Chapter 6 Sebastian
Sebastian
Saturday arrives with unseasonable warmth, forty-five degrees instead of the usual February freeze. I take it as a sign. Of what, I'm not sure. But I'll take any good omen I can get.
The cooking class is being held in the campus culinary arts building, a relatively new addition funded by, surprise, another founding family. Everything at Thornhill traces back to old money and older names.
Pathetic? Probably.
She's already there, standing outside the building in jeans and a soft blue sweater that makes her eyes look darker. Her hair is down again, and I'm beginning to realize she wears it like armor, up for work and classes, down when she's off duty.
Which category does this fall into? On duty because it's a contracted date? Off duty because it's Saturday?
"You're early," she says when she spots me.
"So are you."
"I'm always early." She replies quickly.
"Why?"
"Because being late suggests you don't care. And I care about everything." She says it matter-of-factly, like it's just the truth. Which it is.
We head inside together, maintaining a careful distance. The culinary building smells like sugar and butter, comforting in a way I didn't expect. The classroom is set up with individual cooking stations, each with all the equipment we'll need.
There are about twelve other couples already here. Some I recognize from various social circles. Most are actually dating and are here because they think a cooking class is cute.
We're here because of a contract.
The instructor, a middle-aged woman with chef's whites and an enthusiastic smile, greets us at the door.
"Welcome! Find a station, get comfortable. We're making chocolate soufflés today."
"Soufflés?" Isla mutters as we find a station in the back. "Of course it's soufflés. Why would they pick something easy?"
"What's hard about soufflés?"
She looks at me like I've asked what's hard about brain surgery.
"Everything. They're temperamental, they collapse if you look at them wrong, and they require actual skill." She ties her hair back into a ponytail. "This is going to be a disaster."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." I raise a brow at her, and she shakes her head.
"I'm being realistic. When's the last time you cooked anything?"
I think about it. "Does coffee count?"
"No."
"Then never. We have staff for that."
"Of course you do." But there's less bite to it than usual. Almost like she expected that answer. "Okay. New plan. You follow my instructions exactly, and maybe we'll end up with something edible."
"You're going to teach me again?” I ask.
"Apparently that's my role in this relationship. Teacher of basic life skills to wealthy men who can't function without staff."
Relationship. She said relationship. Probably didn't mean anything by it, but the word hangs between us anyway.
The instructor claps her hands, gathering everyone's attention.
"Alright, couples! Today we're making chocolate soufflés, a classic romantic dessert. The key is patience, precision, and teamwork." She beams at us. "This is all about working together. Communication. Trust. All the things that make relationships work."
Isla makes a sound that might be a laugh or a groan. I can't tell which.
"First step," the instructor continues, "separate your eggs. Who wants to do that?"
Everyone looks at their partners. Isla looks at me.
"Have you ever separated an egg?"
"Theoretically, I understand the concept."
"That's a no." She pulls the carton of eggs toward her. "Watch and learn."
She cracks an egg with one hand, smooth, efficient and separates the yolk from the white by passing it between the shell halves. The white drops into one bowl, the yolk into another. Perfect.
"Your turn," she says, handing me an egg.
I take it carefully. Crack it the way she did. The entire thing splats into the bowl, yolk and white mixed together.
"That's... not right," I observe.
"No. It's not." But she's fighting a smile. I can see it in the corner of her mouth. "Try again. Gentler this time. The shell is fragile."
"Like relationships?" I'm quoting the instructor, trying for humor.
"Like eggs. Focus, Thornhill."
I try again. This time, I manage to crack it cleanly, but when I try to separate them, the yolk breaks. Yellow mixes with white. Another failure.
"I'm terrible at this."
"You're learning. That's different." She's moved closer, standing right next to me now to demonstrate again. "Look. Confident crack, then rock it gently. The yolk is stronger than you think. It can handle the transfer."
Her hand guides mine through the motion. Her fingers are warm against mine, sure and steady. This close, I can smell her shampoo, something floral and cheap and somehow perfect.
"Like this," she murmurs.
We crack the egg together. Separate it together. This time, it works.
"See?" She steps back, and I immediately miss her proximity. "You just needed practice."
We continue through the recipe. Isla reads the instructions, I follow her lead. She whisks the egg whites while I measure chocolate. I melt butter while she sifts flour. It's surprisingly... nice. Working together. Creating something.
"You're not bad at taking direction," she observes after I successfully fold egg whites into the chocolate mixture without deflating them too much.
"I'm excellent at taking direction. I'm a Thornhill. We're trained from birth to follow expectations."
"That's depressing."
"It's efficient."
"It's sad." She checks the consistency of our mixture. "When do you get to do what you want?"
Never. The answer is never. But I don't say that.
"What about you?" I deflect. "When do you get to do what you want?"
"When I graduate. When I have a job that pays enough to help my family. When I don't have to work two shifts to afford basic necessities." She pours our mixture into ramekins with steady hands. "When I'm free."
"And what will you do? When you're free?"
She pauses, considering. "I don't know. I've never had the luxury of thinking about it. My whole life has been about survival. About the next day, the next bill, the next challenge." She looks at me then, really looks at me. "Must be nice to never worry about that."
"Money doesn't solve everything."
"Spoken like someone who's never been without it."
She's right, of course. I've never known financial insecurity. Never worried about bills or food or whether I'd have a home. My problems are different, expectations, legacy, the crushing weight of a name that means something.
But they're not worse. Just different.
"You're right," I admit. "I can't understand what that's like. But that doesn't mean my problems aren't real."
"I never said they weren't." She slides our soufflés into the oven with careful precision. "Just that they're different. Very, very different."
The instructor circulates, checking on everyone's progress. When she gets to us, she smiles approvingly.
"Excellent teamwork! You two work well together."
Isla and I exchange a glance. Don't laugh, her eyes say. Don't you dare.
"Thanks," I manage.
When the instructor moves on, Isla lets out a breath. "If only she knew."
"Knew what? That we're enemies forced together by a charity auction?"
"Exactly that."
"Are we still enemies?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
She's quiet for a long moment, watching our soufflés rise through the oven window.
"I don't know what we are," she says finally. "But enemies feels... inaccurate now."
"What would be accurate?"
"Complicated."
Fair enough.
We wait for the soufflés in silence that's less hostile than it used to be. Other couples chat, laugh, take selfies. We just stand there, both of us thinking too much.
"Can I ask you something?" Isla says suddenly.
"You're going to anyway."
She almost smiles at that. "Freshman year. That party. Why did you ask me out?"
My entire body tenses. We're doing this. Here. Now. In a cooking class surrounded by people.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes." She turns to face me fully. "Because I've spent two years thinking you asked me as a joke. That it was some cruel game. But yesterday, on the ice, when you talked about your father... I started wondering if I was wrong."
"You weren't wrong to reject me."
"That's not what I asked." She doesn’t even look at me when she speaks.
The timer goes off. Our soufflés are done. Isla pulls them out with steady hands—they're perfect, risen and golden and everything they should be.
"Later," I say quietly. "I'll tell you later. When we're not surrounded by people." She tells me.
She sets the soufflés down to cool. She looks at me with those dark eyes that see too much.
The instructor has everyone present their soufflés.
We take the obligatory photo of both of us holding our ramekins, the chocolate creations perfect between us.
Isla posts it with the caption: Date 2/5: We didn't burn down the kitchen.
Low bar, but we cleared it. #ThornhillGala #BakingDisasters #ActuallyNotADisaster
We eat our soufflés standing at our station. They're rich and perfectly textured mostly due to Isla's skill, but I contributed. Sort of.
"Not bad," she says, taking another bite.
"We make a good team."
"In the kitchen." Wow that was a quick reply.
"In general."
She doesn't argue. Just finishes her soufflé in silence.
When the class ends, we walk out together. The afternoon is still warm, the campus unusually pleasant for February. Students are everywhere, studying on the quad, playing frisbee, enjoying the weather.
"Walk with me?" I hear myself ask.
She should say no. Should head back to her dorm or to work or anywhere that's not with me.
"Where?" she asks instead.
"Anywhere. I just…I promised I'd tell you about freshman year. And I'd rather do it somewhere private."
She considers this for a long moment. "The arboretum. It's usually empty this time of day."