Eating is so intimate. It's very sensual. When you invite someone to sit at your table and you want to cook for them, you're inviting a person into your life. –Maya Angelou
Scarlett
It’s almost a superpower—the ability to experience everything that can go wrong in the shortest amount of time possible.
The train wasn’t on time because of signal delays—which is something that happens all the time. I should have left earlier and been more prepared, but I wasn’t because I was too busy daydreaming about Guy’s mouth and hands and tongue and body parts in general.
The wedding is at the Bay Room in the Financial District—an imposing building named The Liberty Skyscraper. The room itself is on the 60th floor, and its full name is actually, “The Bay Room at Manhatta”, with no N, like it’s too pretentious to carry the extra letter.
It took me forever to get up to the 60th floor and then I had to fight with an attendant to get in because he didn’t think I belonged. I’m wearing one of my nicest dresses, a deep purple with a square neckline and flared skirt. He’s not wrong, exactly, but I couldn’t bail because my appearance is more Bridge and Tunnel than Upper East Side. Finally, the wedding planner saw me and yelled at the attendant and hustled me back to the kitchen.
Except I couldn’t find the cupcakes. At first, I thought Guy had totally duped me and didn’t have them delivered, but then why go through all the trouble of helping me make them if he was going to con me? And then one of the kitchen staff remembered seeing them earlier that morning. Finally, we found them, stuffed into the back of a giant walk in fridge. But by then, I was running out of time.
I’m flustered. Panicking. I can’t even get the cakes onto the tiered stand because I’m rushing too much, and I’ve dropped three already. Presentation is just as important as taste. This has to be perfect.
I’m in the corner of the kitchen while the catering staff bustles around behind me, yelling and talking and clanking dishes.
I can do this.
“You have ten minutes,” the wedding planner says as she rushes past me, holding a giant arrangement of calla lilies.
“I’m on it.” I take a few deep breaths. I can do this.
I place the mini cakes steadily and carefully, and then there’s a voice behind me.
“Scarlett, darling, that color is fabulous on you.”
I spin around and Carson is there, air kissing me on both cheeks. “I could eat you like one of your cupcakes.”
I grip his upper arms and scan him like he’s an apparition. “Carson? What are you doing here?”
It’s like he, poof, magically appeared in front of me in a suit. Like a fairy godmother, except with a mustache.
“A little birdie told me you might need some help. Except, it wasn’t a bird, it was a cantankerous chef who is clearly smitten with you.”
My face heats. He doesn’t know about the make-out session. Sessions. Plural. He can’t. Guy wouldn’t tell him.
“He is not smitten with me.”
“Okay, you keep telling yourself that, princess. But he let you use a new kitchen. It might as well be a declaration of his intentions. He sent me and I’m being paid, so tell me how I can help?”
I’m too happy he’s here to spend any time complaining, so I show him the cakes, the tiers, and the decorations I brought, little Beatle bobbleheads, mini guitar figurines, a yellow submarine, British style telephone booth, and mini British flags.
Carson is efficient and bright, setting the adornments around the cakes strategically and making suggestions as we place the decorative items so it’s quirky and cute instead of completely haphazard.
My fingers place the mini cupcakes on the tiers, but my mind is spinning.
He did this. He sent Carson because he wanted to help but didn’t want to disrespect my wish to keep our distance. And like the contradictory fool I am, suddenly I want to see him. Stupidly, I wish he had ignored my request and come instead of Carson, but then that would make him a pushy jerk and I wouldn’t be wanting to see him, most likely. How dare he.
We have a majority of the cakes set up lickety-split and I finally take a breath.
Carson helps me roll the table out to the reception area and lock the wheels and then we can leave. I always make extra, just in case there’s any mishaps, so I give Carson a box to take home. I still have a dozen in one of my transportable containers.
Normally, I love staying to watch the bride and groom interact on their wedding day. It gives me hope that someday I might find something real, but tonight Carson and I head back down to the ground floor in the elevator together.
“What are you up to now?” I ask him.
“Meeting my boyfriend for dinner. You want to come?”
“No, it’s fine.” The thirdest of all wheels. That’s me.
“Where are you headed? Maybe we could share a cab?” he offers.
“Maybe . . .” But I don’t want to go home. My stomach is stirring with something. Butterflies. I shouldn’t, but it’s like I can’t help it. Need swirls through me. Need to see him. I clench the cupcake container in my hands. And I have the perfect excuse for stopping by. “Do you know where Guy is right now?” I ask.
Carson quirks a brow at me. “At home, probably.”
“Will you give me his address?”
His mouth opens in mock horror. “How dare you! I would never betray him in such a fashion and tell you his apartment is on 81st street in the Upper East Side. And he totally does not go to the pool this time of night with his sisters. And if he’s not there he will not be in apartment number 1070. And I will not go in with you so the concierge lets you in since he knows me and owes me a personal favor for making sure Guy tips extra every Christmas.”
“Thanks Carson, I won’t tell him you didn’t tell me. Or something.”
“Something tells me he’s going to be happy I didn’t,” he says with a smirk.
Guy’s apartment building is exactly what I would choose, if I had the funds to do so. It’s in one of the best neighborhoods, with great security and a concierge in the front lobby. It’s one of those places with multiple room accommodations, and yes, even a pool on the ground floor—a not insignificant feat in a city where it’s hard to even find a parking spot for a Fiat.
After we check in with the concierge, I follow Carson to the pool room, but before we go in, he stops outside the steamy doors. The sound of splashing and laughter trickle out into the hall. “He’s in there with his sisters.”
“You’re not coming in with me?”
“I don’t think he’ll want to see me.”
“But he’ll want me here?” My voice squeaks out.
Carson nods. “And I gotta meet Mark in,” he glances at his watch, “ten minutes.”
“You don’t think he’ll be mad?” This seemed like such a good idea until I saw the building but now the urge to run is flipping through me like a gymnast doing cartwheels in my belly.
Carson shrugs, unconcerned. “I doubt it. If he asks, though, I was never here.” He hugs me quickly and then runs away.
Damn him.
I’m so tempted to leave, but equally tempted to see him and…what? Make out with him? Or just thank him. I glance down at the plastic container in my hand. I’ve got it. If it’s weird, I will give him and his sisters some cakes and leave. I can manage that.
Bolstered, I straighten my shoulders and push into the chlorine-scented room.
The room is warm and steamy and huge. Scattered strategically around the sides are palm fronds, and around the pool, loungers, chairs, and tables. Brightness glows overhead, some kind of built-in lighting that mimics actual sunlight.
Then I focus on the people in the room.
Guy is sitting on the edge, his feet in the water. Two dark heads bob in the center of the pool. They appear to be about the same size, but one is wearing blow up arm bands and has a pink flamingo circular floating device around her waist.
“You have ten more minutes,” Guy calls out.
“Fifteen,” a young voice calls back.
“Eight.”
“That’s not fair!”
The girl in the flamingo inflatable splashes at Guy, then proceeds to laugh loudly when the spray hits him.
“Seven,” he says, but there’s laughter in his voice, too.
He’s relaxed and happy and the banter between them makes my heart twist in my chest. It’s one thing to hear he’s raising his sisters; to witness it in person adds a whole new layer of awareness to the situation. This man is not what he presents to the rest of the world. Not at all.
The girl in the pool spins and kicks herself away, and the other girl, the one without any inflatables, turns and sees me.
“That’s a pretty dress,” she says.
“Thanks.” I glance down and then up in time to see Guy twisting to see me.
“Scarlett.” His eyes are bright in the artificial lights. “What are you doing here?” His words are clipped with surprise.
“I, uh, wanted to bring you these.” I hold up the cupcake container. “As a little thank you. But I don’t mean to interrupt. I’ll leave them here and—”
“Are those for us?” His sister asks. She’s holding on to the side of the pool, watching me with clear interest. The other girl in the pink tube tries to clutch at the side, too, but her inflatable keeps getting in the way and water splashes over the side. She bounces more, spilling more water outside the pool and laughing with glee.
“Yes, if your, uh, brother says it’s okay.” I set them on a nearby table and wave awkwardly. “I’ll be going then.”
“Wait.” His voice stops me.
“We were about to go up to eat dinner. Would you like to join us?”
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. He’s inviting me to dinner? With his sisters?
The disbelief momentarily stole my tongue, and suddenly he’s the one rambling. “It’s okay if you have other plans, I thought since you’re here already and you brought dessert and—”
“Yes.” I cut him off with a short bark of a reply and then collect myself. “Yes, I would love to stay for dinner, thank you for the invitation.”
“Do you want to come swimming?” One of his sisters asks me.
“I’m afraid I’m rather unprepared, but maybe some other time,” I say.
Her head tilts. “You can put your feet in, if you want.”
My gaze locks with Guy’s. He pats the concrete next to him and I nod, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. I take off my heels and leave them next to the table where I put the cupcakes. Then I walk over to Guy and sit down a foot away from him, slipping my feet into the lukewarm water.
“What’s your name?” his sister asks, still clutching the side of the pool.
Guy speaks before I can respond. “Sorry, I should have introduced you. These are my sisters, Ava and Emma.” He points out Ava, the talker, and Emma, the one in the pink flamingo tube, bouncing up and down slightly and making the water wave. “Girls, this is Scarlett. She’s, uh . . .”
“We’re friends.” I help him out so he doesn’t feel obligated to try and explain our relationship to his sisters. “I’m a chef, too.”
“Do you make fancy food like Guy does?” Ava asks.
“Not quite.”
“Well, that’s good because his food is gross. Hey, maybe she should make us dinner.”
I laugh. Only a kid would think a Michelin-rated chef makes “gross” food.
“You think mac and cheese from a box with fake cheddar is better than my gruyere and poblano white cheddar mac and cheese.”
She wrinkles her nose. “It even sounds disgusting.”
Emma laughs the sound both rough and uninhibited, and then she splashes jerkily at her sister. “Okay, okay, I’m coming. She likes it when I pull her,” Ava tells me as she sweeps her away and they swim down the side of the pool.
“How long have they lived with you?” I ask Guy.
“Since before our dad died…. It’s been about five years now. They’re twins.”
“How old are they?”
“They turned thirteen last month.”
Water splatters across my face and down the front of my dress and I squeak in surprise.
“She’s really sorry,” Ava rushes to explain. “She likes you but she can’t say it any other way.”
“It’s fine.” I laugh and wipe some water off my face with my hand. “It’s just water.”
Guy and Ava are watching me intently, like they expect me to freak out or something, and it makes me giggle a little nervously. “Really, it’s fine. You just wanted me to get the full experience of the pool, right?” I say to Emma. She doesn’t meet my eyes, instead watching her hands flap in the water.
Ava smiles at me, a small tilt of lips, and then pulls Emma away to the other side of the pool.
“Emma has Angelman Syndrome,” Guy says.
“What does that mean?”
He rubs the back of his head. “In scientific terms, it’s a chromosomal disorder. Deletion or defect on chromosome 15. It’s pretty rare. The range of how people are affected by it varies by subtype. Emma has no maternal 15. She can’t speak, but she does understand what we’re saying. She communicates mostly through gestures, and things like facial movements. She has an iPad she really likes, and she texts me a lot. Mostly emojis and pictures. She’s been getting into videos lately, too.”
I nod. Not really sure how to react, or even how much I can understand. Sorry doesn’t seem right, there’s nothing wrong with Emma.
“Why did you…why did you really come here?” he asks.
“I wanted to tell you thank you, for sending Carson.”
“You could have told me tomorrow.”
“I…I have no real excuse.” I go for brutal honesty. “I know what I said before about how we should keep our distance but…I wanted to see you.”
Eyes lock. My heart is pounding. What am I doing? This is crazy. And stupid. We both decided this was a bad idea. He’s still going to try and make me move, and I’m still going to fight him tooth and nail. So why am I here? What am I expecting this to lead to? Except heart break for me. And yet, we keep having these sorts of magical moments together, and I’m not just referring to the sexual variety.
“I told your sister I am your friend. Maybe that could be the truth.” I stare at my toes in the water, watching the rippling waves so I don’t have to meet his eyes.
“No,” he says.
“No?” My heart is sinking. This was a bad idea. This isn’t a magical moment.
“I’m not sure I could ever be just friends with you.”
My sinking heart lifts and stutters into a double time beat. “What—?”
“We’re hungry,” Ava calls from the other side of the pool. Emma is clutching her hand as they exit via the steps on the other side.
Guy jumps up and walks briskly to the girls, helping Emma out of her floatation devices and handing out towels, wrapping one around Emma’s shoulders.
Watching him interact with them is like examining an alien species. He’s still the same serious, intense, completely focused on their needs, but there’s an underlying level of care.
His focus shifts and his eyes meet mine from across the pool.
“Dinner and cupcakes?”
I pull my legs out of the water. “I’m in.”