Gabe gently nipped at my neck. ‘Probably.’
So why did I keep leaning back across the center console to kiss him more? Finally, I pulled myself away.
‘I really should go.’ He said nothing. This bastard wanted me to kiss him again, didn’t he? And I wanted to. I shook my head. ‘Good night, Gabe.’
‘Good night, Thomas.’ I kissed him. This time it was a simple, gentle kiss on the lips. A good night kiss. He reached for the DeLorean again. ‘Thank you for my soap dish.’
Dimples again. Score.
Then something hit me. I tilted my head. ‘Why did you referenceSesame StreetredoingGift of theMagiand not justGift of the Magi?’
He frowned. ‘Bitch, I never readGift of the Magi; you get what I know.’ He drove the DeLorean across his dashboard, and I laughed.
Then I leaned back in and kissed him again.
I pulled my fourth batch of macarons out of the oven, and like two of the three batches before it, their feet were small and broken. I sighed and threw the tray on top of the stove to cool, not even bothering to move them onto a rack. I checked my phone again before returning to the chocolate ganache. Still nothing from Gabe.
It had been almost two weeks now. I’d left his car the week before Christmas feeling high. I was buzzing with so much excitement, I stayed up until almost two in the morning finishing my pastries. The next morning he sent me a picture of the DeLorean in his driveway, but he framed it so it looked the same size as his Audi.
We texted almost nonstop all day. He was off that week to study for midterm exams and only scheduled to work once winter break started. But then he had called out on Christmas Eve. I texted him, but he didn’t answer, and I’d assumed it was just because of the holiday and he was busy. Of course, I didn’t hear from him on Christmas, either.
That’s when the high finally wore off and was replaced with dread. Had I done something wrong? Had something changed? I read and reread our text exchange, trying to figure out where I messed up or said something I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t find it. He didn’t answer texts – nor the picture of my Christmas bread using the bread cloche, and yes, it came out great – or my calls, until finally, on the twenty-sixth, I sent a text saying,Just let me know if you’re alive, please. He didn’t answer, but I saw him start to type.
And worst of all, I couldn’t talk to Ava about it because I was getting the silent treatment from her.
Now here it was, New Year’s Eve, and still nothing.
‘Oh!’ My mom entered the kitchen, plucking up one of the coconut pandan macarons. ‘These look good.’
‘Well, enjoy them,’ I said. ‘Because the rest suck.’
She bit into the green cookie, then cringed and spat it out. ‘I think something might be wrong with these ones.’
I took one and bit into it. And, yes, it was bitter. I spat it out and tried to retrace my steps. What had gone wrong—oh no.
‘I put in a tablespoon of the pandan extract.’
‘And you weren’t supposed to use a tablespoon?’
‘Teaspoon.’ I must have mixed up the recipe in my head. I was supposed to use a tablespoon of the vanilla bean paste in the vanilla buttercream, and a teaspoon of the pandan extract in the coconut buttercream.
My mom looked at the other batches of unassembled macarons I had been working on all day. ‘Well, these look good, too.’
‘Their feet are broken. The ones that puffed up, I undermixed, so I mixed a little longer on these …’ I pointed to the larger cookies. ‘And now they’re overmixed.’
‘Well, I’m sure they’ll still taste good.’ But she didn’t reach out and try any. Instead, she pulled out a chair and watched me mix the ganache. I was wearing my dad’s chef’s coat, and yes, there were new stains that actually made it look used. ‘What are you stressing about?’
‘Nothing.’
I didn’t need to look at her because I could feel her eyes on me. I put down the ganache and went to the mixer to start working on the buttercream filling. As long as I didn’t measure the paste wrong, I could still give out the imperfect macarons. At least they’d taste fine.
But the butter wasn’t in the mixing bowl coming to room temperature, though I could have sworn I put it there. I spun around, looking for the sticks on the counter and the kitchen table. Finally I opened the fridge, and there they were. What the hell?
‘Yes, that’s the face you make when you’re not stressed,’ my mom said.
‘I’m stressed because these macarons aren’t working!’
‘You said they’re hard to perfect.’
