She, Myself & I (31 page)

“Okay, I will. Think about it, that is. Hey, Soph? Before you go, can I ask you a question?”

She rolled her eyes. “Like you have to ask.”

“No, never mind. I know that you have to get going.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry. What is it?”

“Um. Would you think less of me if you found out I wasn’t going to medical school next year?”

Sophie didn’t even pause to think about it, she just shook her head and said, “No, of course not. Why?”

I hesitated and took a deep breath. “Because I’m not going.”

“What? Are you crazy?” she yelped.

“You just said you wouldn’t think less of me!”

“I don’t. I just . . . why?”

“It’s not right for me. I know it will sound crazy to everyone, but what I want to do is become a chef,” I said.

“Wait . . . you said the guy you’re going out with tonight is a chef,” Sophie said, narrowing her eyes. “Is this just to impress him? Like when I pretended to like football when Aidan and I first started going out?”

“No, absolutely not. I made this decision before I graduated. That’s why I wanted to work at a restaurant this summer,” I said.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this. You never do things like this. You’re always the good one.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“You’re kidding, right? It’s a huge deal. Huge. And I take it you haven’t told Mom and Dad?”

“No. I keep trying to, but all they ever want to talk about is their stupid wedding,” I said.

“They’re going to flip when they find out.”

“You think?” I asked. My stomach shifted nervously.

“Oh yeah. Big-time. And you have to tell them now. Dad’s selling off some of his stocks to help pay your tuition,” she said.

“What? Shit! Why would he do that without telling me?”

“Don’t swear in front of the baby. It was supposed to be a surprise,” she said.

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell them. But promise me you won’t say anything. Not even to Paige.”

Sophie hesitated.

“Promise me!”

“Fine, I promise. But Mick, you have to tell them. And do it soon, okay?”

“Okay, okay. I guess I should go up, I have to get ready for tonight.”

“You know, I got you the cake,” Sophie said. I glanced over at her, and saw that she was frowning.

“Cake?”

“At your party, the one with the stethoscope on it. I got that for you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“If I’d known you weren’t going to med school . . .”

“What, you wouldn’t have gotten me a cake?”

“I wouldn’t have gotten one with a stethoscope on it.”

“Sophie, no offense, but that really seems sort of . . . unimportant right now.”

“Sure, you’d say that. You don’t know what I went through to get it. I had to find a picture of a stethoscope, which wasn’t exactly easy. . . .”

“Didn’t you just look online?”

“No, I don’t like that Internet thing. Anyway, I had to find a picture of a stethoscope, and take it all the way into the bakery before they could decorate the cake,” she said.

“Well . . . I appreciate that.”

“Do you?”

I stared at my sister. “Are you seriously mad at me about this?”

“No. Of course not. I’m just saying, I thought you should know.”

“Okay. Now I do.”

“Okay, then. Bye.”

“Bye, Soph.”

Chapter Thirty-five

Oliver’s apartment was utterly charmless. Located downtown, just off of Congress Avenue, it basically consisted of two stark white rooms plus a tiny kitchenette and bathroom, and was carpeted in industrial beige Berber. There were no pictures on the walls, nor the normal debris of everyday life—stacks of J. Crew and L.L. Bean catalogs, carelessly dropped sneakers, a discarded newspaper. The apartment contained only the most utilitarian furnishings—a love seat upholstered in navy blue duck cotton, a tan recliner, a pine coffee table, a small television set perched on a metal cart, a cheap dinette set.

“This is . . . nice,” I lied, standing in the middle of the main room and looking over his dreary home.

“It’s a shit box. And it’s temporary,” Oliver said, and when he smiled at me, I wanted to fold into myself with happiness.

It was the first time I’d seen Oliver in street clothes, and it was a little strange. Tonight he was wearing faded Levi’s and a black T-shirt, and he looked so . . . normal. Like any other guy you might run into at the market or video store. Maybe his chef’s outfit was like a superhero’s costume—Super Chef!—and this was his meeker alter ego, like Peter Parker and Spider-Man. And I could tell he’d just gotten out of the shower before he picked me up—he smelled like Irish Spring soap, and his hair was still damp.

He thought I was worth showering for, I thought, pleasure curling through me.

“Where are you going to move to?” I asked.

Oliver shrugged. “I don’t have definite plans yet. My wife and I are separated, so it depends on how that’s resolved,” he said. “But we’ll have to sell the house we own in Miami, and once we do that, I can look into buying a place here.”

Ah. The first mention of The Wife.

“I’m sorry. About your wife, I mean,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as disingenuous as I felt. “Are you getting divorced?”

“It looks that way,” he said shortly. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine?”

“Sure, wine would be great,” I said.

He moved into the kitchen, and I heard the rattling of glasses and the pop of the cork. I felt out of sorts, not sure what I should do with myself, so I sat on the edge of the love seat. Oliver had said something about cooking omelets for dinner, but the shabby little table wasn’t set, and there weren’t any obvious signs of dinner preparation taking place.

Oliver returned with the wine and glasses. He poured out two glasses and handed one to me.

“Mm, thanks, this is good,” I said, sipping the chardonnay.

“Are you ready for your lesson?” he asked.

“Sure. But just so you know, I already know how to make an omelet,” I said.

“I’m going to teach you how to do it the French way. The way I learned at the Cordon Bleu. It’s always the first lesson you learn at school. Trust me, if you practice and perfect this technique, you’ll be miles ahead of your classmates. Come, I’ll show you,” he said, standing up.

I followed him into the tiny kitchenette, carrying my wineglass.

“The first thing to remember when making an omelet is to pick the right pan. It must be heavy, flawless, scrupulously clean. I prefer a stainless steel pan, like so,” he said, reaching into a lower cupboard and retrieving just such a pan.

He held it up to me, and sensing that he wanted me to say something, I said, “It’s pretty,” and then cringed at how stupid I sounded. A pan, pretty? Oh yes, and the whisk is
so sexy
. Gah.

“Crack the eggs into the bowl—I use two, some chefs use three, I think my way is better, but it’s really just personal preference—and beat them until they’re frothy,” he said, demonstrating the moves while he spoke. I peered into the bowl, expecting to see something magical, but no, they looked like average beaten eggs to me.

“And then you add some clarified butter to the pan—and this isn’t going to be perfect, because instead of a professional-grade gas cooktop, I have to use this shitty electric range—and add the eggs. Stir the eggs slowly, lifting the edges so that the liquid will run underneath. And here’s the real technique—you move the pan like so—and there you have it,” he said, neatly rolling the omelet onto the plate without the aid of a spatula. “Now you.”

“Oh, no. I’ll just watch,” I said quickly. The last thing I wanted to do was have his sharp eyes on me while I tried to mimic his demonstration.

“Here, take these eggs and crack them in the bowl. I’ll monitor the heat for you,” he said.

I dutifully cracked two eggs into the glass bowl, and of course, tiny fragments of shell toppled into the bowl.

“Shit,” I said, reaching in to pick them out.

“No, no, no, don’t touch them. The oils on your hands will keep the eggs from frothing.”

I beat the eggs until my hand hurt, dropped some clarified butter in the pan, and then turned back for the bowl. The butter sizzled and browned, and when I poured the eggs in, they too began to turn brown. I could feel the weight of Oliver’s eyes on me, although I didn’t dare look at him. I’d heard him berate Ansel for far less serious transgressions.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I breathed, stirring and lifting as Oliver had done, but unlike his graceful execution, the eggs stuck and lumped up in some places, thinned and broke in others. Finally, mercifully, it was cooked, and using a spatula to scrape it, I turned it onto the plate next to the other omelet. It broke midway through and landed with an unappetizing thunk.

“Now we taste,” Oliver said, holding up a fork.

He cut off a piece of my omelet and held it up to me, feeding me as though I were a baby bird.

“How is it?”

“Okay. Not great. Sort of like dried-out scrambled eggs,” I said.

“Now try mine,” he said, lifting the fork to my mouth again.

“Wow. It’s . . . succulent. I didn’t even know eggs could be succulent,” I exclaimed, and then smiled ruefully. “I’m awful at this.”

Oliver smiled back. “No, you did fine for your first time. Just practice, and it will be better every time. Cooking’s the same as playing a musical instrument or painting. Keep practicing, and you’ll improve slowly.”

“And what if I don’t?” I asked, the anxiety needling at me. My whole life, I’ve been the straight-A student, but it was all just book learning. It’s easy to be good at that. Everything’s already written down, and all you have to do is learn how to study it, commit it to memory, and then regurgitate it back up at test time. Cooking was different. It was all about sensing, tasting, anticipating, creating. What if I never got the hang of it? What if, for the first time in my life, I was a complete and utter failure?

“You will,” Oliver said, and he put the plate down on the counter and kissed me.

My shock over this sudden move quickly dissipated, and I kissed him back, savoring the taste of his mouth, the soapy, clean scent rising off his body, the feel of his foreign body as it pressed me back against the kitchen counter. Oliver deftly unbuttoned my black stretch oxford shirt. He slid it off my shoulders, and then broke off the kiss while he gazed down at my newly exposed cleavage nestled snuggly in the black lace push-up bra. The bra pushed my small breasts up and together, creating a pronounced décolletage. Earlier, when I first tried it on, I’d turned around and around in front of the mirror, delighted at the difference it made.

Murmuring his approval, he slid his hands down my shoulders, and then up my sides, and cupped both of my breasts. Whenever Nick was in this area, he would squeeze and knead at me until I could diplomatically find an excuse to move his hands away. But Oliver’s touch was firmer, more precise, and as he played with my nipples through the satin of the bra, pinching, coaxing, stroking, all I could do was hold on to his shoulders and make mewing sounds.

“You like this?” Oliver whispered in my ear. “How about this?”

I just nodded, and swayed, and any thought I might have had of entertaining Sophie’s advice on playing hard-to-get dissipated immediately. Although when he reached behind me to unhook the bra, I stopped him. I’d gone to the trouble of buying a matching bra-and-panty set, and damn it, I wanted him to appreciate it.

“Wait,” I said, and I unbuttoned my Gap khaki skirt. I slid it off my hips and onto the floor. I couldn’t bend over to pick it up—Oliver had me boxed in against the counter—so I stepped out of the skirt and kicked it away.

Oliver looked me up and down, taking in the over-the-top sexy underwear, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust. And then he smiled wolfishly, which probably would have frightened the old Mickey, but in my new rush of sexual awareness, it only turned me on even more.

Oliver rested his hands on my waist and lifted me easily up onto the counter, so that I was sitting with my legs dangling and pushed apart by his waist. He reached behind me and unhooked my bra and slid the straps off my arms, before curling his mouth around one exposed nipple. I nearly died with pleasure.

I plucked at his T-shirt, wanting to pull it off over his head, but Oliver caught my hands in his and said, “No. In my kitchen, I’m always in charge.”

And then he went back to licking and sucking at my nipples, this time also sliding his fingers under my panties, up into me, until I was grabbing fists of his T-shirt in my hands and breathing in shallow puffs of breath.

It was our first time together, and I was naked and trembling before Oliver, who was still fully dressed and in complete control.

The next morning, I woke up with that slightly euphoric, slightly off feeling I always get when I’m seriously sleep deprived. I rolled over and stared at Oliver’s bare back. We’d been up half the night, making love and eating a Papa John’s pizza with extra garlic-butter sauce that Oliver ordered in. The night before seemed like the most romantic thing in the world, but in the harsh naked light of the morning, it felt a little sleazy, especially looking around at the starkly empty bedroom. Oliver didn’t even have a real bed, he just slept on a mattress propped up on a metal frame. My freshman-year dorm room had been more posh.