One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. –Virginia Woolf
Guy
Fred’s parents live in a brownstone in Park Slope. We’re greeted in the entryway by Fred’s mother, Helen, who takes our coats and hangs them on an antique wood coat rack in the corner.
“Scarlett, it’s so nice to see you again.” She kisses Scarlett on the cheek and then steps over to give me a quick hug.
I’m not quite prepared for the affectionate gesture. We just met for the first time earlier this afternoon. I’m lifting a hand to pat her on the back when she steps away and I almost snag a finger on the turquoise jewelry dangling from her ear.
“Larry, the kids are back,” she calls out.
He yells something unintelligible.
“He’s in the study reading the news and making himself upset.” She rolls her eyes and steps back. “Come on in. Dinner is almost ready, and you will love it. It’s my famous vegan chili.”
Fred groans and walks past her into the kitchen. “Mom, it’s only famous because of how much no one ever wants to eat it.”
“It’s very healthy and I put some quinoa in it this time so I think it will be better.”
“Nothing can make it better.”
Fred and her mother disappear into the kitchen, Scarlett and I trailing behind them. “I just love coming over here. They are as funny as all get out. I wish they were my parents.”
I don’t have a chance to talk to her more because Larry, Fred’s dad, comes into the kitchen to greet us.
“Welcome back. I’m glad you guys could make it.” He shakes my hand and hugs Scarlett before standing next to his daughter where she’s leaning against the counter. “You got everything from that jackhole’s apartment?”
“Yes, Dad.” Fred sighs.
Her dad, I discovered earlier, works at Columbia University and he fits the image of exactly what I would expect of a tenured professor. Tall and lean, with salt-and-pepper hair, wire rimmed glasses that are fighting with bushy grey eyebrows, and a tweed jacket.
“Were you reading about politics again?” Helen asks him.
“Actually, I was reading about FRBs that are repeating in a consistent pattern.”
“FRBs?” Scarlett asks.
Larry launches into a discussion about fast radio bursts, millisecond-long bursts of radio waves from space, and how normally when they repeat it’s in a cluster or sporadic, but for over a year the same pattern has been recurring every 16.35 days.
“Sounds like aliens,” Fred declares as soon as he’s done explaining the finding.
“Don’t make me hurt you.” He points at her in a serious tone and Fred bursts out laughing.
“Come eat dinner, and no arguing about aliens over my famous chili.” Helen ushers us into the dining room.
We sit around the comfortably appointed dining room, where the walls are a cheery yellow and the table is a chunky, dark wood. The discussion continues while Helen dumps chili into each of our bowls. Larry explains to the rest of us about neutron stars and what an OB-type star binary system is and how they are the likely culprit for the radio wave signals.
It doesn’t stop Fred from teasing him about aliens while Helen laughs loudly.
“Did you want some cheese for your chili?” Helen asks me.
“Don’t do it,” Fred groans. “It’s not real cheese.”
“It’s plant-based. I make it with oat and spices.” Helen’s smile is sunny and innocent.
“It tastes nothing like cheese,” Fred grumbles.
“Well, it’s not supposed to.”
“Then why do you call it cheese?”
“Oh, you know, just for fun.” Helen laughs again at Fred’s disgusted expression. “Oh, stop being cranky. I know you’re upset about Jack, but honey, you dodged a bullet.”
“That boy was a self-absorbed jackhole,” Larry mutters.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Fred stirs her chili and staring down into it like it can erase the conversation.
“Fine,” Larry says, then he turns to me. “So, Guy. What do you do?”
“Dad!” Fred gapes at him.
He lifts his bushy brows in confusion. “What?”
“This is Guy Chapman.” Fred lifts an open palm in his direction, like she’s Vanna White and I’m a row of lighted letters.
Larry stares at Fred for a second and then flicks his gaze to me, and then back at Fred, expression blank. “Am I supposed to know something here?”
I can’t help but smile at all of them. In the restaurant business and maybe among reality show viewers, people know who I am. But to everyone else, I’m nobody, and I’m okay with that. I’m actually very relieved. “You aren’t supposed to know anything,” I tell Larry.
But Fred is undeterred. “He’s a chef,” she explains.
“Oh, okay. That’s nice, son,” Larry smiles at me encouragingly.
Scarlett strangles back laughter.
“Oh, that’s just wonderful. Scarlett is a great chef, too.” Helen clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m so glad true professionals can try my chili.” She gives Fred a pointed look. “I’m sure it’s going to be good this time.”
It isn’t, but I eat it anyway. “It’s very…interesting. The flavors are unique.”
I can’t tell her the full, unadulterated truth. She’s beaming at me and I can’t hijack her happiness.
“See, I told you it was good. Scarlett, what do you think?”
Scarlett takes a delicate bite and nods solemnly. “I can honestly say I’ve never had anything quite like it.”
Fred snorts. “Mom, they both agree it stinks, they’re just saying it in a nice way.”
“You’ve had a rough couple of days, so I won’t give any credence to your words,” she says primly.
After dinner, Helen insists we spend time with Fred while she handles the clean-up.
So, after arguing about clean-up for longer than necessary because of Scarlett’s inherent sense of southern politeness, we go down to the basement. It’s the only place in the whole brownstone with a TV, Fred tells us as we’re stomping down the narrow stairs.
We descend into what could be a living room straight out of 1977. It’s all fall tones, an old loveseat with orange flowers, wood paneled walls, a worn leather recliner and the most ancient TV I’ve ever seen.
“I wish your parents were my parents,” Scarlett says to Fred.
“You can have them.”
There’s a bookshelf next to the TV, stocked with VHS tapes. Fred grabs one and puts it in. Then she throws herself into the recliner.
Scarlett and I sit on the loveseat. The space is small, and our thighs are only a few inches apart.
“What are we watching?” Scarlett asks as the opening credits come up on the screen.
“Teen Witch. It’s a wonderfully terrible movie which perfectly fits my current mood.”
Then Fred’s mom calls her name, which she ignores until she’s yelled three times and then finally Fred groans and pulls herself upstairs and we are left alone.
Scarlett adjusts slightly on the sofa, and our thighs touch. I tense, waiting for her to pull back, but she doesn’t.
I glance around. “I didn’t know places like this existed.”
“Rooms that feel like you’re back in time?”
I shake my head and give in to temptation to reach out and brush her hair back from her face where a deep red strand has fallen over her cheek. “Intact families that talk and eat dinner together every night and take care of each other.”
“You have that.”
My thumb traces a circle over the smooth skin on the side of her neck. “I don’t have a partner, though. It’s just me and the girls.”
“I can relate. But there’s still hope, it’s just that some of us have to make our own families.”
I search her dark eyes. “That’s true.”
Her head ducks briefly and then she looks at me from under her lashes. “Thank you for everything today. I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I.”
“Why did you help Fred?” Her face tilts to the side.
I hesitate, not anticipating the question and needing a moment to examine my motivations. “She was upset…and you were upset.” It’s the truth, but admitting it isn’t easy. But still, I forge ahead even though a little voice inside is yelling Stop now, danger ahead! “And I guess…I just wanted to make you happy.”
Her lips pop open in surprise.
I’m a little shocked, too. What am I doing? I don’t bend over backward to help people in general, let alone those who are standing in the way of my goals. My life has always been about work—that’s all that matters. It’s what I can control. I don’t bend to other people’s needs—unless it’s my sisters—and I definitely don’t admit to weakness.
Oliver called me today, once again pushing for me to make some kind of move to get Scarlett out of the picture, and instead, I helped her employee move. What is wrong with me?
When did someone else’s happiness begin to tangle with mine until I couldn’t establish the difference?
She leans into me, closer.
My breath catches in my throat.
“Scarlett!” Fred’s voice shrieky and closer than I anticipated.
We jerk away from each other, creating rapid distance like two recalcitrant teenagers caught by their parents.
“I brought down some wine.” She plops down between us, setting the bottle on the coffee table. The seat is too small, and she doesn’t quite fit, but she doesn’t care.
“It’s half empty,” Scarlett points out.
“I had some. Mom made me.” She hiccups. “She’s a bad influence in addition to being a terrible cook. What were you guys doing?”
“Nothing.” We both answer too quickly.
She sighs and leans her head on the back of the couch. “I can’t believe Guy Chapman ate my mom’s chili. It’s the worst thing anyone can think of. It’s like showing my kindergarten finger painting to Picasso and expecting him to think it’s fine art.”
“It wasn’t bad,” I say.
“It was,” Scarlett says.
We smile over Fred’s head.
We stay and watch the movie for a little bit, and it’s probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen while simultaneously entertaining, but it doesn’t take long before the wine catches up to Fred. The movie isn’t even half over before she’s leaned against Scarlett’s shoulder, snoring like a champ.
We carefully extricate ourselves from around her, taking more care than necessary considering she keeps snoring throughout the whole ordeal.
Once we’re free, I find a blanket in a chest in the corner and we settle it over her then shut off the TV and silently move up the stairs.
The upper floor is quiet and dark except for a small lamp in the entry, lighting our way. We grab our coats from the coatrack in the entry but before we can escape, Fred’s mom appears from a side doorway.
“I put together some leftovers for you guys to take home with you.” She hands us a couple of disposable containers.
“That’s mighty kind, thank you.” Scarlett smiles and takes them both.
Helen glances between the two of us. “Thank you both so much for spending time with Fred. She needs the distraction. Jack was her first everything and she hurts even more than she lets on. She didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. Always had her head stuck in a book, living in a fantasy, and we might have encouraged her too much in that regard. Maybe we should have pushed her to be more social.”
“Fred is a delight,” Scarlett assures her.
Helen nods. “Yes, she is, but her outwardly gregarious personality is a bit of a show. She wants to make friends, but she’s always struggled with finding her place and what she wants in life.”
“I love Fred. I will always be here for her,” Scarlett says.
“She loves you too, and it doesn’t come to her easy. When she gives, she’s all in. Unfortunately, she gave it all and Jack didn’t know what a precious gift he had.”
“Clearly,” I mutter.
We finally say goodbye and exit the brownstone onto the dark and quiet street.
“I can take you home,” I tell Scarlett as we walk down the sidewalk toward my car.
“Thank you.”
The ride to her apartment in Washington Heights is silent, but comfortable. When I pull up outside her building, Scarlett turns to me.
“Did you want to come up?”
More than anything.
“I can’t. I have to get home to the girls.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry.”
She glances out the window and then back at me. “Thanks for the ride,” she says. And before I can lean over the console or say anything else, she disappears out the door.
A few days pass and I don’t see Scarlett at all. We text, but that’s it.
She’s busy cooking for events, because even though it’s almost Christmas, the holiday isn’t slowing down her catering business. Decadence is as busy as ever and renovations are nearly completed for Savor, so we’ve started taking reservations there as well—even through the holiday season.
Ava asks me where Scarlett is and if she’s coming over again, and I don’t know what to tell her.
“I like her,” Ava says.
“Me, too,” is the only response I have.
Two days pass like this, two days that feel like thirty. But finally, on Wednesday, Carson comes in from lunch with a familiar pink container.
I stand in the doorway and watch him place the box at the corner of his desk.
“Is that from Scarlett’s?”
“Yeah.” He and shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the back of his chair, unconcerned.
“She’s there?”
He stops and lifts his brows at my tone. “Um. Yes.”
I glance in the direction of the front door, like I can sense her through the kitchen and walls and everything else between us.
Then I turn back into my office and pick up my phone. We haven’t talked since the night at Fred’s, only texted updates about what we were up to at random intervals. Mostly impersonal, but friendly. Like we’re friends. My jaw clenches. We can’t be friends. We’re rivals. Aren’t we? I still need to figure out what to do with our competing interests. But my mind shies away from any of that to focus on…why hasn’t she texted to tell me she’s here?
“Is she busy?” I call out to Carson.
“Yes. They’re always busy. Kind of like we are.”
I put my phone down and try and shake off the weird sensations coursing through me. It’s like an itch I can’t reach.
If she can work and not worry about me, I can do the same.
But it doesn’t last. A few more hours pass, dinner service is starting, everything flowing smoothly, and I’m ready to burst out of my skin. I call Clara and ask her to stay with the kids through dinner, just in case.
It’s like she’s become part of my habits and not seeing her makes me feel like I’m going to explode.
Carson leaves for the day and I can’t take it anymore.
I grab my jacket and head outside. The back door of her truck swings open before I can make it all the way there. She saw me coming.
“Hi,” she says. Her smile is shy and small, but all the same, it relaxes something inside of me, a tense ball that’s been coiling inside over the past two days.
“Hi.” Now I can’t stop smiling and she’s beaming at me right back.
“Do you want some coffee or tea?” she asks. She’s fidgeting and her nerves help calm me a little because it’s not just me. I’m not alone in this.
I nod and follow her into the warmth of the truck.
She moves around the space easily, her hands going through the motions with ease, grabbing cups and pouring coffee.
I lean against the counter, watching her move. My body is swirling with a craving, an insatiable need that’s been simmering for days, a pot ready to boil over. The need shakes me to the core. I want her with abandon, with every cell of my being. But it’s too much. I want her to know exactly where I stand. I want her to know this is about more than attraction.
Slowly, she brings me a cup, stopping directly in front of me.
I take it from her and set in on the counter.
“Scarlett, we should talk—”
She shakes her head. “No.”
And then she steps into me and lifts her mouth to mine.