I’M NOT SURE IFit’s the exhaustion, the adrenaline, or the two whiskey sours pumping through my bloodstream, but by the time I get home around 1:30A.M., my whole body is buzzing. I take a quick shower, hoping it will settle me down, but when I crawl beneath the bed sheets, I’m still cold brew–level twitchy. I pick up my phone, intending to relax by scrolling through videos of my favorite internet Yorkie. But when I open Instagram, my fingers seem to operate of their own accord, and the next thing I know, I’m typing the words “Jake Taylor” into the search bar.
I never followed Jake on social media, and in an effort to preserve my sanity, haven’t looked him up once since his career took off. But there’s something about landing my first restaurant job that makes me think of him, and to my chagrin, I realize I’m longing to tell him about it.
Pulling up his page, I mindlessly thumb through the grid, scrolling past a mixture of onstage snapshots and airbrushed photos from magazine shoots. I pause when I reach a black-and-white photo of him. He’s seated with his back against a wall, head bent over the guitar in his lap. I linger over the image, my eyes drinking in every detail: the sharp line of his jawbone, the fullness of his lips, the dark lock of hair that spills lazily across his forehead. Just as I’ve convinced myself to get a grip and close the app, my gaze snags on the caption. As I read it, my mouth goes dry.
About 12,500 women a year die from cancers of the uterine body. This disease steals away friends, daughters, and mothers, leaving behind a void that can never be filled. But we can help. I’ve partnered with the American Cancer Society and have donated a portion of proceeds from my first album to support research for endometrial cancer. I urge you all to do the same. Click the link in my bio to donate now.
I read the caption again and again, pulse hammering erratically. It has to be a coincidence. There’s no way that Jake could have remembered my mother died of uterine cancer. Yet despite the logic in my reasoning, I can’t quite convince myself that it’s true.
Squinting at the photo, I pinch it with two fingers in an attempt to zoom in, but accidentally double-tap instead to “like” it.
“Shiiiit,” I hiss, staring in horror at the red heart beneath the image. I did not mean to do that. What if Jake sees it and realizes I’ve been stalking him online?
I stare at the screen helplessly, wondering what to do next. Should I unlike it? Will he still get a notification if I do?
Calm down. He’s not going to see it,a voice in my head argues.This post has over ten thousand likes. He won’t notice one more. At the thought, my body relaxes. I’m definitely overreacting. I doubt Jake checks his social media at all; he probably has someone who handles it for him.
I stare at the photo again for a long moment, a different emotion slowly replacing my panic. When my mom passed away, it felt like no one could say the right thing. A few of my friends stopped by the apartment the week we sat shiva, but their attempts at comforting platitudes always fell short. My blood boiled every time I heard the words “I’m sorry.” “Sorry” was what you said when you stepped on a teammate’s foot in gym class, not when someone loses the most important person in her life. “It’s going to be okay” was just as bad, because things were never going to be okay again. The only person I could tolerate was Chloe, who sat quietly beside me on a stiff metal folding chair for the entire week. Somehow she knew that I didn’t need empty words, just the simple gesture of staying beside me, never leaving. But Jake’s gesture is on another level entirely. If the little voice inside me is right—and I’m increasingly sure it is—this is the most meaningful response to her death I’ve ever received. And I’m not quite sure what to do with that.
Exhaustion finally crashing over me, I plug my phone into the charger and drift off into a dreamless sleep.
9
IT’S JUST BEFORE 9A.M.when I arrive for my first Saturday morning shift. Running a hand over my double-pressed white coat, I step through the service doors and into the kitchen, pausing to appreciate the soothing orderliness around me. Kitchens are always at their best in the morning. The stainless-steel appliances glimmering, the pots and pans freshly scrubbed, and the white china stacked in tidy columns on shelves. I feel like an artist admiring a fresh ream of white paper, itching to release a new project from my fingertips.
I’ve just finished prepping my station when a small rectangular plate with a sliver of apple tart slides in front of me.
“Mind trying this and letting me know what you think? I’m testing out a new crust.” Ethan smiles at me from across the island. I dig my fork into the flaky crust. Instantly, my mouth waters from the divine taste.
“Wow, this is amazing,” I gush, brushing a crumb from the corner of my lip. “You just came up with this?”
Ethan jams his hands into his apron pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Technically, it’s pretty similar to the one I normally make. But everything tastes better when you add extra butter.”
“You got that right,” I say with a grin.
“Do you like baking?” he asks.
I wrinkle my nose. “Honestly,” I admit, “I hate it.”
Ethan leans back against the counter, crossing his arms across his chest. “Really? And why is that?”
“There’s just so much room for error,” I explain. “I’ll spend so much time working on a dessert, and then the entire thing will end up being a disaster because I made one small mistake that set off a mysterious chain of chemical reactions that I don’t really understand.”
Ethan laughs. “Fair enough. Baking requires so much precision.”
“Trust me, I appreciate precision. What I don’t enjoy is the lack of control. With cooking, if you make a mistake, you can still fix it. You can always add more stock or more salt. If you mess up when you bake, you’re done for.”
Ethan shakes his head. “That’s not necessarily true. Things might not always turn out the way you planned, but that doesn’t always mean they’re ruined.”
Turning away, I stare down at my empty plate, twirling the fork around the crumbs.
“True, but you’re forgetting about the flour. I hate being covered in flour. Why does it always get everywhere?”
Ethan tips back his head and laughs again. The scent of vanilla fills my nostrils as it wafts off his skin.
“You’re right,” he admits. “Flour is the worst.”
We grin at each other, and it strikes me how easy it would be to date someone like him. A person who has my same schedule and career goals. I imagine our relationship would be sweet and uncomplicated, devoid of all those irritating butterflies. Most importantly, I wouldn’t be in danger of falling again, of losing control the way I did with Jake. This time, my heart would be safe. But before we can continue our conversation any further, the kitchenfills with commotion, a sure sign that the lunch rush is starting. Ethan swings a dish towel over his shoulder.
