Unable to come up with anything substantial, Cierra bit her lip and scrunched her shoulders. “Nothing? Can we just be normal this morning? Act like nothing happened?”
His face was flat now despite the hint of disappointment that flickered across his eyes. “Sure, I can do that. But . . . arewegood?”
“Yeah, we’re fine. But I work for your family, and I don’t think we should let that happen again. It’s not who I am . . . and I just . . . I really need this job. And your sister—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,” Erik said calmly, with those steady kaleidoscope eyes. Cierra believed him and smiled with gratitude.
Erik was about to say something else when Elliot called from outside, asking his Erik’s help with loading luggage into the car.
“Okay, um, we’ll talk later?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Cierra replied, watching him leave before walking back up to her room. After latching the door, she grabbed a pillow and pressed it hard against her face, screaming into it for dear life.
The party got back late Sunday afternoon, and Cierra briefly said her goodbyes to the Lawsons before biking back to her apartment. The subtle soreness between her legs she felt riding home was another unwelcome reminder of what she had done the previous night.
Before heading home, while she hugged everyone goodbye, she’d shared a make-room-for-Jesus side hug with Erik that felt utterly out of place. His hands held her side for longer than they should have, and even though she knew she needed to pull away, her body was resistant. Eye contact was nearly impossible.
She kept thinking about the others’ body language that morning. Had anyone heard them last night? At breakfast, and during the long car ride, no one’s actions seemed to suggest they were aware of the brief affair. She and Erik even shared a mundane conversation about pretzels versus popcorn as an ideal snack, which she appreciated, because if they didn’t talk at all, it would be even more suspicious.
Once, she thought she might have caught Zelda staring in her direction, but maybe she was just looking out the window, lost in thought. While Cierra wasn’t sure how Zelda would react if she found out, it would at the least be a terrible look. At the worst,well, Cierra didn’t want to think about that. That was a bridge she’d be willing to cross only if forced there.
In the same journey, she’d allowed herself to be persuaded into dinner with Julian, particularly once he proposed a restaurant she’d been dying to try: an upscale seafood joint in Midtown. About an hour after they departed from the Catskills, Cierra had responded to Julian’s message asking to talk.
Cierra: What is there to talk about? I don’t need an apology, I just don’t want to be in a situationship at 30. We’re looking for different things.
Julian: Me either. Please, can we talk? In person?? I know I fucked up, I just don’t want to miss out on you because of a mistake. Let me make it up to you.
Desperately, Cierra wished she cared less and could simply blow him off. But who was she kidding, she was far from over him.Maybe an apology would be nice,she thought.
Cierra: Fine.
Julian: How about Oceans at 7p.m.? Wednesday?
God, he was good.
Cierra: See you then.
But then, before she knew it, Cierra was recalling the previous evening all over again. How understanding Erik had been, and how every word he spoke into her ear while their bodies joined had melted over her body like warm honey. Lost in the bliss of her memory, it was as if she had never left that moonlit kitchen in the Catskills.
BEEEP! BEEEEEP!
An angry horn coming from a blue SUV screamed at her, forcing her to re-adjust and swerve back into her bike lane, which she had overshot by at least four feet. The interruption sent her heartbeat into a frenzy, and for the remaining ten minutes, she did her best to focus her attention on the road, and not the huge mistake she’d just made.
After docking her bike, she walked up the stairs into her cozy apartment and instinctively checked the fridge for snacks, choosing leftover spaghetti and a Diet Coke before settling onto her couch to check her email. On the quiet car ride back into the city, she had seen a reminder email from thePlatedproduction team to submit all their materials by Monday. There was a forwarded response from Gabriel, urging her to submit the application ASAP.
Cierra bit her nails while reading and re-reading the email in the safety of her living room, as if the deadline would magically change if she refreshed her inbox one more time. The last of the materials she could’ve added to her application had been gathered that weekend, and Mia had already sent the edited footage. Cierra appraised her essay showing her interest and fit for the show, which had already been proofread ten times, as well as a gallery portfolio of her dishes.
Her application was complete; it had been for days, ever since she got some additional photos from Mexico to polish her submission. So why did her finger shake with terror every time she hovered above the “submit” button?
She just needed to review the photos. One. More. Time.
The first picture in the carousel featured her washing tomatoes in a large farmers' sink, laughing with her head turned behind her, looking for the source of the commotion. It was a photo that Erik had taken the afternoon of her first dinner party, and she had been laughing at an off-color comment Elliot had made about the eggplants making him feel insecure. The second photo displayed a spread of spiced rice covered in toasted almonds, spring-green mint and parsley, and dotted with ruby-colored pomegranate seeds, next to burnt orange turmeric cauliflower and succulent lamb. That one she had taken herself, the night of the networking event in Mexico City. Suddenly, it dawned on Cierra how different her life looked now.
A year ago, the thought of traveling to Mexico on a first-class ticket, working for the CEO of a multimillion dollar company, having thousands of followers, or being encouraged by a major food TV network producer to apply for the nation’s number one cooking show seemed totally out of reach, a pipe dream.
But here she was, doing all of that. With help, of course. But ultimately, through trying different things, and sometimes failing, she was steadily forging the path that worked for her.
So why couldn’t she press that damned “submit” button?
