Food Whore (21 page)

Angel would never say anything so crass in the restaurant, but I could tell he agreed. “Don't sweat it, Tia. One day, you'll get what you deserve.”

He was trying to be nice but a chill came over me. I'd get what I deserved? I wasn't sure what that would be.

 

Chapter 22

T
HE NEXT NIGHT
,
M
ELINDA AND
I
WENT FOR DRINKS AT A
rooftop bar warmed by heaters every ­couple of feet. The evening felt fresh and unadulterated, like breathing the sky itself rather than the thick, angsty air below. Melinda and I didn't even need to talk. The drinks were enough. Solitude under the stars was enough.

Melinda and I walked back to the apartment and saw Emerald reading a magazine in the living room.

“Hey, guys,” she said. “Do you know where Elliott is tonight? I'm supposed to go to the Botanical Gardens tomorrow, but the Bedford Park Boulevard station is closed.”

Blood rushed to my face and my breath got jerky. I tried to remind myself that we had been on a break for a month. I was no longer entitled to feel possessive, and this relationship between Emerald and Elliott was all in my head. But then again . . . why was she going to Elliott's work? And why was she asking me how to get there—­to mess with my head?

Luckily, Melinda jumped in while I worked on calming down. “Jesus, Em. You have a phone. Why don't you call him yourself?” I wasn't sure if she was being bitchy to protect me, or if she just despised Emerald and was a little drunk. Either way, I liked that she'd said it.

“Ooookay,” Emerald said, rolling her eyes. “I'm taking off anyway. See you guys later.”

She picked up one of her men's coats and a fedora and left. Melinda and I went to my room and I collapsed on my bed while Melinda sat in my desk chair, swiveling. Emerald's question about Elliott had rattled me.

Maybe it was time to reassess. We were just on a break, not a breakup. Things had somewhat stabilized in my life. Though that was mainly because without Elliot, I didn't have to lie anymore. No one looked out for me or worried about me. My life alternated between freedom and loneliness. I had survived without him, but that didn't mean I didn't miss him.

I'd think of Elliott suddenly and randomly, like when I caught myself twirling my pen just like he did—­three swings and a pause, three swings and a pause. Or when I passed volunteers at a community garden, jamming to a live guitarist and eating chicken skewers. He came to mind every time I looked at my NYU books, because he had been so supportive throughout the application process.

But despite all those fond memories, I still wasn't ready to talk about what was next for us. I didn't know if I could make our relationship work. And even if we could, was that what I wanted?

I groaned and covered my face with my hands.

“Hey, dude,” Melinda said, handing me a glass of wine. “Let it go. Seriously. This is New York City. You're looking hotter than ever. I don't know what's happening with you, and you don't have to tell me. But take my advice: the best way to get over something—­or someone—­is to start over.”

She barely knew Elliott and I'd barely spoken to her about him. But she was trying, in her vague way, and I had to appreciate her effort.

“The mind is like a body of water,” she continued, holding up her wineglass. “It always wants to be at the same height. If a tide goes out”—­she took a big gulp then immediately topped herself off—­“you should let something else rush in. Your mind won't know the difference.”

Maybe your mind wouldn't, but what about your heart? I didn't say anything, but then I got a text.

WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET YOUR ATTN? MEET ME AT RYE LOUNGE.

Melinda grabbed the phone out of my hands.

“Unknown number? Now that's not sketchy at all.”

I had never texted Pascal back. But why not? Why was I keeping myself at low tide? Especially when there was a perfectly good wave waiting to come to shore.

“Oh, that's a guy named . . . Pascal? He's . . . a friend.”

“. . . A friend? Well, go to, lady! Get outta here and have fun, okay?” She stood up and started for her room. “Take your hot ass out on the town.”

I looked back at Pascal's text. It'd be nice to go out. Finally answer his texts. See him again. Michael Saltz had put more trust in me over the last month, and he'd never suspect I'd correspond with Pascal.

It'd be nice to not be lonely.

Before I overthought it, I texted that I'd meet him there, put on skinny jeans and a Tibi chiffon top, and left the apartment.

On my way out, I bumped into Emerald, returning from wherever she'd gone.

“Whoa there, hot stuff! You're leaving now?” She caught me by the shoulders, like I was a mental patient on the run.

“Yes! I'm going out,” I said, a little too proudly. I'd never left for a social thing after Emerald had returned. “To Rye Lounge.”

“Rye Lounge? I've never heard of it.”

Neither had I, but it felt good knowing something Emerald didn't. “Oh, it's new.”

“Cool,” she said. “Well, see you later.”

I got excited with every step I took. I eyed other girls, as if to pick up cues from their social behavior—­was I chill? Excitable? Should I unbutton my coat even though it was freezing out? I felt stupid for not knowing these basic things, but Elliott and I had started going out freshman year and been in our little New Haven bubble. I didn't know what it meant to “go out” in NYC, but now I wanted to find out . . . bar by bar, restaurant by restaurant.

I finally arrived and spotted Pascal hunched over his drink in a booth. The bar was dark and straightforward. Nothing gimmicky or shiny. No light shows or designer outfits on the bartenders. It seemed to be filled with low-­key locals and restaurant ­people getting off work. I didn't have to worry about bumping into Michael Saltz here, that was for sure. Still, I felt overdressed in this place, a compact bar that didn't feel particularly special—­just basic booze and some pictures of old New York.

He didn't see me at first, so I just watched him slumped over in the shadows.

I guess ­people always look at models and celebrity chefs and famous ­people and think of those cover stories—­movies and restaurant openings and looking glamorous. But now his handsomeness took a backseat to what looked a lot like loneliness. That made me like him more.

It wasn't until I lightly tapped Pascal on the shoulder that he noticed me. “Oh!” he said as he jumped up and hugged me, his energy suddenly at the surface. I felt his heart beating through his leather jacket. Or maybe that was my heart.

“Tia! What a treat to see you tonight. You look beautiful! Sit, sit. Did you have a good day?” He nodded to the bartender, who started mixing me a drink. He had shed his funk and was now all smiles and mussed-­up hair and tattoos that tantalized from his open cuffs.

I recomposed myself. I
loved
that he asked about me. I
loved
that he had a drink at the ready for me and that we were here, sitting next to each other with the purpose of . . . what?
To chat, to chat,
I drilled into myself. I didn't let myself think in terms beyond that. I kept those definitions—­a date? a precursor to something more?—­fuzzy and at the periphery, but close enough that I could take joy in them.

“Well, grad school is sort of a drag,” I said as a waitress delivered my drink. “It probably seems like a waste of time to someone like you. It feels that way to me sometimes.”

“Wait, wait. Why are you putting yourself down like that? NYU's a great school. I've heard it's the best Food Studies program in the country.”

When did I tell him I went to NYU?

The thought occurred to me in a flash, and then it disappeared, making way for Pascal's attention.

He had put his drink down and was looking at me with concern. Why
was
I putting myself down? Pascal made me want to be a better version of me—­more confident, more sure. But also prettier, better dressed, more in-­the-­know about the world in which he was a player. I liked who I became in his eyes.

“Yeah.” I sighed. “I'm lucky, I guess. I have a cool internship now. That's rare for a first-­year.”

He nudged toward me and his face opened up in a way you rarely see from handsome faces. You expect those faces to look perfect, an encapsulation of a single pure moment for the outside viewer to appreciate from afar. But his expression intertwined with mine, reflecting my emotions, amplifying them, eliciting them. I nudged toward him, too.

“You like food a lot, don't you? Is that what you want to do with your life?”

“I want to
write
about food,” I said matter-­of-­factly. And then, less so, “I want ­people . . . to listen to me.” The moment I said it, I felt embarrassed. It seemed so crass. Of course everyone wanted to be heard.

But his eyebrows softened. He rested an elbow on the table and looked at me with undivided attention.

Why was I even telling him all this? I didn't tell anyone this stuff—­not Elliott, my friends, my family—­no one.

Pascal let a smile creep over his face.

“What, do you think that's funny?” I started sweating right through my chiffon top.

“No, no, I don't. I like your passion. It makes me happy to meet ­people who know what they want and are going for it. Especially when those ­people are beautiful, like you.”

I retreated into the shadow of the banquette. Man, he made me feel so good.

“It can be scary to pursue your dream, but I think the key is to surround yourself with ­people who support you,” he said. “My parents love to cook. My mom is Filipino and my dad is French—­both food cultures. They put me on this cooking track and I never looked back.”

“Oh!” I said. So that's why he looked a little like me. “I'm also mixed,” I said.

He smiled shyly. “I know,” he said. And then I blushed, too.

“When I was in school, I never partied or went out with my friends,” he said. “I preferred to stay home and cook. And I guess when I was younger, I thought that made me weird. But then I realized that was my purpose in this world, and I owed it to myself to see it through.” Here his accent became not quite French, but something dreamy around the edges.

I picked up my drink, a brown whiskey-­based thing that was much stronger than what I was used to, but somehow went down easily. I let Pascal's knee touch mine.

“Did you always want to be a chef?”

Pascal bit his nails. Bit his nails! He was so cute, so real. All those articles about him made him seem like some cocky man-­about-­town. But here he was modest and measured, talking in thoughtful tones. “I think so, yes. If not a chef, then maybe a food writer like you. Have you always wanted to be a writer?”

The power of someone listening startled me. I had gone through the semester without a single real, deep conversation. But why? What did I think was so bad down there?

For the first time in months, I let myself look into that darkness.

“Yeah, I've always wanted to be a writer. But more than that, I've always wanted to have a
thing
. Something that defined me.”

Ugh, that sounded so lame. The second I spoke, I regretted the desperation of it. I wished I could have tossed out something hollow like Melinda, or something assertive and sure like Emerald. But Pascal put his hand on my leg, and I knew right then that what I'd said was okay and he understood.

“. . . something that validated me,” I finished.

He squeezed my knee. “You're not alone.”

As steamy as our Bakushan episode had been, this time we hardly touched. We talked into the night. In the same way I'd spilled my heart to Michael Saltz in the restaurant basement, I gave myself to Pascal. I talked about my dreams, the raw stuff. I wasn't sure if this was okay during my break with Elliott, and I was positive that this was unacceptable to Michael Saltz, but I pushed them out of my mind. It was easier to throw myself into this, this ecstasy of being heard, of being magnetic to someone you admire.

Of course I liked that he was famous and hot. But I hadn't realized until then how tense I had been all fall. With him, I let go.

I drank that drink and ordered another. And when the bartender made last call at 3:45, I ordered another. Pascal and I talked the whole night, and at the end of it, he walked me back to my apartment. We were tired, yet not as drunk as I would have thought. I wanted to touch him and felt like he wanted to touch me, too. The air in the late, late night was thin and hallucinatory, like we were at a high altitude.

Outside my apartment, Pascal sighed and took me by the waist. He was much taller than I and swung me from side to side. He tipped his lips down as I tipped my lips up. And then, without a care in the world, we kissed.

His lips were surprisingly soft. I had only kissed Elliott for the past four years, and every kiss before that had been embarrassingly bad. Pascal's lips were so
different,
full yet muscular. He held me by the back of my head, then slid his hands down to my neck, kneading as he went, so by the time his hands were at the small of my back, my insides had melted.