’t you keep trying?”
“Because there’s only so long you can take constant rejection before you lose all hope.” I’d meant to say it like a dark joke, but it came out harsh, baring the truth of my frustration. She didn’t laugh. “One day I woke up and I couldn’t bring myself to send out one more application. I just accepted my fate.”
“Wow. That’s a crime, Bas.”
Great. Add her to the long list of people I’ve disappointed.
My sister Zoe once said, You always want an easy win, and when you don’t get it, you act like you never wanted it in the first place .
But Chelsea wasn’t the author of my discontent, and I wasn’t going to spoil the mood defending indefensible life choices, so I gave her a peek into my options. “There are usually openings at those buffet places.”
“Buffets?” She sounded scandalized. “A trough where food is judged by quantity? No way. You should be running an upscale restaurant.”
I loved her confidence in me, but it wasn’t that easy. “Restaurants fail. All the time. Good restaurants.”
“I’m not suggesting you start your own restaurant. Just—don’t you have ambitions?”
Maybe my sister was right, and I was the Wentworth, an unsuitable choice due to my lack of fortune.
“Of course I do. I’d love to create my own menu someday. Build a regular following. It isn’t as simple as all that. This city is oversaturated already. I wouldn’t even begin to know what city isn’t.”
“Have you looked?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to argue with her. Had my parents put her up to this?
She went on. “You have family in Richmond, right? There are hundreds of restaurants there.”
I set my jaw, intent on remaining civil. If this were Zoe or Ana prodding me, I’d return fire. I was so used to sparring with my family, and Chelsea sounded too much like my sisters, chiding me, challenging me, it was hard not to fight back. But Chelsea hadn’t grown up in a safe environment, and I didn’t want to drive her away with drama.
But then she said, “You need a plan to get out of your rut.”
She was one to talk.
I blurted, “And what are your plans? Are you going to hide away in a coffee shop until you retire?”
Fuck. I wanted to take it back.
And yet my question was valid. She wasn’t any different than me, living down to expectations.
Chelsea glared at me but didn’t back down. “I do pretty well with my graphic design work.”
“But you want more. Are you ever going to follow your dream?”
“My secret dream isn’t a career. I just want to get out of this place.”
“What steps have you taken?”
Her shoulders sagged, like the wind going out of her sails. “It’s not that easy.”
“Exactly my point.”
“The difference is you have a special gift, something you’re passionate about, and I have nothing to give anyone.”
Her admission hit me like a lightning bolt. How could she think that? “I wish I could convince you how wrong you are.”
“I’m not.” She shrugged with such nonchalance, it was like she was stating a scientific fact. “But I appreciate that I’ve fooled you.”
A smile crept at the corner of her mouth, and I reached over to poke her, crooning, “I can show you the world.”
She swatted me. “I hate that song.”
I held up my hands in defense. “Would I be a miserable person to say I hope you stay right here?”
“One day, I won’t be here anymore. I’ll go on vacation with Elizabeth, and I won’t come back.”
I studied her. “So why not just take a trip if you’re bored?”
“I do that.” She bit her lip. “There’s more to it than simple wanderlust, but it sounds stupid.”
I leaned in to give her my undivided attention. “What?”
“I don’t want to be a tourist all the time. I want to immerse myself in another culture. I want to live in another world. I want an experience.”
It sounded to me like she wanted to run away, like she hoped to leave herself behind.
“You should come to Richmond and meet my family if you want an experience.” I had to laugh at the image that gave me. Chelsea and my mom in the same room. The only question was: who would survive? Ma would grill Chelsea about her future plans, and Chelsea would break Ma’s brain when she confessed she had no intention to marry.
Then again, Ma would feed her for days. And Chelsea would gush over my mom’s cooking.
“I bet your family is awesome.”
“I’d love for you to meet them.” And suddenly, I actually did want to take her there, for my family to get to know her. How could they not love her? She’d fit right in. “They’re not so far away. Maybe down the road?”
“Down the road, literally or figuratively?” She chuckled, but her face clouded again. “I’ll never understand why you aren’t jumping on that job in Greece.”
“You and my family both.” It came out more bitter than I’d intended.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”
“It’s okay. It’s an ongoing point of conflict. To hear my mom talk about it, I live too far away to visit enough. She’s never come out here to see me. But Greece? They’ve regretted their whole lives that they never took me.”
“Why didn’t they, then?”
“My parents are first-generation American. They went back home regularly at first, but it’s expensive. And I’m the baby. By the time I was born, they’d have to take five kids with them. Even if they wanted to send only me, they had other financial burdens. Five kids in school. Music lessons. Sports fees. Tutors. Saving for college. It wasn’t feasible.”
“So they never go home?”
“They do now, and family visits us here occasionally. My uncle Kostas—the hotel tycoon—comes over with my grandmother every few years. I’m an adult now, and it’s up to me to go there, but I have no reason to. I have a job here, and it’s my life, my decision.”
She shook her head. “You’re baffling. I couldn’t imagine passing up on the opportunity to get put up for free in Greece and live there among a real family.”
“Maybe. If you were there with me.” I laughed so she’d take me as corny, not creepy.
She rolled her eyes. “Seriously. That would be my dream come true.”
Given my limited options here, her dream might become my reality. Charlottesville had become a dead end, but I couldn’t exactly slink back to Richmond, tail between my legs. My dad would never let me forget how I’d tried and failed. At least if I went to work for my uncle, I’d earn back some of his respect.
Chelsea’s contagious wanderlust actually made the idea seem more palatable. I loved that she was open to exploring far-off destinations. I started to hum the theme to Aladdin , and she swatted me again. That only encouraged me to break into the chorus: “A whole new wo-o-o-rld.”
She hopped up like I’d taken things too far at last and made an elaborate show of stretching. “Thanks for coming over. I hope my food was at least edible.”
Message received. I shouldn’t have expected her to want more.
“Hey, I have to work Friday night, but maybe Saturday, we could catch a movie?”
“Oh, movies are on the list.”
I froze at her remark. I’d shamelessly scoured her list for opportunities to spend time with her. Was that the first time she’d suggested using it as an excuse to see me?
How the tide had turned.
“How about my place?” I was pushing my luck, but I couldn’t help it. “Farrid will be out.”
She walked toward me and laid one hand on my chest. “I will see you there.”