"That's not what I asked." She doesn’t even look at me when she speaks.
The timer goes off. Our soufflés are done. Isla pulls them out with steady hands—they're perfect, risen and golden and everything they should be.
"Later," I say quietly. "I'll tell you later. When we're not surrounded by people." She tells me.
She sets the soufflés down to cool. She looks at me with those dark eyes that see too much.
The instructor has everyone present their soufflés. We take the obligatory photo of both of us holding our ramekins, the chocolate creations perfect between us. Isla posts it with the caption:Date 2/5: We didn't burn down the kitchen. Low bar, but we cleared it. #ThornhillGala #BakingDisasters #ActuallyNotADisaster
We eat our soufflés standing at our station. They're rich and perfectly textured mostly due to Isla's skill, but I contributed. Sort of.
"Not bad," she says, taking another bite.
"We make a good team."
"In the kitchen." Wow that was a quick reply.
"In general."
She doesn't argue. Just finishes her soufflé in silence.
When the class ends, we walk out together. The afternoon is still warm, the campus unusually pleasant for February. Students are everywhere, studying on the quad, playing frisbee, enjoying the weather.
"Walk with me?" I hear myself ask.
She should say no. Should head back to her dorm or to work or anywhere that's not with me.
"Where?" she asks instead.
"Anywhere. I just…I promised I'd tell you about freshman year. And I'd rather do it somewhere private."
She considers this for a long moment. "The arboretum. It's usually empty this time of day."
The campus arboretum is a ten-minute walk, a small wooded area with paths and benches, maintained by the environmental science department. We walk in silence, the weight of impending honesty heavy between us.
When we reach a secluded bench overlooking a small pond, I gesture for her to sit. She does, and I sit next to her, not too close, but closer than we've been outside of required date activities.
"Freshman year," I begin, and my voice sounds strange even to my own ears. "I noticed you on the first day of our English seminar. You challenged Professor Hendrix aboutThe Great Gatsby. Everyone else was just agreeing with him, but you had your own interpretation. You were brilliant."
Isla doesn't say anything. Just watches me with those careful eyes.
"I started showing up in places I knew you'd be. The library. That coffee shop you used to go to. It took me three weeks to work up the courage to talk to you at that party." I run a hand through my hair. "I'd never had to work up courage before. Everything always came easy. But you... you didn't even see me. Looked right through me like I didn't exist."
"Sebastian—"
"Let me finish. Please." I take a breath. "When I finally asked you out, I meant it. It wasn't a joke or a bet or whatever you thought. I wanted to take you to dinner. Wanted to get to know you. And when you laughed in my face and told me I was nothing but my father's money and a heartless asshole... you were the first person who ever saw me clearly."
"I didn't see clearly. I saw what I expected to see."
"No. You saw what I was." I look at her finally. "Maybe not all of it, but you weren't wrong. I was entitled. Privileged. Disconnected from reality. You called me out, and I couldn't handle it."
"So you spent two years proving me right."
"Yes." The admission hurts. "I spent two years being exactly what you accused me of being. Because if you were going to hate me anyway, I might as well earn it."
She's quiet for a long time. A bird calls from somewhere in the trees. The pond ripples with wind.
"That's the most fucked up logic I've ever heard," she says finally.
