“Have they tasted your cakes?”
“Yes, and I think they’re pretty fucking good,” he says. “Someday. I’m gradually wearing them down. It was torture, not being able to cook the way I wanted to in college. I subjected Landon—that’s my roommate—to a lot of experiments.” Then he allows himself a small smile. “Maybe dorm food was the real source of my depression.”
“Being able to joke about your own mental illness is a big step,” I say. Then I feign a gasp, draping a dramatic hand over my forehead. “Oh god—did you have to eat Top Ramen? Or Annie’s mac and cheese? The horror.”
“There are a lot of ways you can dress up Annie’s mac and cheese,” he says, because of course there are, and of course he’s done it. He pulses the electric mixer for a few seconds, and when he speaks again, his tone is more serious. “I’ve been getting this feeling lately, and correct me if I’m wrong, if I’m seeing something that isn’t there… but maybe you’re not loving all of this the way you used to?”
It would be easy to lie the way I have with everyone else. But if we really are friends now—albeit friends who can’t seem to stop kissing—then maybe I can do this. “I… don’t. I’ve felt that way for a while. My parents have always assumed I’ll join B+B once I finish college. When you asked me about UW—it’s not that I’m not excited about college, or grateful that I’m able to go. It’s that they’ve already picked out all my classes. They’ve plotted out the next four years of my life, and I’ve never really gotten a say in it.”
It’s such a relief to tell someone who isn’t Julia. I’ve kept these words in my head for so long, I didn’t know what they’d sound like when I spoke them aloud. If I spoke them aloud.
Tarek is quiet for a few moments. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were burned out or something, but I had no idea it was like this.” We’re going down opposite paths, but he can see the view from mine just as well as his.
“It would kill them if they knew how little I’m interested in weddings these days. I don’t know how to tell them that I don’t want any of this. It’s always been their thing. And I love that they have it, and they’re good at it, but it’s not mine. I want to work hard for something. To really earn it. I just feel like it’s not going to feel mine until that happens.” A flash of panic, and then I add: “Not that I think that’s what you’re doing!”
“I didn’t think you meant it that way, don’t worry,” he says. “That’s a lot to deal with, helping out your parents and not feeling like you can talk to them about it. Do you have any idea what you might want to do instead?”
He sets aside his mixing bowls so he can talk to me, and I don’t know if it’s the kind of baking that needs supervision, but even if it isn’t, it’s almost overwhelming, the amount of attention he’s giving me. I hooked up with more than one guy who was always on his phone, nodding and mm-hmm-ing when I wanted to talk to him about something. I shouldn’t be so surprised by the fact that he cares, and yet I am.
“Well…” I think about Maxine. “I’m not sure if this is directly future-career-related, but I met this woman at a wedding, actually, who builds harps? I started helping out at her workshop. And it’s pretty amazing, seeing all the steps that go into it.”
“Yeah? Tell me,” he says, and there’s a look of such genuine interest on his face that makes my heart do something strange and foreign in my chest.
So I do. I tell him about lever harps versus pedal harps, about the corgi club, about the whir of the machines in the workshop. “The way she plays is like nothing I’ve heard before. She’s loud and unforgiving and raw, and I’m obsessed with it. Obviously harps are beautiful instruments, but seeing the way they come together… Maybe this is cheesy, but it feels kind of special.” I gesture to the kitchen. “Maybe it’s even a little like baking.”
“You’ll play for me sometime?” he asks.
“You’ve heard me play plenty.”
“Uh, excuse me, not on a lever harp.”
“Okay. I’ll play for you sometime. On the lever harp.”
As I tell him this, I wonder what it would entail, Tarek coming over to hear me play. It probably won’t happen, even if I don’t hate the way it looks in my imagination.
“You can be honest,” Tarek says as he finishes plating the zalabya. He’s prepared some with simple syrup, some with powdered sugar. “You won’t hurt my fragile male ego.”
I don’t tell him that his lack of a fragile male ego is one of my favorite things about him. I take a piece that’s been soaked in syrup, and—“Oh. Holy shit. Holy shit.”
“What?” he asks, sounding alarmed, taking a piece for himself and chewing slowly.
“It’s so fucking good,” I say, and he relaxes back onto the kitchen island barstool next to me, rolling his eyes.
“You’re the worst.”
“Thank you.”
“Not quite how my mom makes them,” he says, grabbing another one. “But you’re right. They’re pretty fucking good.”
Once we’ve polished them off, I check my phone. “Shit, it’s almost eight o’clock.”
“Your bedtime?”
“Hey, I’m allowed to stay up until eight thirty in the summer. I just didn’t realize we’d been here for this long.” The thing is, I don’t really want to go home yet. This has been nice. And maybe, evidenced by the fact that he hasn’t said anything to the contrary, Tarek feels the same way. “I guess I could head home. Unless…”
His whole face changes, his mouth slipping to one side. He has powdered sugar in his hair,
