Page 5 of That's Not a Thing

“Baking.” He paused in his calculated actions to correct me and then added, “If you’d prefer to watch and learn, I suppose that’s okay, too.”

Before I could formulate a response, Wesley had arranged multiple metal bowls on the counter and was pouring out various dry ingredients with surprising speed. He opened a refrigerator under the countertop, removed two cartons of eggs, and began cracking one after another into an empty bowl.

“This,” he informed me, gesturing toward the bowl of eggs, “will soon be transformed into our famous deluxe s’mores cookies. Since you’ve made clear your preference to remain uninvolved in the creation of this hallowed masterpiece, how about you play DJ?” He motioned with his head toward a small computer screen embedded in the wall.

“Wait, what if someone comes in to buy cookies? No one’s up front.”

“There’s a bell.” He grabbed for a bag of mini-marshmallows on the shelf beside him. “Also, there’s not much traffic in here on Tuesday nights. We’ll get a few walk-ins, but most of the orders are for delivery, placed through the website. The delivery guy comes and goes. That’s his gig. Mine is the baking.”

I walked over to the computerized screen and started pressing buttons, trying to figure out the interface. I found the tab for playlists and saw that there were several different lists, each titled with a person’s name. Ingrid’s name appeared at the top. I continued scrolling until I found the tab labeled “Wes” and tapped it with my fingertip. Music started playing through speakers clipped to the back wall, and I recognized some old-school Guns N’ Roses song.

“For real?” I looked over at him and shook my head in disappointment. “1980s heavy metal? My hopes for you were so much higher.”

“You can keep scrolling. My tastes are eclectic,” he said, as he continued moving around the kitchen.

“Aha!” I declared as my eyes finally landed on a song I could enjoy. I pressed play, and Dusty Springfield’s “Son of a Preacher Man” began to float out from the speakers.

A few years earlier, when my dad still seemed to enjoy my company, he’d introduced me to this song on one of our Sunday-morning drives and it had instantly become one of my favorites. Hearing the notes again now, on this random, surreal, electric night I was having, it did something to me, made me suddenly audacious.

“Wesley ...” I played with his name, rolling it around on my tongue as I considered it aloud. I started swaying along with the music, grooving my way around the room, briefly examining various knobs and levers that I passed. “Wesley ...” I repeated, feeling the air slide across my tongue as I drew out the word. I kept dancing around the counters, picking up a wooden spoon as an undetermined prop along the way. Maybe the apron made him less threatening, or maybe I was getting high on dextrose fumes, but suddenly I felt much more comfortable being me.

“Where’d you come from, Wesley Latner? Where’s home?” I asked over the music as I danced toward him, holding the wooden spoon out to him like it was a microphone and I was a television reporter.

He played along, leaning forward to speak into the mic. “New York, born and raised,” he answered, a quick nod of his head proving his local pride. “Not the city, though,” he conceded, as he turned and absently attached the bowl he was holding to an electric mixer. “A stuffy suburb about an hour north.”

He switched on the mixer, the sound drowning out too much of the song. I marched back to the touchscreen and raised the volume to the max. Between the mixer and the music, it was now too loud to hear much else, so we both stopped talking. I kept on grooving to the music, my movements growing progressively more outlandish with each step. All the while, Wesley was pouring and measuring ingredients like he’d done it a thousand times before. Eventually, he flipped a switch, silencing the mixer. He crossed his arms against his chest and stopped with the food prep, just watching me as I continued to sashay around the room.

I bopped around the large rectangular island, swinging the wooden spoon like I was an orchestra conductor, shimmying my shoulders to the left for a few beats, then to the right, a faux-diva expression on my face. My movements were definitely more goofy than sexy. As the song neared its end, I was still dancing my way closer to where Wesley was standing. I realized I’d better quit it, or he might see this as a botched seduction attempt by me, which was not what I was intending. I stopped, midbop, while I was only a foot away from him, suddenly at a loss. The last notes of the song faded into the ether, and the room was instantly too quiet.

I looked up at him, ready to make some sort of joke, but the way he was staring back down at me stunned me into silence, pushing the breath out of me. His crystalline green eyes were darker now, and he studied me with an inscrutable expression. Suddenly my whole body was hot, alert.

“What?” I finally asked.

“You,” he answered.

Chapter Three

January 2017

Lana is the first one to break the silence.

“Well, Wesley Latner, as I live and breathe.” She stands to give him an airy kiss hello, composed and pretentious all at once.

“Quintessential Lana,” Aaron comments, his voice laced with fond amusement, “knowing everyone who’s anyone.”

Lana looks from Wesley back to Aaron, clearly unsure how to answer. It’s one of the few times in my life I’ve seen my cousin speechless, and Aaron doesn’t miss the peculiarity of the moment. He glances over at my face, which must be as white as the sheets draping the walls. Or totally green. Really, who can say?

“What ... ?” he asks, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks from me to Lana to Wesley, then back at me again. “Is this ... Wait, is thisyourWesley?”

He asks like Wesley isn’t there, like I’m the only one who can hear him.

My Wesley. I nod. I can feel Wesley everywhere as he waits, now mute, at the head of our table. Feelings I haven’t experienced in years. An internal tilting, a shifting of my inner equilibrium. I’m on fire again, in a way that is exquisite torture, unlike anything I have ever felt toward Aaron. And then I have the horrible thought that maybe I cannot move forward with Aaron. Not when simply seeing Wesley in his chef’s attire, hearing his familiar voice, evokes this visceral, debilitating physical response inside me.

“I had no idea this was your restaurant,” Lana picks up with false perkiness again, trying to quash the intense awkwardness of this moment—an impossible feat, given the circumstances, but kudos to her for trying. Even she must realize that there is no reason to ask about hosting my wedding here, now that a more absurd idea couldn’t possibly exist.

“Hi, Wes,” I finally contribute to the conversation. I stand and walk behind Aaron’s chair to offer my ex-fiancé a stilted kiss hello. As my cheek grazes his in formality, I feel my knees nearly give out, and I am grateful to have the chair beside me—Aaron’s chair—for support. Wesley still smells the same. Like olive oil and forests, clean and spicy. Forbidden.

I want to topple over from the pain, the relief, of seeing him again.