"When I graduate. When I have a job that pays enough to help my family. When I don't have to work two shifts to afford basic necessities." She pours our mixture into ramekins with steady hands. "When I'm free."
"And what will you do? When you're free?"
She pauses, considering. "I don't know. I've never had the luxury of thinking about it. My whole life has been about survival. About the next day, the next bill, the next challenge." She looks at me then, really looks at me. "Must be nice to never worry about that."
"Money doesn't solve everything."
"Spoken like someone who's never been without it."
She's right, of course. I've never known financial insecurity. Never worried about bills or food or whether I'd have a home. My problems are different, expectations, legacy, the crushing weight of a name that means something.
But they're not worse. Just different.
"You're right," I admit. "I can't understand what that's like. But that doesn't mean my problems aren't real."
"I never said they weren't." She slides our soufflés into the oven with careful precision. "Just that they're different. Very, very different."
The instructor circulates, checking on everyone's progress. When she gets to us, she smiles approvingly.
"Excellent teamwork! You two work well together."
Isla and I exchange a glance. Don't laugh, her eyes say. Don't you dare.
"Thanks," I manage.
When the instructor moves on, Isla lets out a breath. "If only she knew."
"Knew what? That we're enemies forced together by a charity auction?"
"Exactly that."
"Are we still enemies?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
She's quiet for a long moment, watching our soufflés rise through the oven window.
"I don't know what we are," she says finally. "But enemies feels... inaccurate now."
"What would be accurate?"
"Complicated."
Fair enough.
We wait for the soufflés in silence that's less hostile than it used to be. Other couples chat, laugh, take selfies. We just stand there, both of us thinking too much.
"Can I ask you something?" Isla says suddenly.
"You're going to anyway."
She almost smiles at that. "Freshman year. That party. Why did you ask me out?"
My entire body tenses. We're doing this. Here. Now. In a cooking class surrounded by people.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes." She turns to face me fully. "Because I've spent two years thinking you asked me as a joke. That it was some cruel game. But yesterday, on the ice, when you talked about your father... I started wondering if I was wrong."
"You weren't wrong to reject me."
