“Thank you,” she says, audibly this time. “I needed that.” She pulls me in for a hug, and we embrace like we always have. She gives me one last squeeze before we pull apart, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Awww,” I coo. “Are you crying?”
“Allergies,” she sniffs. “You know I might not even be on the show.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s an initial mini-cookoff where we make one appetizer and one main for the producers before they decide which final ten teams go on the show.”
I can’t believe my ears. “You got all pissy over some TV show you’re not even on yet?” She nods quickly. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “So, technically, you might not even be chosen? And this whole convo would’ve been for naught?”
Anjie rubs the back of her neck. “Well, when you put it like that, it does sound a tad bit overdramatic.”
“A tad?”
“Okay, it sounds very overdramatic. Is that what you want to hear?” She playfully shoves my arm. I’ve got to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Here I was, getting some for the first time in months, only to lose out because my best friend was feeling too many things about maybe, possibly, potentially being on TV. It’s hilarious, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
Okay, that’s a lie.
“When you think about it, this is me being confident that I’ll nail this informal round and get to the reality TV portion,” she says.
“You know what? You’re right, and I’m very proud of you.” I pull her into another hug, and when we let go, we shake out our worries. As always, we start with our arms, flinging wrists every which way until we feel satisfied, and then we move on to our feet.
When we’re done, Anjie’s face is relaxed.
“Know what you’re making for the initial mini-thing?” I ask.
She gives me her smug, all-knowing, Anjie smile. “The mini-cookoff? Why do you think you’ve been taste-testing a lot more dishes these days?”
“Wait, how long have you known about this?”
“Right after Thanksgiving.”
That was weeks ago.
“I initially thought it was a joke but then decided the menu needed a revamp anyway. But last week, I got another email asking for co-chef registration and everything felt a little too real,” Anjie explains.
“You submitted it, right? When’s it due?”
“It’s due tomorrow at noon.”
“Anjola Kuti, you call Mike first thing in the morning and get this sorted!” I yell.
She jumps back. “Okay, okay. I hear you. Don’t eat me like he was—”
“Don’t.”
The annoying mischief in her eyes doesn’t die and neither does my stern look. Luckily for the both of us—because we would’ve stood at a deadlock till someone broke, our record is eleven minutes—my phone rings. The caller ID makes me smile, and before I know it, Anjie looks over my shoulder and nudges me.
“Answer,” she whispers.
I do, and somehow my smile gets wider.
“Goodnight,” she calls out, exiting my bedroom, and I hope my entire house.
“Who was that?” His voice comes through, and heat shoots to my core. It’s barely been an hour and my body already misses his touch.
“Anjie. She’s leaving.” I flop into my bed, getting comfortable.
