The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs (47 page)

I miss Blake. There, I said it.

I’ve tried not to miss him. I’ve tried not to think about him. But I can’t help it. An eerie silence has filled the house in his absence, haunting this basement apartment for what has now been two full weeks. No matter how hard I try to think about something or someone else, as soon as one of the pipes starts clanging in the wall I assume Blake is home, but then I realize he isn’t, and there I am thinking about him again.

When he first left town, I was, on some level, relieved. At least I’d be able to stay in this apartment a little longer while I searched for a new place—a search that has, to this point, been entirely fruitless. And hearing him thumping around upstairs or seeing his face would only remind me what a terrible person I was. Who needs to be reminded of that? I lied to him. I took advantage of his generosity. I ruined his political prospects. I made so many mistakes—all of them foolish, none of them excusable—and having Blake around would only throw those mistakes back in my face.

But the longer Blake has stayed away, the more I’ve yearned for his companionship—a development I most certainly did not anticipate but is nonetheless true. I miss his corny jokes and his cherubic smile and his optimistic realism. I miss his little adventures and his pep talks and his knack for knowing just the right thing to say—as opposed to Adam and Jacob, who knew exactly what to say to get into my pants. Deep down, neither of them really gave a crap. But Blake is different. He actually seems to care about who I am and what I want and how I can get the most out of life. And that’s why I want him to come home and why I hate not knowing when or if he will.

Part of me wonders if he might not come back at all—if he might take off for Tampa or San Diego or the Florida Keys, some-place where he could buy a boat and fish and eat too much fried shrimp. That’s what I’d do, if I were him. I guess he’ll have to come back at some point because all his furniture is still here. Plus, I crawled onto his deck and peered through his back window and saw his KitchenAid mixer sitting, unscathed, along his soot-covered counter. No one would abandon a perfectly good KitchenAid. That would be cruel.

Infinitely crueler, though, is the prospect of abandoning
me
, especially when that abandonment stirs up all sorts of feelings I don’t know how to deal with. Blake is … well, he’s Blake. He wears sweater vests and Ninja Turtles pajama pants and frequently refers to me as Sugarman. I convinced myself he was my dorky landlord, useful for a gourmet kitchen and maybe a laugh now and then. But now I see I had everything backward, and I’ve screwed everything up, like I always do.

The only thing I’ve managed not to screw up, surprisingly, is my relationship with my parents. Our lunch at the Tabard Inn felt like being pounded by relentless, crushing waves, but once lunch was over, the tide receded, and our rough patch was left a little smoother by that sudden swell of emotion. There are still fissures beneath the surface, but we managed, nevertheless, to spend a quiet and enjoyable Thanksgiving in Washington. My parents booked a table at the Blue Duck Tavern for Thanksgiving dinner, and, as we feasted on Red Bourbon turkey, creamed spinach, and croissant bread pudding with pears and sausage, we shared stories about Blake and Halloween and their time in London. We shared a bottle of Pinot Noir and talked and talked and talked, as if we hadn’t talked in years, and that’s when we realized we hadn’t. It felt good to talk like that, like three adults, instead of two adults and their aimless kid. I glazed over my involvement in an underground supper club, and I said nothing about the fire I started in Blake’s house, mostly because I’m not clinically insane. There is only so much I can throw at my parents at once without causing them to burst into flames.

The Sunday after Thanksgiving, my parents drove back to Philadelphia, leaving me to return to my disorganized, unemployed clusterfuck of a life. Now two weeks have passed since the supper club inferno, and I still haven’t heard from Blake. I’ve called, I’ve e-mailed, I’ve written a letter that appeared in the
Washington Post
, but nothing has worked. I also haven’t heard from L’Academie de Cuisine—a worrying sign.

Determined not to let everything in my life fall apart, I spend the rest of my Sunday scouring the Internet for other culinary programs with January start dates, from Le Cordon Bleu to the French Culinary Institute. At this point, I don’t even care if the program is in DC. I’ll move anywhere—Boston, New York, San Francisco—if it means I can give this cooking thing a shot.

After a night of researching culinary programs, I lie in bed Monday morning and try Blake’s phone for the millionth time, but like each of the 999,999 other calls, this one goes straight to voice mail. I snap the phone shut and roll over on my air mattress.

This sucks.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I bolt upright. Blake? Oh, please, please, please.

But of course it isn’t Blake. It’s my mom.

“Hey, sweetie,” she says. “How are you?”

“I’m okay. What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking. About culinary school …” Oh, here we go. “Your father and I didn’t mention this to you last week because … well, we weren’t entirely sure how we felt about the whole thing.”

“Okay …” Great. I thought we’d resolved this.

“But, see, the thing is, years ago your father and I set aside a little money to help pay for your grad school. And now that it appears you aren’t
going
to grad school … we’ve been struggling with what to do with the money. On the one hand, we’d be happy to add it to our retirement fund. But after much discussion, we decided that wasn’t fair, since the money was meant for you. So we’ve decided to give it to you now, and you can do with it whatever you like—whether it’s culinary school, or some other professional endeavor.”

“Wow—Mom. I don’t know what to say.” I feel a lump forming in my throat. “That’s … I … Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Use it well.” She presses her phone to her chest and tells someone she’ll be there in a minute. “I have to go. Oh! But in the meantime, I also have a lead for you.”

“A lead?”

“Do you remember David Levy?”

I cross my legs and lean back against my pillows. “He was a few years above me in high school, right? Lived on our street?”

“Exactly. Well, I ran into his mother, Barbara, yesterday at Acme, and it turns out David lives in Washington and is doing very well for himself—runs some sort of consulting firm, apparently.”

“Mom, is this a setup? Because I’m not interested.”

She makes a loud
tsk
sound. “No, this is not a setup. Would you let me finish?”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, David is looking to throw a holiday party at his office in a few weeks, but the caterer just backed out, and he’s looking for someone to fill in at the last minute, and apparently everyone else is booked. I gave Barbara your number to pass along, so don’t be surprised if you hear from David in the next day or two.”

“That was sweet of you, Mom. Thanks. But … I don’t think I’ll be able to do it if the party is at his office. I don’t have a catering license.”

“You need a catering license? Couldn’t you just sort of … do it on the sly?”

“I’m … trying not to do too much on the sly these days. But thanks for the reference. Could be useful in the future.”

“Ah, well. It was a thought.”

I can’t help but grin. “I thought you weren’t interested in this ‘foolish career path’ I’m pursuing.”

My mom sighs into the phone. “Listen—I’m still your mother, okay? I’m allowed to toot my daughter’s horn if I want to.”

“By all means, toot away.”

“Well, if I won’t, who will?”

I press myself deeper into my pillows and smile. “Thanks, Mom. For everything.”

She presses the phone to her chest again and tells someone to
take a message, for god’s sake, can’t you see I’m on the phone
, and then brings the phone back to her ear. “My pleasure,” she says. “Now get out there and give ’em hell.”

The rest of my day gets eaten up by culinary school applications—researching them, applying to a few, calling and hanging up on L’Academe de Cuisine multiple times—and by the time I finish, it’s almost eight o’clock, at which point I’m too tired to braise the pork chop I’d planned to eat for dinner. I yank open one of my kitchen drawers and pull out a take-out menu for City Lights of China. Pork dumplings, here I come.

As usual, the delivery guy knocks on my door at the most inconvenient moment possible: when I am half-undressed and in the middle of taking off what little makeup I put on today. He is at least fifteen minutes early.

“Coming!” I yell as I wipe my face and throw on the first pair of pants I can find, a baggy pair made of heather gray cotton with a big grease stain on the right thigh.

I grab my wallet and unlatch the front door, but when I open it I see the caller in question isn’t the Chinese delivery guy. It’s Blake.

He stands in my entryway, wearing a navy button-down, jeans, and a pair of brown loafers. His hair sticks out in all directions, and he looks pale and drawn, as if he hasn’t slept in days. He clutches his car keys in his right hand.

“Hey,” he says.

I cannot bring myself to speak. It’s as if a tornado is ripping through my brain, spinning all my emotions through my head and jumbling them all up. Part of me wants Blake to grab me and hold me and tell me he missed me and forgives me for everything, but another part wants me to grab
him
and apologize profusely for everything I’ve done. And still another part wonders why I chose to wash off all my makeup and put on pants that make me look as if I peed myself. This is a new low.

Blake scratches his jaw and looks past me into my apartment. “Could I come in for a minute?”

I follow Blake’s gaze and note the stacks of clothes and papers scattered across my floor. “Um … I don’t know,” I say. At the moment, both my own appearance and that of my apartment scream
homeless person
. “My place is … sort of a mess.”

Blake offers a faint smile. “It couldn’t look worse than mine.”

Right. Of course. Because I set your kitchen on fire. Duh.

I show Blake into my apartment, and we weave our way around the piles of junk on my floor. Blake shifts his weight from side to side as he stands in the middle of the room.

“Could I get you some water?”

“Nah, I’m okay,” he says, clutching his keys in his hand. “Thanks, though.”

“So listen,” we say in unison.

Blake extends his hand. “You first,” he says.

“No, go ahead.”

Blake fidgets with his keys as he stands beside my beanbag chair. “I saw your letter. In the
Post
.”

“Oh?”

“I appreciate you setting the record straight.” He pauses as he flicks the key ring around his finger. “That was an admirable thing to do.”

My heart flutters. “I wanted people to know the truth. I still feel awful about what I did.”

He shrugs. “Well, you should.”

“I do.”

“Good.” For a moment, I think I see Blake reveal the barest hint of a smile, but it passes so quickly I can’t determine whether it’s an actual smile or a figment of my imagination.

“I’ll pay to repair the damage,” I say. “At least as much as I can afford.”

Blake waves me off dismissively. “My insurance is covering it. The damage isn’t as bad as it looks. Although if you want to chip in for a new set of pots and pans, I won’t argue.”

“Pots and pans. Sure. Consider it done.”

He gives his key ring another flick. “Cool.”

“So … have you been staying in Tampa?”

He nods. “Yeah. With my uncle.”

“Ah.”

“My leave of absence is up this week, though, so I’m back on the Hill tomorrow.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

“Yeah.”

The air between us is thick and charged, and yet our conversation continues in monosyllables and tightly knit sentences. There’s so much I want to say—that I missed him, that I’m so happy he’s back, that what I want, more than anything, is for him to give me another chance. But every time I try to say those things, what comes out instead are banalities like, “Ah” or “That’s nice.”

“You might want to start looking for a new place,” Blake says.

“I—oh.”

Blake offers a noncommittal shrug. “Come on—I can’t exactly let you live here after what you did.”

I pull on the edge of my sweatshirt. “Well, I mean, you
could
…”

He smirks. “Yes, I suppose I could. But I don’t think it’s the wisest decision, do you?”

“Actually, yes. Yes I do.”

Blake holds back a smile. “We can talk about it later this week. I … this is a tough one for me.” He clutches his keys in his hand and raises his eyebrows. “I’ll see you later.”

He turns and heads for the door, and as I watch him walk away I feel Blake slipping through my fingers like hot sand. Why can’t I tell him I don’t want him to leave? That I don’t want to be alone anymore, that I missed him so much?

“Wait!” I call after him. “Don’t go.”

Blake turns, his expression indifferent. “Is there something else we need to discuss?”