Dinner for One (18 page)

It isn’t till they’re curled around him on either side that one of them decides to speak. “We know you’re not sleeping,” says Dorian.

“Georgina told us you were having an epic mope session,” adds Denver.

“So we’re here to pull you kicking and screaming from your misery,” finishes Dorian, sounding very firm.

He debates the merits of trying to continue his fake sleep in the hope they’ll give up and leave. He’s thinking it’s not likely. “G’way,” he says. “Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?”

“We can,” says Dorian.

“And we don’t care,” says Denver.

Sometimes James thinks they watched too much
Alice in Wonderland
when they were in their formative years. Their desire to finish each other’s thoughts has always driven him crazy. He’s sure they think it’s endearing, despite everyone related to them informing them it’s not. He flops dramatically onto his back, making sure to hit each of them on his way. He slits his eyes open. “Why are you here?”

“We already told you.”

Denver pokes at his right side. “We’re going to turn that frown upside down.”

“You’re adopted,” says James, sincerely. “Or I’m adopted. There’s no way we share a blood connection.”

Spindly fingers dig into his sides and start to wiggle. He curls up helplessly, trying to squirm away with nowhere to go to. “Stop,” he gasps, amidst giggles that are torn reluctantly and breathlessly from his throat. They of course don’t stop. They move to his ribs, make his entire body shake as he tries to get away and draw in a full breath. Bringing his arms to wrap around his torso, he tries to block them, but Denver grabs his arms and attempts to hold them out of the way so Dorian can continue attacking him. He gets his legs involved then. He kicks at them, till the three of them are a wriggling pile of breathless laughter and half-completed curses as they wrestle.

It doesn’t end till Dorian falls from the bed with a loud thump and a cascade of curses as his elbow strikes the floor. James and Denver both lean over to watch him cradle his arm, teeth clenched. James rolls back over, shoving Denver out of the way, and collapses to his back. His inhales are big and shaky, his throat raw. His ribs ache. Denver sprawls out over his legs, and he doesn’t have the energy to kick him off.

The whole thing is entirely childish, but it is so them, and despite his best efforts to stay completely miserable, he does feel a little better. Not that he’s going to admit that. When he can finally speak, and Dorian has crawled from the floor back to the bed, he says, “So you guys came over to tickle me into feeling better. Whose idea was that?”

“That wasn’t actually the plan at all,” says Dorian, face muffled against the sheets. He’s facedown, lying diagonal on the bed, with his face buried by Denver’s knee.

“We have a flight to catch,” says Denver.

“Then shouldn’t you get going?” He bumps a knee up to move Denver, who doesn’t budge an inch.

“You’re coming with.”

His eyes widen at that. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’re going to the Keys. We got a fancy hotel room on the beach, and we’re going to spend the week there.”

“Take your mind off of things.”

“You’ll leave your phone here.”

“It’ll be a tech-free week. Nothing but sun and the ocean.”

“Don’t you think this is the kind of thing you’re supposed to ask somebody about before you make the plans?” he asks.

“Not under these circumstances.” Denver wiggles, digging his pointy elbow into James’s hip.

“Think of this an intervention, before you get to the point where you really need one.”

“And if I don’t want to go?”

“Too bad. We told Mom, and she thought it was a
great
idea.”

He groans and covers his face. He doesn’t know why they think a vacation is going to fix anything. When he comes back from it, his boyfriend will still be his ex-boyfriend and still won’t be talking to him, and it’ll still be all his fault.

Dorian pokes at his leg. “Think of this like a new type of therapy. We’ll have heart-to-hearts on the beach, and we’ll plan ways you can extravagantly say you’re sorry without coming off like a clingy douche.”

He supposes it won’t hurt to change his moping environment. He’s going to have to figure out what to do with himself sooner rather than later anyway. He might as well do it in the Keys, especially since he’s not paying.

“Fine,” he sighs. “What time is this flight?”

“Four hours,” says Dorian cheerily. He rolls from the bed, and Denver follows, pointy limbs banging into James as he goes. “Get your ass up. We’ll make breakfast while you pack.”

They disappear out of the room before he’s even got himself moving, but Denver pops his face back around the doorframe a second later. “And no slacks or dress shirts. This is a vacation. Shorts and tanks, man. Flip-flops.” He winks. “Who knows, maybe you’ll meet a hot tourist who’ll make you forget all about the chef, and we won’t have to spend our time plotting.”

James highly doubts that. Despite his misgivings, he gets out of bed and heads to his closet. If finding clothes for a baseball game—the thought of which sends a stabbing ache through his chest—was hard, then finding clothes for a vacation at the beach is going to be a true test.

He doesn’t think he even owns flip-flops.

BASTIEN WAKES
up reaching for something that isn’t there. The other side of the bed is cold, the sheets barely touched. He’s so used to sharing a bed now that he instinctively stuck to the right side throughout the night. The realization makes his throat tighten, and he shifts to his stomach, burying his face in pillows that smell only of him. He doesn’t know what time it is, just that he still feels hungry, and the urge to bake is prickling throughout his body. His limbs physically ache with the need to move.

He stumbles from the bed and heads for the shower, staring at himself in the mirror while the water warms. There’s flour in his knotted rat’s nest of ginger curls and flakes of dried cream on his neck. He scrubs at the flakes with his nails, pulling a disgruntled face. His skin is pale, even for him, his freckles standing out darkly except for where the bags under his eyes overwhelm them. He looks like he’s been on a bender.

The shower gets rid of the remaining fog in his mind, and he stands under the pounding spray for a long time, letting it work tension from his muscles. He tilts his head back, sighs as blisteringly hot water rushes over his hair, matting it to his head and sending it in rivulets down his face. He doesn’t bother trying to untangle the mess till he’s dumped a quarter of a bottle of conditioner on it. The knots persist anyway, and his scalp is sore from all the tugging by the time he manages to restore some order. He sticks it back under the showerhead, letting the spray soothe the irritated follicles.

When he steps from the shower, his skin is pruned, and his limbs feel heavy like he’d had a good workout. He feels lazy, though not enough to manage more sleep. After pulling on sweats and a soft gray hoodie, he heads to the kitchen with the plan to repeat yesterday’s cooking extravaganza. He isn’t expecting to see Fleur already at the stove, flipping omelets sprinkled with a rainbow of colors that lets him know she stuffed them full of peppers and tomatoes.

He looks to the window, sees that the sun hasn’t quite risen. He rubs at his eyes, wondering if he’s hallucinating her. “What time’s it?”

“Just about seven,” she says, poking at the cooking omelet with the spatula. “You crashed pretty early last night.” She nods at a waiting pile of bananas gone brown. “Why don’t you make us some banana bread?”

They work in silence, moving around each other in the kitchen with ease. Chandler comes in after a little while, while Bastien’s trying to eat one of the omelets Fleur handed him and debating if he has enough batter left over to make banana muffins as well. He could even add nuts to some of them.

Chandler wraps his arms around Fleur, ducking his head to press a kiss to her neck. Bastien has to turn away at the sharp tug that elicits in his chest. It calls to mind far too many memories of James and him in similar situations. The way they’d naturally known where each other was in the kitchen, never getting in the way but always functioning as a smooth unit. How sometimes they’d gotten distracted, and Bastien or James ended up pressed against a counter, long slow kisses being traded. He remembers the feel of warm hands grabbing his hips absently as James walks by, casual touches to his arms, back, shoulders.

His mixing, he realizes, has become a little violent as his sadness spirals through him. He takes a step back, not wanting to ruin the batter, and chokes down a bite of omelet to try to distract himself. His mouth is suddenly dry, his jaw heavy.

He thinks of his phone, still in his pants pockets, still ignored. The mature, adult thing to do would be to check it for messages. Hell, he even needs to check his e-mails. And he knows some of those messages are probably from James. The right thing to do would be to text him back, officially let him know he found out and the game is up. But he doesn’t. Bastien wants to avoid the entire thing for as long as he feasibly can. He figures he’s entitled to it.

He’ll stay with his sister for the weekend, what’s left of it, and Fleur will let him mope. She’s been good so far, not asking any questions, indulging what he knows she knows is coping on his part. She’ll expect him to talk, but he’s grateful she’s willing to wait till he’s ready. When the weekend’s over he’ll have to face the real world, leave the bubble of cook and eat and don’t think behind. He loves her and Jean for giving him that bubble in the first place.

Thinking of Jean makes him realize he should call him. He hasn’t spoken to him since Jean dropped them off in the early hours of Saturday morning. His sister and Chandler are quietly talking, and there’s nothing he’s working on that can’t be left for five minutes. He grabs the cordless phone and heads into the living area, dialing one of the few numbers he knows by heart.

“Bonjour,” says Jean. “I was wondering when I would hear from you.”

“Sorry,” says Bastien, and it’s not an empty word, he really is sorry for not talking to Jean sooner. Jean worries, and he shouldn’t have to. “I’ve been… busy.”

Jean hums, and in the background there’s the sound of a teakettle whistling. “Do you need me to cover you tomorrow? I’ve told everyone you’ve got the flu.”

The love he feels for Jean right then is overwhelming. He drops onto the couch, pulls his knees up. “No. I’m coming in.” If he keeps putting it off, he’ll never stop the pity party.

“I’m glad to hear that. How’s Avery?”

They chat till Jean has to go, and Bastien feels better for it. His chest feels a little less like a vise.

Avery comes out soon after he returns to the kitchen, and the four of them make tarte tatin, a messy and completely delicious upside-down type of apple tart. Breakfast is less awkward than the day before, with mindless chatter and discussion of what else can be baked throughout the day.

Fleur proposes they watch cooking shows for a little while; they might come up with something new that isn’t in their comfort zone. Despite their having a love seat, the four of them pile onto the sofa. Avery lies across their laps, head turned to the see the screen. She falls asleep less than twenty minutes into the first show. They keep their bickering over which meals they want to try to a low whisper so as to keep from waking her.

There’s a Russian dish Chandler wants to try, but the thought of it turns Bastien’s stomach. He feels ridiculous. He almost agrees to make it just to force himself to stop being such a baby about everything, but he figures he might want to tackle one thing at a time. When he can finally manage to check his phone, then he’ll think about making Russian cuisine again.

Dinner that night ends up being Cajun red beans and rice, with a praline bread pudding. Avery is the deciding vote when she wakes. It’s a close call between that and fisherman’s paella with coffee flan for desert.

Everyone helps make dinner, and it turns out great, Chandler and Avery heading to their rooms to enjoy food comas and settle their stuffed stomachs.

Bastien and Fleur sit on opposite ends of the couch and watch reruns of
Hell’s Kitchen
. When it’s much later and Bastien is sure Avery and Chandler are asleep, he asks, “Am I overreacting?”

“We’re talking about this now?” she asks in return, voice carefully blank.

Bastien nods. He can’t sulk forever. He’s got a business to run and a life to lead.

Fleur turns to face him on the couch, sitting up and crossing her legs. It’s her this-is-a-serious-conversation pose. “What happened?”

He focuses on a spot over her shoulder. “I was at James’s when you called. And I-I was looking for my wallet, wanted to check that I had enough cash for the cab. I opened his instead, and turns out his name is actually James Harper Carlisle.”

The lines around her eyes tighten. “As in the food critic?”

“That’s the one.”

Her fist clenches. “What did you do?”

“I put it down, told him I had an emergency, and I left.”

Now she looks sad. He really needs to stop sneaking glances at her face. “You didn’t say anything to him?”

He shakes his head, curls his fingers into his palm. What could he even have said? He’d have probably made himself look pathetic.

“How many times has he texted or called since you left?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, wincing at the way her mouth purses. He fidgets, picking at the knee of his sweats. “I haven’t looked at it since I left his house.”

“Go get it,” she orders him.

She takes it from him when he comes back, but it’s dead, so she sends him to get her charger, and they sit in silence till the phone powers on. The relief he feels that she didn’t make him do it is absurd. She flicks through all his notifications while he sits and waits. When she’s done, she puts it facedown in her lap. “You really liked him,” she says. She stops. She doesn’t say what was on the phone.

Bastien’s apparently meant to verbalize himself here. “Yes.”

“Have you thought about why he did what he did?”