Page 31 of Holding Out for a Gyro
“Because of your gravitational pull.”
She smacked my arm. “Groan. That’s so bad.” But she was smiling, so I considered it a score.
Evan shot me a withering look. “You didnotjust say that, bro.”
Then Elizabeth detonated a bomb by asking, “What did you study, Basil?”
Evan tried to save me. “Bas was a bit of a universal scholar.”
“What does that mean?” Chelsea cast a serious gaze over my face, and I sighed because there was no way around my disappointing past.
My college failures were indicative of everything I started with the best of intentions. I entered academia optimistically, studying everything I found interesting, but nothing clicked. I could still hear my parents lecturing me after I decided to drop out and pursue cooking:You weren’t supposed to quit school, Basil. You were just supposed to find a more lucrative major.
All that was too heavy for a picnic.
Evan knew me. My family knew me. But there was a reason I never shared this side of myself, especially not with women Ihoped to impress.
So I played it off like a positive quality. “I dabbled in everything. I wanted to study art in Paris and live like a bohemian. Silly, right?”
“No way!” She froze, a strawberry halfway to her lips. Lucky strawberry. “You studied art?”
“I know. Not very practical. I even declared a minor in art history.”
“No, I mean,Istudied art. I wonder if we were ever in the same classes.”
“Maybe. Though I never finished the program.”
“I barely made it through. Fat lot of good it did me.”
“Was that your major?” Elizabeth asked.
Moment of truth. “Um, no. I majored in French.”
Chelsea double blinked, as people do whenever I confessed how I wasted my parents’ money. But she said, “I’d love to be able to speak a foreign language. I keep starting various courses and never really learn any.” She winced as if she’d shared a venial sin. “One of the hazards of wanderlust. Are you fluent?”
The whole topic embarrassed me. “Depends how you define fluent. I spent some time in France, but I dropped out before I got my degree. I’d say I probably speak it better than most Americans, but it’s hardly a job qualification when there are actual French people with a skill set other than their ability to speak their native tongue. I might as well have just studied English.”
“Ouch,” Elizabeth said, and I recalled that she’d majored in English. “Shots fired.”
“No, I mean, the language. God. Sorry.”
“No offense taken. Seriously.”
I shrugged it off like it hadn’t been another example of my failure to commit. “Anyway, I decided to take some classes at a cooking school. Unlike a persuasive paper on the influence ofBalzac on modern American film, haute cuisine actually makes people happy. And puts food on the table. Literally.”
“I would actually read that paper, but you can’t eat a thesis.” Elizabeth snickered.
“Hey, what’s the American novelist’s favorite drink?” I asked her.
“Oh, shit.” She tapped her forehead for a second, like she’d heard this one before.
I put her out of her misery. “Tequila mockingbird.”
Three people groaned at once, and I grinned. My work here was done.
Chelsea reanimated the topic I wanted to let die. “I’m a little bit jealous of your life choices, Bas.”
That made me snort. “Please pass that on to my parents.”
