Chapter 19
Cheese Dilemmas
Emily
The front door burst open, yanking me out of a nap. I had passed out while writing in my little black book, exhausted from a strength training session.
It was Paul, bouncing through the door and whistling a tune I didn’t recognize. “What’s up, Emi?” he said.
I was instantly wide awake when I realized which page was open in my notebook. The one where I wrote about Jon fingering me in a walk-in fridge.
“You’re in a good mood,” I said, hastily closing the book and sitting up on the couch. “Where are you coming from?”
He plopped down next to me and rubbed the top of my head. “That’s a secret.”
“Now I want to know even more,” I complained, throwing a cushion at him. He caught it in midair and laughed. Another yawn crept up my throat, and I threw myself back onto the couch, defeated.
Paul took hold of my legs and pulled them onto his lap, letting me stretch out comfortably. He began rubbing my feet in their fluffy socks. “Thanks,” I mumbled, closing my eyes once again.
I didn’t flinch at physical contact with Paul anymore. Whatever we had right now seemed to work, feelings notwithstanding. It felt good. Not I-want-his-body-all-over-me good—I just enjoyed spending time with him, especially when he was in such a good mood.
“We should stop our late-night Grey marathons if they knock you out like this,” he said.
I opened my eyes to scowl at him. “But I love them!”
“Me too.” He winked. “So how’s Culinary going? Any new stories about Chef Sayle?”
Heat flushed my face as a vivid image came to mind. The spot between my legs throbbed, and I swiftly pulled my feet from his lap. “That’s a secret,” I said, throwing back his words.
Paul laughed heartily. “Fine by me! Did you finish with eggs?”
“Yep. We’ve moved on to pizza now.”
“Let me guess. No cheese on yours?” he teased, and the corners of my mouth lifted in appreciation. I loved how he remembered every little detail about me.
“Chef said I’d get an F if I serve him pizza without cheese,” I said.
“Can you blame him?”
“Oh, shut up!” I laughed out loud.
This was like the calm before the storm. Being so happy with Jon, yet surrounded by Paul’s light attentiveness... A part of me felt guilty. But I had written it all down for Jon to read.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table. I propped myself up on my elbows and saw Mama’s name on the screen. “It’s Mama.” I reached for the phone but Paul was quicker to grab it.
“Can I?”
“Sure.” It was nice, how he was keeping in touch with her.
“Hi, Susanne!” He beamed. “Yes, I’m doing great. How are you?”
I leaned back, watching him engage in the conversation. “Pani is doing that, really?” I raised my eyebrows inquisitively, and he murmured, “Pani’s still sleeping on the sweatshirt I left on your bed.” He restarted rubbing my foot, which had somehow landed on his knee again. “You should come to America too,” he said into the phone. “I tried to make your Currywurst and it was terrible!”
My mother burst into laughter on the other end of the line.
“I swear I followed your recipe, but the sauce turned out incredibly slimy.”
I heard the front door close. I turned to see who had come home, and tugged my legs from Paul’s lap when I noticed Jon standing there, gazing at us darkly. With a shake of his head, he went back out the door.
“Jon!” I exclaimed, leaping up and chasing after him. I flew down the steps to the pathway without bothering to put on shoes. “Jon, it’s not what it looked like!”
He turned. “I know you and Paul are friends, but what the fuck was that?” His eyes weren’t so much angry as they were confused.
I stepped forward and cupped his face in my hands. “I know what it looked like, but it was nothing. Really.”
He looked to the side.
“Hey, look at me,” I said. “I promise I’m not changing my mind. I wrote all about it in my book for you to read so you know exactly what’s happening. Okay? I’m not hiding anything from you.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You wrote everything down?”
“Yes,” I promised. Yet I felt a pang of guilt for letting Paul get so close in the first place. I didn’t want to jeopardize what Jon and I had built in the last few weeks. “It won’t happen again. I’ll keep him at least one arm’s length away from now on. Okay?”
Jon hesitated. His hands found my wrists and gently pushed down my hands. “It’s not that... Even though I didn’t like your legs on his lap, that wasn’t the worst part.”
He sat down on the path. Quietly I sat down beside him, waiting for him to explain.
“He’s chatting with your mom like they’re old buddies, while I—I haven’t even ever talked to her,” he scoffed.
His words stuck in my heart. I utterly felt for him. He’d compared himself to Paul, and comparison is more dangerous than a storm at sea. It can take you off course, leaving you more lost and vulnerable. I moved closer to him, wrapping my arms around his waist. “You will meet her one day, okay?”
I didn’t mention the all-or-nothing solution of us getting married for a visa. I didn’t want to pressure him. He had so much on his mind already: staying clean, catching up with school, making amends with everyone. There would be a better time to discuss this. Eventually.
He let out a sigh, looking away. “I don’t like that he’s so much closer to you than I’ll ever be. I mean, you live together. How can I compete with that?”
“I understand why this isn’t easy for you, but I can’t move out, Jon.”
“I know,” he said, putting his arm around my neck and kissing my hairline. “I still hate it though.”
I didn’t respond to that. He was entitled to his feelings, and I would feel uncomfortable if he was this close to Kiki after all. I didn’t want to be a hypocrite.
“Didn’t you have a meeting today?” I asked, partly because I wanted to know how it went and partly just to switch the subject.
He clenched his jaw. “Finished early.” He got up and reached out his hand for mine. “Want to have dinner at my place?”
I accepted his lift and rose from the pathway. “Sure, let me get my...” I looked down at my fluffy socks. “Shoes. And tell Gena.”
He nodded, his expression still a bit tense. I hurried inside. I needed to find a way to make this situation easier for him.
When we arrived at Tim’s place, the dinner table was already set and a pot of tomato sauce bubbled away on the stove. Jon’s sister, a bubbly fourteen-year-old named Lauren, welcomed me with an excited hug. “I knew Jon liked you a lot,” she said.
“He’s a great guy. How could I not like him?” I squeezed her back.
She made a face. “Yeah, good thing everyone has different taste.”
“Oh, shut up, Lauren,” Jon chided, giving her a playful pinch on the cheek.
She jumped back. “No, my makeup! Great, now I have to redo it before—”
“Before what?” Jon and Tim said simultaneously.
Lauren blushed and quickly took her seat. “Nothing, let’s eat. I’m so hungry!”
She had colored her dark hair a light shade of violet, which Jon had mentioned got her into trouble with their stepfather. The mere thought of the last time I’d seen Humphrey, unlocking my jail cell, sent a shiver down my spine. Jon hadn’t been to his mother’s place yet after rehab, but I knew it was only a matter of time on his road to recovery.
Tim came over for a quick hug. “Good to see you, German.”
“You too, Tim.”
My weekly dinners with Tim had stuck after Jon’s return. When Jon found out how often I came over, he’d vouched for keeping it up. On nights like this, everything we had been through seemed to settle into a nice, normal togetherness. My heart swelled with warmth as I imagined us continuing this tradition for many years to come—
“You good?” Jon’s hand landed on my arm.
“I just had a weird thought.”
That the tradition had a time limit of way less than many years.
I cleared my throat and smiled so he wouldn’t worry.
“Well...” Tim set down the pasta on the table. “Let’s eat!”
And we all gathered round. “Tim, you’ve outdone yourself!” I exclaimed after a bite of tomato basil sauce that tasted unlike anything I had ever tried before.
“I didn’t cook tonight.” Tim chuckled, patting Jon on the back as he returned with a bottle of water. “Seems like all those Culinary classes are paying off, son.”
“You made this?” I gazed from the pasta to Jon in amazement.
“Hey, why so surprised, Little German? I’m a man of many talents.” He leaned in to kiss my cheek, and a rush of warmth shot into my cheeks. Only a little touch from him and I was beaming.
I was still busy with my first helping by the time Jon and Tim had finished their seconds. Lauren had talked about the origins of basil for a good twenty minutes before asking to go watch TV on the couch.
“Oh, you should try Jon’s special buns!” Tim said to me. He fetched me one from the kitchen. Its shape reminded me a little of Br?tchen. Gosh, I did miss German food.
I took a bite, and— “Oh—”A soggy liquid surprised me. “Is that cheese?” I covered my mouth as a hit of nausea overcame me.
“Yes! That’s the best part! Or isn’t it?” Tim looked at me, puzzled.
“You don’t like cheese?” Jon asked.
I shook my head. I couldn’t spit it out, but swallowing didn’t feel like a good option either.
“Here.” Jon jumped up and returned with a napkin. I turned to the side and tried to spit gracefully, but totally failed with a gagging sound.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling a twinge of shame for my childish behavior. But there was something about cheese I couldn’t stand. I had tried it thousands of times.
“Don’t be,” Jon assured me, though his expression had shifted.
My phone buzzed. “It’s my mom; I promised to call her back!” I hurried out into the hall. “Mama?”
“Mein Liebling, du h?rst dich gut an. Wie geht es dir?” My lovely one, you sound good. How are you?
“I’m great. Really happy actually.” I spotted Jon leaning in the doorframe, chewing his lower lip. “You want to talk to her?” I asked him.
He shook his head a bit too quickly and returned to the kitchen. He was acting weird—so keen to meet my mom one second, backing out the next. When he came to see me in Culinary, he avoided answering me if he was okay. And he was going to meetings more often these days...
I stepped through the front door and went outside. Jon was way too skilled in speaking German already.
“Mama, irgendwas stimmt nicht.” Mom, something’s not right.