I shake my head. The fire in my mouth isn’t the kind that deadens taste buds. It’s the kind that makes all the other flavors come alive. “I’ve never tasted anything like this.”
“Good.” He finally takes a bite.
We eat in silence for a minute. I don’t want to speak or blink or do anything to take away from the flood of sensations, or make him think I’m not appreciating it. I need to taste every flavor. They’re mine, created for me, and it’s odd, but I love the selfishness of it. When I look up he’s watching me again.
“You look so serious when you eat,” he says.
I smile and feel the start of a blush. “I told you I was hungry. And I’m trying to concentrate.”
“There won’t be an ingredients quiz afterward.”
“That’s good, because I wouldn’t do very well. I’m just concentrating on enjoying it.”
He takes a sip of his water. “Yeah, I’ve seen that look from you before. In the parking lot last night. And the freezer on Thursday afternoon. And I think it was the storage room on Wed—”
“Okay, enough,” I say, fully blushing now and trying to think of somewhere to steer the conversation. “So, you graduate after this next year?”
“Yeah.”
“What then?” I ask.
“I know what I
“And what’s that?”
“For starters, be on some reality-TV cooking show.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. You don’t seem like the claw-your-way-into-the-spotlight type.”
“My mom suggests it every time I talk to her, like that’s the only reason she can come up with for getting a degree in culinary arts.”
“She doesn’t see the benefits of having someone to make her food that tastes like heaven?”
Reed glances at my half-empty plate. “She’s not quite as easy to please as you.”
“So no reality TV, no being your mom’s personal chef. What does that leave?”
“Most of my classmates dream of being the head chef at some trendy, big-city restaurant. But I’ve lived in a big city before, and I kind of like the feel of a small town better. Somewhere like Elizabethtown.”
“Not so many trendy restaurants here,” I say. “Unless you count the Olive Garden.”
“Yeah, no offense to fine dining here, but I don’t want to end up at the Olive Garden, making the chicken parmigiana for the rest of my life.”
“A fate worse than death?”
“Not if you like making chicken parm. But if you think food is more than paint-by-numbers, then yeah.” Behind hair and lens, a glint of intensity burns in his eyes.
“My dad wants me to come back to California and work for him,” he continues.
“He’s a chef ?”
“No. He’s . . . I don’t really know what he is. A businessman? That might be a stretch. He invests in businesses that seem legitimate at first, but then they either tank or turn out to be scams. I can’t exactly say it to him, but I’d rather do something real.”
“Like food,” I say, and take the last bite on my plate.
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”
I shake my head, mouth too full to speak. When I can, I say, “Definitely not being sarcastic.”
He nods. “It’s a little tricky, not having their support exactly. I’m paying for my tuition, my rent, my bills, and nobody’s going to hand me my dream job when I’m done.”
“You still haven’t told me what that is.”
He pauses. “I want to have my own restaurant.” He won’t look me in the eye, but I can hear the drive in his voice, the hum of energy and talent and fearlessness.
I drag my fork through the sauce on my plate, pulling white streaks behind the tines, then turn my fork and make a crosshatch pattern. Reed takes his own fork, leans over and adds a few swirls around my design.
“You don’t gush compliments like other girls,” he says.
I open my mouth to protest, but he stops me. “No, I don’t want you to. I like that you say what you mean.”
“You sure? If you really want, I could moan after each bite and go on about how it’s the best meal I’ve ever tasted.”
“No,” he says, then stops himself. “Although now that you mention it, I would be okay with a little moaning. But I meant that you’re sincere. It was a compliment.”
“Thank you. And these other girls you cook for—is gushing compliments really the usual?”
He shrugs, and doesn’t take the bait. “There is no usual.”
That could mean he doesn’t usually cook for girls or they all react differently.
“The only girl I’ve cooked for regularly would be my last girlfriend. She turned out to be less than sincere about a lot of things.”
“Less than sincere,” I repeat. “That sounds like code for something.”
He just looks at me, the smallest hint of pain in his face. It makes me feel a little sick, the thought that someone hurt him.
“Dessert?” he asks.
I nod.
Reed pulls vanilla bean ice cream from the freezer while I clear plates. “What, no fancy homemade dessert?” I ask.
“No. Unless you feel the need to request a chocolate souffle or something.”
“I was kidding. Ice cream is perfect.” I take the bowl he hands me and follow him to the couch. It’s an unholy shade of brownish green, but I ignore the color and settle into the corner, folding my legs beneath me and curling my toes into the worn velour.
I let the first spoonful melt in my mouth, contemplating the idea of ordering whatever dessert I want and actually having someone do my bidding. “Wait, would you seriously be making me, say, a cheesecake right now if I asked for one?”
“I’d have to run to Kroger for cream cheese and graham cracker crumbs. And you’d have to wait an hour for it to bake, and then another hour for it to set up.”
“But I’d be eating my own cheesecake,” I say.
“At midnight. Yeah.”
I take another bite of ice cream. “With you.”
He laughs. “I would hope so. Are we still talking hypothetically here, or should I be on my way to the store?”
“Hypothetically. I’ve got to be home by eleven.” I glance over my shoulder at the microwave clock. “Sorry.”
“Why do you always apologize for that?”
The question catches me off guard. “Because I know it’s annoying. And not normal. And I used to go out with a guy who hated it.”
Reed shrugs. “It’s not like you can do anything about your parents.”
Now would be the time to tell him. I’ve always known that Lena would have to make her way into us, Reed and me. It would be natural to do it now, and he’d understand my parents and their craziness, and maybe why I really work at Mr. Twister.
Or maybe I’d be instantly transformed into the tragic younger sister.
I take a huge bite of ice cream.
“So, how’s the mural?”
I pound my forehead with my fist and gasp.
“You okay?”
I take a few deep breaths and wait for the pain to release me. But first I feel his hand on the back of my head, squeezing the base of my neck. It lifts.
“Better?”
