I spend the rest of the day worrying about seeing Ms. McKinney again. She’s for sure not going to just forget that I ditched the end of her class, and it’s not like I can fake more stomach issues. I have to think of something else to say—some other reason she should skip me and move on to the next person on her alphabetical list.
But it all ends up being for nothing, because she’s not in Art of the Novel anyway. We have a sub—some guy in his early twenties, who spends most of the class ignoring us and typing on his laptop.
I was also worried that Nico would ignore me today, that he’d pretend our moment in the kitchen was nothing. Because, you know, to him it probably was. He caught me in his arms . . . and then he snuck off to go make out with his perfect and beautiful and definitely experienced girlfriend. One guess which of those interactions was more memorable.
But no, he makes a point of pulling up a beanbag right next to mine. And I mean right next to me, so close I can see his adorable scratchy handwriting in his Moleskine (though I make sure I hide my computer screen). We don’t really talk much, but the space between our legs is charged, like the pulse coming off an electric fence. And at one point, he readjusts his legs, and his jeans brush against my bare knee.
That little touch is enough to carry me home on a cloud, a whole gospel choir up there with me, hyping me up and singing hallelujah.
When Sam pulls onto our street, luckily Miles isn’t on the corner again, but my mom’s blue CR-V is in the driveway, which makes my stomach feel sick just the same. I don’t want to walk into whatever serious talk she has planned.
“Can I come over?” I blurt out as soon as we take our seat belts off.
He stares at me for a second, blinking too fast, and I’m worried that I’m going to get turned down.
“Of course, yeah. Come on down!” He does a cringe-worthy impersonation of a game-show host, pointing to his house. I laugh and gratefully follow him up the steps.
Sam’s house stands out on our block. Most houses are craftsman or Spanish style, like my own, but Sam’s house is a white Tudor with rounded windows and a dark, pointy roof. With its out-of-control rosebushes, cobblestone path, and round tower-looking thingy in the front, the house looks like it was pulled out of a fairy tale and plopped down on our street.
But the inside isn’t from another time. Sam unlocks the door and reveals a living room with bright teal walls and a gray couch filled with pillows in different shades of yellow, plus off-white lamps with beaded shades. There’s a marble-and-gold coffee table in front of it, stacked high with issues of Food & Wine and Bon Appétit, and the back wall is filled with pictures, like a gallery wall was started and then took on a mind of its own. There’s a good mix of art and family photos, Thiebaud’s Cakes next to a blown-up shot of little Sam missing his two front teeth.
“I was just planning on trying out this recipe, if that’s okay,” Sam says, throwing his backpack down on a shiny brass table on the side of the room. “Ever since I started Chrysalis, I’ve been flooded with ideas. There’s almost not enough time in the day to get through all of them. I’m sure it’s the same for you. You can write if you want to.”
“Oh yeah, a lot’s going on in there,” I say quickly. “But I’m just going to let them, uh, simmer for now.” Very convincing.
I turn back to the pictures, so I don’t have to make eye contact with him. In all the family pictures, it’s just him and his mom. The two of them standing in front of a brand-new restaurant, posing with Mickey at Disneyland, Sam in a chef’s hat with his mom proudly gazing behind him.
“So it’s only the two of you.”
“Mmm-hmm, I don’t have a dad.”
My neck burns. “I’m sorry.”
But he just laughs. “Oh, you don’t have to be sorry. I never had one. Well, I guess technically I did, but he was just some guy who donated, his, um . . . materials. Probably so he could pay for college or something. Mom had me on her own, but not in a sad kinda way. Just because she was getting older and didn’t want to wait around anymore.”
“Wow, she sounds awesome.”
“She is. And, uh, she’s not going to be home until late tonight. So it’ll just be me and you.” He does that fast blinking thing again and then quickly turns, almost knocking over one of the beaded lamps. “Whoops,” he mumbles, steadying it, and then speed-walks into the next room.
I follow close behind him. I don’t know why he’s acting so weird, but I guess I did just invite myself over to his house—maybe he wasn’t feeling like company. I know I have to prepare myself for social interaction sometimes.
The kitchen is obviously the creation of a chef—or two chefs, that is. There’s a double oven, two dishwashers, open shelving with jadeite bowls and plates on display and two KitchenAid stand mixers, one butter yellow and the other hot pink. Sam immediately seems at home when he walks into the room. He starts pulling mixing bowls and measuring cups out of the cabinets.
“Um, can I tell you something?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“I almost watched the video that you told us about on Friday like a million times this weekend.” It’s true. I had it queued up and everything, thinking it might make me feel better about my failure to write and the scene my family had caused in front of the neighbors. Misery loves company, or whatever. And also, I was just curious. Of course, I don’t tell Sam all that.
“You did?” His busy hands steady.
“Yeah, almost, but I felt like I was betraying you, you know? So I have a solution.”
“What’s that?” His eyes lock on mine.
“We should watch it together.”
He barks out a laugh. “Why would I ever want to do that?”
“Okay, hear me out. It might be good for you, you know? To face your fears and your biggest embarrassment. It might confirm for you how far you’ve come since then, right?”
“Also, you just really want to watch it?” he asks with a sly smile, his dimple showing.
“Also, I just really want to watch it.” I shrug and smile back at him, and he laughs again, the sound warm and comforting. That laugh makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something.
I pull out my laptop and slide it over to him, and he types in the keywords “weiner cries over cake” with surprising speed, like he’s done this a million times before. And then we’re watching little Sam stand in front of a panel of judges: two chefs I don’t recognize and a woman who played the older sister on a sitcom Miles and I used to watch.
Sam has a short, spiky haircut and particularly rosy cheeks, and he’s looking at them anxiously, waiting for their feedback on a three-tier chocolate cake sitting on a pedestal. And their feedback is brutal. The actress says the lavender in the cake tasted like her grandma, and one of the other judges attacks his natural instincts as a chef, choosing such “unfortunate flavor pairings.” You think they’d be nicer to a kid, but they rip him apart.
When they finally tell him he’s being sent home, little Sam’s face crumples. I want to reach into the screen and give him a hug. The video shifts into black and white then, with dramatic piano music playing in the background and dead leaves floating across the screen, and the crying gets louder, a female voice now.
“That’s when Rhys’s edits start,” Sam says, shutting my laptop.
“What a jerk,” I say, shaking my head. “And of course you cried! I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that. Those judges were mean to you.” I reach out and touch his arm, but when he startles, I pull back.
“They weren’t,” he says quickly. “They were right. I just didn’t know how to take feedback then.” He turns to the cabinets and continues getting out more supplies. “That cake had chocolate, lavender, five-spice, and pistachios. It was gross. I was trying to do too much, and they were honest with me like they should have been. I’m grateful for the experience. . . . You can’t learn without critique.”
I don’t know if I agree with that, as the possibility of critique is keeping me from even producing anything to be critiqued. But I nod anyway.
Happy with all the tools he has out, Sam turns to the fridge and the pantry and begins getting out his ingredients: heavy cream, sugar, eggs, a long bean-looking thing. I watch him as he measures everything, leaving ingredients in the measuring cups instead of immediately pouring them into a bowl. He meticulously cuts the bean and scrapes out a dark paste, making the whole room smell like vanilla. The whole time his face is calm, his movements steady. He is entirely in his element, and he looks . . . different.
“What are you making?”
“Ice cream.” He smiles proudly, and then his eyes cloud over. “Sorry, this must be really boring for you.”
“Not at all.”
“It’s just . . . I had this idea last week. I was looking at one of those travel magazines in the doctor’s office—you know the ones that no one actually reads? And there was this little blurb about something called ísbíltúr.”
The last word he says sounds like something out of The Lord of the Rings. “What?”
“Ísbíltúr. It’s, uh, this thing in Iceland. It means something like ‘ice cream road trip.’”
“I like the sound of that.”
He laughs. “Right? It’s this tradition, or something like that, where the family takes a long drive to get ice cream, and then when they get the ice cream, they take a long drive to enjoy it.” He’s talking fast, excited, and his hands continue to work, pouring ingredients into a saucepan. “So I was thinking it might be a good idea for a food truck. Or maybe even a restaurant? The sitting area could be these classic cars, but like with tables and chairs. And there could be videos of the open road projected on the walls. And we could serve all kinds of ice cream—sundaes and ice cream sandwiches and dipped cones.”
He looks up at me, suddenly self-conscious. “Anyway, I don’t know . . . it could be cool. And I’ve just been working on some ice cream flavors this week . . . just for fun.”
“I love it,” I say, and his deep dimple reappears.
“And oh, you gotta try this.” He runs to the fridge, reenergized, and pulls out a glass bowl with a cloth over it. He dips a spoon into the bowl and then puts it up to my mouth. He’s really close, so close I can feel the heat of his body and smell his signature butter-and-sugar scent, and I get this overwhelming urge to get even closer. But if I did, I would basically be under his arm, so I push that thought out of my brain and just taste whatever’s on the spoon.
“Mmmmmm,” I murmur, involuntarily. It’s delicious. “What is this . . . Lucky Charms?”
“Cereal milk.” He beams. “I’ve been steeping it all day. I just hope the flavor shows up after the custard has been frozen.”
I don’t know if it’s seeing him so passionate about his work—the way I used to be about my writing—or the way he’s allowed himself to be vulnerable with me by showing that video. Or it might even be because we’re standing so close together now. But it’s like something unlatches within my brain. I take a deep breath.
“Okay, I have a confession for you,” I say. “It actually isn’t the same for me. You know what you were talking about before?”
“What?” He’s blinking at me again.
My defenses shoot up. It felt safe in the moment to share this with Sam, but maybe I should take it back. Maybe this wasn’t the right move after all. But I’m filled with this overwhelming desire to get a baseline check from someone I trust. And I know I can trust Sam.
“I’m not, like, filled with ideas since I started Chrysalis,” I admit. “I actually haven’t written anything.”
He steps back from me, leaning against the counter. “At all?”
“No. Nothing at all, not since the first day. I’ve been completely blank.” It feels so strange to say it out loud, but it also releases something tight in my chest to have it out there with someone else.
He rubs the side of his face and nods his head, taking it in. I expected myself to feel embarrassed, but there’s nothing judgmental in his expression. “Why do you think that is?” he asks finally.
“Well, it started in my Art of the Novel class. . . .” Everything about that first day pours out easily. I tell him all about the workshop that happens every day at the end of class, how we’re all supposed to just share our writing and listen to others tear it apart. I tell him how I lied and ditched the end of class Friday.
“So you’re scared to share your work?”
“Terrified. It’s, like, my biggest fear.”
He looks surprised. “Really? Your biggest?”
“What—you don’t think that’s valid or something?”
“No, no, of course it is,” he says, putting his hands up. “I’m just surprised. I mean, most peoples’ biggest fears are . . . I don’t know, home invasions and, like, dolls that come alive or something.”
I laugh, and he looks satisfied with himself.
“And most people at Chrysalis go there because they want to share their work,” he continues. “Being an artist means other people consuming your art and, uh, having opinions about it. Not that you’re not an artist. I mean, of course you are. I’m just surprised, is all. So many of the people there are, like, knocking over each other to get a chance to be the center of attention.”
Maybe I’m not an artist, I want to say, but I just look down at the tiled floor.
“Okay, so what are you going to do to get your words back?” He’s giving me his full attention now, the cereal milk cast aside. “You know, when I am having a hard time thinking of new recipes, I go to restaurants, read cookbooks . . . I don’t know, anything to get inspiration.”
“I tried that already. I’ve read every story I could think of, but still . . . nothing.”
“Okay, well, why don’t you think about what your readers want? Some chefs do, like, special tastings to try out new menus and get feedback—oh, but I guess you’ve never had readers. . . .”
“I have readers!” I say defensively. “Or . . . a reader.”
“You do?”
“My best friend, Caroline, from back home. She reads everything I write—or, well, used to write. And actually, we kinda came up with a whole crazy plan to fix this. . . .”
“You did?” he says. “Well, why didn’t you lead with that? What’s the plan?”
I shrug, my cheeks turning pink. “I don’t really want to say just yet. You know, it might be bad luck before I’m a little further along.” And also, I have enough self-awareness to realize it’s the kind of ridiculous thing you can only talk about with your best friend. I trust Sam, but we’re not there yet.
He nods, as if that actually makes sense. “Of course. Well, the problem has been identified. You have a course of action. Seems like you’re on your way to writing again.”
I hope so. I just need to figure out what’s next.
Caroline, of course, has strong opinions.
“We need to strategize about number eight,” she says when we’re on the phone Thursday night, all business.
“Make him jealous?” I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think that’ll be happening. I don’t just have other guys hanging out, waiting to be part of a love triangle. That’s the whole point of this.”
“What about Sam?”
I almost fall off my bed.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Hey, if he’s up for it! You guys are friends, yeah? A love triangle really gets things moving—you could just fake it to make Nico feel some type of way. That’s a classic love story maneuver.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Who’s in charge here?” Caroline starts, ready to go off on a rant, but my mom knocks and opens my door. I hate when she does that. What’s the point of knocking if you’re just going to open it anyway?
“Hold on, Caroline.” I give my mom a look. “Do you need something?”
“I just wanted to see if you’re up for talking. It’s been almost a week. . . .”
She’s been trying to have a sit-down with me since Friday, and I’ve been avoiding it. I’m finally feeling okay, hopeful, and I don’t want to ruin my good mood.
“I’m busy.”
“Maybe you could call Caroline back?” she suggests, stepping into my room. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
“I really can’t. It’s important.”
Her face changes at that, matching my cold stare. “Okay.”
She closes my door, and I can hear her walking fast down the hall.
“You good?” Caroline asks.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, now hear me out. What if you, Sam, and Nico end up in the elevator together, and—”
“Caroline!” Before I can explain to her just how crazy that is, though, there’s another knock on my door. And then, softly, “Tessa?”
It’s my dad. He never opens the door without asking.
“Hey, I have to go.”
“All right, but text me later what action you plan to take tomorrow! It is essential you get one in before the weekend.”
“Um, okay.” And then, to Dad, “Come in.”
He opens the door hesitantly and only steps in when I nod for him to. He’s still wearing his work clothes: a striped polo and gray dress pants. He must have just gotten home, even though dinner was hours ago.
I used to get mad at Dad for working so late, always being on his phone, but I have to remind myself it’s for a good reason. He’s taking care of us—trying to give Miles and me the childhood he didn’t have. It’s the same with the move. I was so mad at first, but how can I stay mad at him for doing something good for our family? When it all shakes out, he puts us first. And he’s the bridge between Mom and me.
“Can we talk, baby girl?”
I sigh, knowing what’s coming. I gesture toward the spot next to me on my bed. “Yeah. What does she want you to tell me?”
He eases himself down next to me. I can feel the bed sink a little bit underneath his weight. My dad’s a big man. It’s the first thing you notice about him, all the muscle and height. He has to shop in a special section of the store.
I remember Mom told me once that when they first brought Miles home, he couldn’t cry—the main thing babies are supposed to do. Dad used to stay up with him all night, so Mom could get some sleep. And he watched his every breath, trying to make sure he was comfortable, or just alive, I guess. At first it surprised me, imagining my dad’s huge hands doing delicate, precise tasks like changing Miles’s feeding tubes or feeling for air under his tiny nose. But it actually sums him up pretty well: both strong and soft.
He takes my hands into one of his huge ones now.
“She feels bad for what she said to you on Friday,” he says, looking toward the door. His voice is honey, smooth and sweet—just like the crooners on those Motown albums he and Mom listen to when they’re cleaning Saturday mornings. His voice sands down some of my sharpness, as I realize with irritation that she’s probably out there listening.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. The situation was just . . . tense. We understand how you were probably feeling, that happening in our new neighborhood and all. And that’s okay—to feel that way.”
“Are you sure this is coming from her too?” I ask, giving him the side-eye.
“Y-yes,” he says, and we both know I don’t believe him. “Yes.” He tries again, more firmly this time. “Your mother knows you love your brother. She’s just constantly protecting him from people with not-so-good intentions and advocating for him at school. Sometimes I think that just boils over and pops off in the wrong direction. Does that make sense?”
“Usually in my direction,” I mumble to myself, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. That would be parent treason.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he repeats. “And your mom is sorry. She wants to tell you that if you’ll let her.”
I nod. “I’ll talk to her.” He gives me the side-eye now. “I will! For real!”
He leans forward and kisses the top of my head, his hands squeezing my cheeks. “We’ve actually been thinking about getting a respite worker to help with Miles . . . just a few hours throughout the week, to help your mother. She needs to get out more and build a life here too, outside of you two. And this way, there won’t be as much on your plate. I know we ask a lot of you, especially this summer, keeping an eye on him. . . .”
“No!”
He shoots me a look. I don’t know why that idea bothers me so much, but it puts me instinctively on the defensive, like how moms throw their right arms out over the passenger seat when they know they’re going to brake suddenly. It feels wrong to have anyone else helping with Miles. It’s my job. I’m his sister. And I love being with him—getting him breakfast in the morning, hanging out with him when Mom and Dad are out—even if it’s hard sometimes.
“I don’t mind,” I say quickly, quieter. “I like helping with Miles. Unless Mom doesn’t think I do a good job or something.”
“It’s not that at all, baby girl,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “You love your brother and always do right by him—we know that. We just want you to be able to enjoy your life too. Be a teenager, you know what I mean?” He pauses, considering that. “But not too much of a teenager.”
I laugh. “I can do both. My social life isn’t that busy.”
“Good,” he says, laughing too. “Well, good if you’re happy with that.”
“I am.”
“Then your old man is happy with that. I’m in no rush to have any boys up in here.”
If only he knew what Caroline and I were planning.
Dad stands up from my bed, the springs underneath loudly squeaking.
“And you’ll try to talk to your mom?” he asks, standing at the door. “You guys are on the same side here.”
“I will. I know.”
Because no matter how mad Mom and I get at each other, we have that fierce, unifying tie between us: our love for Miles. We always find our way back to each other for him.