‘Thank you.’
With that, she turned and walked back toward the door. But she stopped herself. She turned her head slightly, looking at the wall to my left and not me.
‘I heard you. Arguing with Gabriel.’
Shit.Was the letter a bribe? Gabe’s parents had paid off the last kid who was in love with their son and ended up in a hospital. Maybe Natalie told them she had a cheaper plan. I didn’t say anything, just waited for her to speak. To threaten me and tell me to stay away from her nephew.
‘Our family,’ she continued, ‘has a habit of holding each other to standards that can be difficult to reach, let alone maintain.’
Okay? I’ll be honest, that kind of made sense as far as why Natalie was the way she was – especially her management style.
‘Some people, when faced with that kind of pressure, thrive. While others …’ She paused and seemed to change her mind on what she was going to say. ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out between … the two of you. I think you might have been a good influence on him. He seemed happier when he was working with you. I thought it was just that he was making his own money. But after the night you came to my sister’s house, I realized it might be more. I noticed a change in him when you were on the schedule together.’
She opened her mouth as though she was going to say something else, but closed it. Then, without saying goodbye, she opened the door and left.
I said a lot of mean things to Gabe when I was telling him off, but maybe some of them weren’t so far off the mark. Maybe he did think all he deserved was someone like Vic. I hoped he realized he deserved more.
But the throb of pain in my fingers reminded me that I wasn’t the one who could give it to him. Not anymore.
Whatdo the culinary arts mean to you?
What a silly fucking question. How was it that the best culinary arts school in the world could come up with such an awful essay question for their applicants? And yet I’d been staring at my cracked computer screen for what felt like hours – not counting the literal months previously – unable to answer said awful question. At least I had the question of which campus I was applying to answered. Now I knew I didn’t need to apply anywhere except New York.
My phone buzzed with another text from Ava.
You can still do the video. It was YOUR idea even before Gabe came into the pic, so I still think you can do it.
Instead of answering, I locked my phone and tossed it on the bed beside me. I didn’t feel like writing back to her. That text would be a whole other essay on why Gabe’s preproduction work just madeactuallydoing the video seem daunting, and whatever I made would always disappoint me. I wanted it to be perfect, and doing it any way other than Gabe’s vision – the way he’d explained it to me – would always be less than perfect.
So instead, I was focusing on – and overthinking – my essay. The letter Natalie wrote me wasn’t going to push me to the top of the application pile, so my essay was my only hope.
But why couldn’t the question be something easier? Why couldn’t they ask for my pie crust recipe or the process through which I’d perfected it? I knew they’d be impressed with my use of brown butterfat-washed vodka.
What do the culinary arts mean to you?
I slammed the laptop shut and went down to the kitchen. It was almost one in the morning, and I probably should have been in bed, but I had been having trouble falling asleep in my own room for the past few weeks since being released from the ICU, nervous about rolling over onto my hand and ruining the healing process.
There had to be something I could bake one-handed. With a lot of care, I slipped my dad’s old La Mère coat on – forgoing the buttons because they took forever with one of my hands only half usable.
Cookies. I could do cookies with one hand. Simple ones – no macarons this time.
I opened the pantry and grabbed the sugar and flour. No chocolate chips, but we did have oatmeal and raisins. And before you come for me about oatmeal raisin cookies, you’re wrong. Yes, chocolate chip cookies are superior, but oatmeal raisin – the way I make them – are amazing.
I grabbed the spices and set them out on the counter – including my secret ingredient, which I will never share. Never mind – I just made a whole stink about my oatmeal raisin being better, so I might as well share the knowledge:
Equal parts cardamom powder and cinnamon.
Then I set about preheating the oven and measuring out the ingredients into individual glass bowls. When it came to mixing, I should have used the stand mixer, but it was way too loud and I didn’t want to wake my mom. So instead I sat on the kitchen floor and put the bowl between my legs while I mixed with my good hand.
The whole time I tried to think of something intelligent to write for my essay. What did these cookies mean to me? What did the fact that I baked away my feelings mean? Did any of that make the culinary arts mean anything to me?
The cookies were in the oven for four minutes before I heard my mom coming down the stairs. She looked at me, then the mess I’d made of the kitchen, then at the clock on the microwave.
‘It’s two in the morning.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I couldn’t sleep.’
She frowned and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘When I can’t sleep, I usually stay in bed and count my breathing. I feel like it helps a bit more than baking …’ She leaned over to see what was in the oven. ‘Cookies.’
