Chapter 17 （The Best） Grilled Cheese
(The Best) Grilled Cheese
Jack
I find Poppy at Kiara’s place.
Tipsy.
Introducing Ki to what looks like one of the Real Housewives franchises.
When I texted her to ask where she was, I thought she’d give me the address of whatever place she’s renting around here. Instead,
she sent a selfie of the two of them, faces smushed together, wine glasses in hand. Beaming like old friends. They even answered
the door together, giggling at the sight of me like I was the funniest thing they’d ever seen.
Maybe the news about Ryan will go over easier like this.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as Kiara pauses the too-loud television and Poppy tries to foist a glass of wine on me. “No
thanks. Can we talk?”
“Can’t we talk at the restaurant tomorrow?” She peers at me, swaying a little on her tiptoes. A light flush covers her cheeks,
the tip of her nose. “You can’t work all the time, Jackie. It’s not healthy.”
I glower. I knew she would unload that nickname at the worst possible moment. “This isn’t about work.”
“What’s it about?” Kiara asks.
“Yeah,” Poppy echoes. “What’s worth interrupting Ki’s introduction to the greatest reality television franchise of all time?”
“One, Survivor exists.”
Poppy giggles. “Oh, that’s so you.”
“I still think you would win Survivor,” Kiara says, no doubt remembering all the times we watched it in this very room with Sal.
“No way,” Poppy says, still messing with her braid. “It’s all about the social game now, and Jackie has about as much charisma
as a block of wood.”
“Two,” I continue, undeterred, “it’s about Ryan.”
That stops her in her tracks, unfortunately. “What about him?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to ruin her night. It’s weird to see her and Ki hanging out, but it’s nice, too. I ignore the frisson
of jealousy stabbing my chest. Of course they’re becoming close; Poppy could befriend anyone. Kiara’s definitely more fun
than me to be around.
“I’m guessing you haven’t checked Instagram tonight?” I finally say.
“No.” She hurries to the couch, rescuing her phone from where it’s wedged between two cushions. “What happened?”
“Check his story.”
Poppy’s gaze narrows. She brings up his Instagram profile, going right to his stories, and flips through the sequence in a
rush, phone angled so Kiara can see it too. Her mouth tightens, something diming in her expression, but otherwise, she doesn’t
react.
“How did you even see this?” she asks.
I hadn’t thought of how it would look before I rushed over here. Shit. “What, I can’t scroll Instagram like everyone else?”
“That’s Courtney Biller,” Kiara says, with a little gasp.
At the sound of her name, I place her. She’s an actress. Hazel had a crush on her a while back; the guys in the kitchen loved
to razz her about it. She’s beautiful, sure, but not my type.
Not enough sunshine.
“I knew she looked familiar.” I lift the baseball cap I’m wearing, dragging my fingers through my hair. “Are you . . . okay?”
“Okay?” Poppy repeats, an odd note in her voice. “Sure, I love that the guy I was dating for months took less than a minute
to move on to a gorgeous, talented woman who won Best Actress at the Academy Awards last year and just launched her own cosmetics
line. Thank you so much for the update, Hartman.”
I wince.
“Want me to go to LA and kick his ass?” Kiara says, nudging her shoulder against Poppy’s.
Poppy laughs humorlessly. “It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t have to be fine,” says Kiara. She drags Poppy’s phone away, closing Instagram. “You thought he wanted to marry you.”
“Because I’m an idiot.” Poppy’s blue eyes look watery. She presses the heel of her hand against her nose.
“Hey, no—”
“Let me take you home,” I interrupt quickly.
“Why’d you even rush over to tell me this?” Her voice sharpens. “Did you think oh, perfect, that’s just the thing to ruin
Poppy’s evening?”
“Fuck no. I just thought . . .” There’s no way in hell I’m telling her that her father sent the post to me first. Or that
his first thought was that she might do something reckless in response. Something public, is what he really meant. Another
thing for people to gossip about, another chance for her to be an internet laughingstock. “I know it sucks.”
Her lip wobbles. “It fucking sucks.”
“Come on.” I gesture to the door. “Let’s go. Scream out the car windows or something.”
“If you put on Slipknot, I’m throwing myself out of the car.” But she hugs Kiara goodbye and slings her tote bag over her
shoulder.
In the Jeep, I ignore her rambling directions to her apartment, and head for the restaurant instead. “Hungry?”
“No.”
I glance at her. She’s hunched over, peering at her phone. I snatch it out of her hands and toss it into the backseat.
“Hey!” she protests, head whipping around. She tries to reach for her phone. I lay my hand over the seat buckle so she can’t
take it off and dive into the backseat—although not for lack of trying. She finally sits back, arms crossed, glowering at
me. “Ugh, you’re so annoying.”
“Stop looking at his stories.”
“You better not have made me accidentally like something.”
“You can like stories?”
“Duh.”
“But they disappear.”
“You still want engagement on your stories. Replies are better.” She works on unwinding her braid, tongue poking out between
her lips. “I’m working on a branded set of story templates that’ll match Fable’s website. You’re welcome.”
I clear my throat, forcing my eyes to stay on the road. “Going to pitch pink again?”
Poppy doesn’t even crack a smile. “Until you say yes.” Her cheeks are still flushed, hopefully from the wine instead of impending
tears. Ryan sure as hell isn’t worth them.
And I don’t like seeing her cry.
As we pull up to the restaurant, Poppy says, “Seriously, I’m not hungry.”
“Then consider it a cooking lesson.”
She makes a face. “So, it’s work.”
“Just come inside.”
After finding her phone, she follows me into Fable. I check my watch. It’s nearly midnight. I’ve been at the restaurant this
late plenty of times, but Poppy hasn’t. Between the empty bar, the tables and chairs pushed to the walls, and the bare lightbulbs—we’re
looking for new fixtures—it looks less than half-finished. Lonely, somehow. The walls need paint. The floor needs new staining.
I’d love to find a way to upgrade the seating, but we’re working on a budget of practically nothing.
Poppy perks up at the sight of our impromptu construction zone. “It’s going to be so good when it’s all put together.”
I lead the way into the kitchen, giving my head a slight shake. Leave it to her to imagine the beauty of this place. I’m starting
to realize just how good she is at seeing the potential in things, same as how I can look at a collection of ingredients and
imagine a meal.
Once inside, she clambers onto a prep table. I raise an eyebrow at the sight, but she just crosses one long leg over the other
in defiance. She’s in dark jeans, intentionally ripped at the knees, and a crop top that shows off a tantalizing strip of
stomach. She’s gotten tanner since she arrived. I could swear she has more freckles, too.
She watches intently as I tie an apron around my waist. “What are we making, Chef?”
I really should have thought about the implications before demanding that she call me Chef. Even though she’s teasing—I can hear it in the lilt of her voice—a zing shoots down my spine.
I clear my throat. “Grilled cheese.”
“Just a measly grilled cheese?”
“Best grilled cheese you’ll ever eat.” I wash my hands. Gather the ingredients. Sourdough bread from a decent bakery nearby;
I haven’t gotten around to experimenting with my own yet. Sharp cheddar cheese. Gruyère. Mayo, a sweet onion, balsamic vinegar.
Butter and salt. A bag of potato chips. “We’re officially in midnight snack territory, Winfield. Cut the cheese into slices
for me. Thin enough it’ll melt nice and easy.”
“I know you’re just trying to distract me,” she says.
I shrug. “Is it working?”
“Fine.” She hops off the table, twisting her hair into a bun. “Is this your recipe?”
“Yep.” I work on slicing the onion, nice and thin so it’ll caramelize properly. “Figured it can’t hurt to show you how to
make some comfort food.”
“When did you first make it?”
“Culinary school. Not for class or anything—my roommate and I had a bit of a competition going.”
“A grilled cheese competition?”
“Keep in mind, we were both broke as hell.” She takes the knife I hand her. I watch as she starts to cut into the block of
cheddar. Her form is better already; clearly, she absorbed some of the onion chopping lesson. “We’d work with these gourmet
ingredients all day, then get back to our place with barely any money for groceries.”
“Who was your roommate?”
“Guy named Owen. Seriously incredible palate.” I set a pan on the stove, turning up the heat, and drop in a few tablespoons
of butter. The onion goes in once that’s melted, along with salt. “We’d make a game of elevating, say, boxed mac and cheese.
Instant ramen. Sandwiches. Whatever we could grab from the store on sale or take home from class.”
I can still picture the small apartment we shared, with its shitty radiator and the penny tile in the bathroom.
When Owen was around, it was great, but if I found myself alone, I’d collapse on the couch, trying to convince myself that my homesickness was just loneliness.
I can still feel the echo of it somewhere between my ribs.
I give the onions a gentle stir. “Anyway, I come home one day freezing my ass off. New York in February.”
“Objectively the worst month.” Poppy holds out a slice of cheddar for my inspection.
I nod at the sight of it. “Keep going. February—well, it’s beautiful here, actually. Some of the best weather of the year.
But that day, I came home all pissed off, cold as hell, and it starts snowing the moment I take off my coat.”
As I talk, I slice the bread. Poppy moves to put the cheese on, but I shake my head. “Not yet. Give the onions a bit of time.”
“Let me guess, it was your turn to cook?”
“Naturally.” I snort at the memory. “I start tearing through the pantry, looking for something I can make into a meal, because