Page 9 of Holding Out for a Gyro
I shot a glance at Chelsea, and she gave me bigholy shiteyes, watching this scene unfold. “Holy shit. My bestie’s gonna get laid tonight,” she whispered.
I moseyed over beside her. “Plot twist. I didn’t have this on my to-do list today.”
“Oh, I did.” She laughed. “Literally.”
“Sure,” I scoffed. “Friday night: be the sidekick to my bestfriend’s meet-cute.”
She cackled. “I’m serious. It’s why I was being so full-on TMI before.”
My eyes narrowed as I parsed her words. “I don’t understand.”
“One sec.” She unlocked her phone and scrolled to a page. “My to-do list. See, we had these two items to check off. And look: you’re right here.”
As I watched, she marked a littleCnext toHave a deep, authentic conversation with a total stranger.
Should I feel offended? “Oh, so I’m a notch in your bedpost?”
Did I imagine her sharp inhale before saying, “Yes to the notch. No to the bedpost.” She put her phone away. “I mean, sometimes I get lucky and meet a random stranger who fits the bill.”
I grinned. “I’ve never been called random before.”
“Would you prefer predestined?”
“Actually”—I waggled my eyebrows—“the Greeks love the idea of destiny. The Fates.”
“Say no more.” She laughed, and I could’ve kicked myself for making stupid jokes to hide my nerves.
On the other side of the mall, Evan and Elizabeth leaned toward each other under a wan streetlight. Elizabeth looked like she wanted to eat Evan alive. I’d seen that naked lust from nearly every woman in every bar we’d hit tonight, even though Evan had unsuccessfully tried to mitigate his appearance with a pair of dorky glasses. He sometimes paid a price for his devastating good looks. He wasn’t always eager for the interest he got, and he ended up in more shallow relationships than were good for his mental health. It was nice to see him getting the kind of attention he craved, for the right reasons.
Evan lifted a hand to Elizabeth’s cheek, drinking her in with Mr. Darcy levels of longing. It was so intimate, and I couldn’t help glance over at Chelsea, at those lips, wondering how to orchestrate a good-night kiss of my own.
Chelsea called over, “Text me when you get home, Elizabeth.”
“Yes, Mom.” Elizabeth hooked her arm into Evan’s crooked elbow, and the pair headed away from us, toward a side street.
Chelsea shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t trust your friend, but this is how an episode of some show on ID Discovery starts out.”
My heart sank. Her wise fear of strangers snuffed the fantasy I’d been stoking to extend the evening with her. Not that I expected anything, obviously. But then Chelsea glanced my way and asked, “You going with me or them?”
Was this an opening to make a move?
“You,” I answered. No hesitation. I could at least walk her to her car, maybe get her number. Maybe get a ride home. Maybe more…
With the cobblestone lit only by moonlight and the sporadic streetlights, Chelsea strolled beside me, quiet at first, like we’d become strangers again, but as she veered onto a side street toward Water Street, she said, “Ihave been deep and authentic. It’s your turn. Tell me why you became a chef.”
“I just love to cook,” I said. Authentic—but barely scratching the surface. Whenever I let my honest passions shine, people usually looked at me like I was the leader of a newly emerging cult.
Her elbow bumped mine. “Nuh-uh. You owe me more than that. I’m your greatest fan. I’d like to know.”
The promise that her curiosity wasn’t idle gave me a jolt of pride, a desire to expose this vulnerable side of myself, so I started talking, watching her for signs of cringing.
“When I first mastered macarons, I knew I’d found my calling. It’s fun to experiment and discover new ways to prepare food, but it’s a means to an end. At the back of my mind, I’m always picturing someone I can feed. It makes me happy to watch someone enjoy what I’ve created. The beauty of food is I canrepeat that performance again and again.”
“That’s so hot.” She slid her hand around my elbow. “I love macarons.”
Without meaning to, she’d forced me to recognize the true reason I’d been so irritated earlier. Standing in a back kitchen day after day, without a real person to share my cooking with, I was dying a death by a million cuts. No wonder the work had become a chore. I’d had no idea who I was feeding. Until tonight.
“Let me ask you something,” I said, and her smile melted. It reminded me her honesty was the result of some bucket list. Maybe she normally hid behind walls.
