The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs (48 page)

“No. Yes. I don’t know—maybe.” I scrunch up my shoulders and gesture toward the beanbag chair. “Do you want to sit down for a minute?”

He glances at his watch. “I … there are … I have things to do.”

“Oh.” My shoulders slump. “Okay.”

Blake bores into me with his gray-blue eyes, holding my gaze as I feel a lump develop in my throat. “I guess I’ll see you around,” he says.

I open my mouth to respond, but instead I start crying—blubbering like a total basket case, with a quivering lower lip and a sniffly nose and tears streaming down my face. I’m not quite sure why I am crying like this, a fact that only increases the volume and pitch of my wails. Admittedly, the catharsis feels fantastic, but I don’t love that I’m howling like a lunatic in front of Blake.

Blake slowly approaches me, his eyebrows knitted together. “Uh … what’s wrong?”

I try to answer, but every time I speak, I start choking on my sloppy, unrestrained sobs. I can only imagine what I look like right now—probably like a slobbery, swollen psychopath.

“Are you … okay?”

“I—I …” I still can’t get the words out.
I really like you, Blake. And I don’t want you to go
.

Blake comes closer and tentatively brushes my hair off my face as he looks into my eyes. His expression is one of utter mystification, as if dealing with a hysterical young woman is far outside his comfort zone—alien and awkward and infinitely strange.

“I wish I could help you, but … I don’t know what’s wrong. What’s going on?”

I wipe the tears from my eyes and breathe in quickly through my nose to keep a river of snot from running down my face. I pull the bulky sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands and look into Blake’s eyes.

“Don’t leave,” I say.

“Sorry?”

“I have some things I want to tell you.”

“What things?”

I feel my lip start to quiver. “I … I missed you, Blake.”

Blake fumbles with his keys and nearly drops them on the floor. “Sorry, what?”

I shrug. “When you left, I missed you. I missed everything about you.”

Blake stares at me, his eyes wide and still. I feel as if he is seconds away from telling me he missed me, too, that he forgives me for everything. But instead, he says, “Is that so?”

I nod as I wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeve. “And I know you’ll probably never forgive me for what I did. But I … I …”

I sniffle again, the sobs threatening to return. Why can’t I tell him? Why can’t I tell him I feel more like myself when I’m with him than I do with anyone else? Because I’m afraid. Not that he won’t reciprocate, but that he might, and then someday he will change his mind. Or maybe he won’t change his mind, but he’ll turn into Adam, and I’ll be right back where I started.

Blake rests his hand on my shoulder. “You what?”

I dab my eyes. “I think you’re wonderful.”

Blake blushes. “Well … thanks.” He clears his throat and awkwardly removes his hand from my shoulder. “You’re not so bad either. Some of the time.”

I stifle a smile. “You make me better, Blake.”

“Better at …?”

I shrug. “Just … better.”

Blake presses his hands together and stares up at the ceiling. He lets out a protracted sigh. “Then why did you lie to me?”

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t have. But all that started before … before …”

“Before what?”

I fix my eyes on his. “Before I realized how much I liked you.”

Blake goes silent and rubs his chin with his thumb. He matches my stare, trying to maintain his stern expression, but the softness in his eyes blows his cover. “It was cowardly, you know. The supper club.”

“Cowardly? What do you mean cowardly?”

“Cooking in secret like that. You were too afraid to stand up to your parents and do what you wanted out in the open, so you did it in secret to keep them happy. You were trying to have your cake and eat it too—no pun intended.” He flashes a genuine smile for the first time this evening. “Sorry—old habits.”

I smile back. “I like your old habits.”

“You might be the only one …”

I step closer to Blake and grab his hand. “I’m applying to culinary school. I never would have done that without you. I was being pathetic. You made me see that.”

“I never said pathetic.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Blake smiles and glances down at his hand, which I’m holding in mine. “I don’t know if I’d listen to a former Dupont Circle neighborhood commissioner, if I were you.”

“Former? Can’t you step back in?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Not after everything that happened.”

“But it wasn’t your fault. It was my fault. You had nothing to do with it.”

“Yeah, but it happened under my nose. It makes me look pretty dense.”

I interlace our fingers and rub my thumb against his. “That’s not true. I was pretty stealthy.”

The edges of his lips curl upward, and he pulls me a little closer. “I guess you were.”

I tilt my head upward and stare into Blake’s eyes. “Blake, I need you to know—”

But he brings his finger to my lips and leans in closer, until I can feel his breath on my cheeks. I close my eyes, and just as I feel his lips graze mine, the doorbell rings. The Chinese delivery guy. Classic.

I lean my forehead into Blake’s chest and sigh. Blake pinches my chin with his fingers and looks me in the eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I met you four months ago,” he says. “Whoever that is can wait two minutes.”

He pulls my face into his and kisses me softly on the lips. His lips are smooth and warm, and I cannot describe the sensation of kissing him other than to say it feels like coming home. I grab his shirt and pull him in closer, ignoring the banging on the door because the only thing I’m hungry for is Blake, and he’s right here, holding me in his arms, and I don’t want him to let go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

In the light from my laptop, I watch Blake’s half-naked body rise and fall atop my air mattress, the sound of his snoring falling somewhere between a rumbling motor and a purring kitten. Somehow my knowledge of this intimate detail—that he snores,
how
he snores—is like finding another edge piece in a complicated puzzle. I still have a big hole to fill, but at least I have the makings of a frame: how Blake sleeps and snores and kisses, what makes him smile and makes him sad, where he goes to be alone and when. And what I know, more than anything, is that I want to find all the pieces to this puzzle—to complete this picture someday and make it whole—and I hope, oh I hope I am one of those pieces.

I roll onto my side, away from Blake, and as I do I hear him rustle beneath the sheets. He draws close and wraps his arm around me, pressing my body into his bare chest as he kisses my shoulder.

“I think I might be falling in love with you,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

I can’t tell whether he is awake or not, but I reply anyway, whispering into the stillness of the room. “Me, too.”

When he squeezes me, I know he heard, but soon he starts snoring again, and I realize there’s a good chance he won’t remember this moment in the morning. Were I sleeping next to someone else, I might worry; I might jostle him awake to validate this emotional exchange. But with Blake, I know I don’t have to. Tonight we came close to saying those precious words—the
I
and the
love
and the
you
—but I know for certain it won’t be the last.

On the first Sunday in January, I find myself standing in my kitchen at 1774 ½ Church Street, swirling together a mixture of butter, cream, and sugar on my tiny stove top. Tonight I am cooking dinner for Blake in my apartment, my last home-cooked meal as a nonculinary student. Tomorrow I begin my program at L’Academie de Cuisine.

My acceptance came late in the game, only a week or so before Christmas. According to Blake, the letter had been mailed to his address instead and got lost among the piles of bills and insurance notices. The program requires a long commute all the way to Gaithersburg, Maryland—a thirty-five-minute drive, or a heck of a long Metro and bus ride. Eventually I’ll rely on public transportation, but for my first week, Blake is letting me borrow his car. That he is allowing me to borrow anything of his after the supper club debacle is a testament to how much he must like me.

As I stir the pan of cream, the unmistakable whiff of roasting nuts floats past my nostrils. I panic: I burnt the pecans.
Crap
.

I rip open my oven door, grabbing at the sheet pan with a gloved hand. I lay the pan on the counter, shaking it back and forth to inspect every russet-colored nut. The pecans are fine, perfectly toasted, although a minute longer would have put them over the edge. Crisis averted.

I dump the pecans onto a sheet of parchment paper to cool and return to the stove, where the rest of my carrot cake filling bubbles away, its creamy whiteness giving way to a light golden brown. I could have chosen any dessert for tonight’s dinner—cheesecake, ice cream, Sacher torte, chocolate mousse—but choosing the carrot cake was a no-brainer. I’ve never made it for Blake before, and I wanted something special to celebrate his reinstatement to the Dupont Circle ANC. Besides, everyone loves my carrot cake. Everyone.

Blake found out last week that the Dupont Circle Advisory Neighborhood Commission had read my letter and requested to meet with him to reconsider his resignation. They took a vote, and aside from one crotchety commissioner, they all voted to reinstate him as the commissioner for Ward 2B07. Truthfully, I think they were just happy they didn’t have to find a replacement, since Blake’s opponent moved to Maryland after the election. But either way, Blake is back and in the clear, with no stigma attached to his name—other than dating me, of course.

The good news is that the health department has decided not to fine me for holding an unlicensed restaurant out of Blake’s town house. Someone from the Food Safety and Hygiene Inspection Services Division sent me a curt letter in the mail, my first and final warning to terminate the operations of The Dupont Circle Supper Club immediately, and so—for now, at least—The Dupont Circle Supper Club is no more. Not that I needed an official warning. The memory of Blake’s kitchen ablaze will provide all the restraint I need for quite some time.

I scoop the cake filling into a bowl to cool, toss my apron onto the counter, and gather together my bags for the Dupont Circle farmers’ market. I haven’t been in weeks, ever since the fire, but today I plan to pick up the ingredients for our dinner. If past experience is any indication, I will buy enough food to feed the entire House of Representatives.

When I arrive at the corner of Twentieth and Q, the Dupont market is already in full swing, although not as swinging as it was a few months ago. The winter market caters to the die-hard fans, those who won’t be kept away by freezing temperatures or a little snow, and so the usual deluge has slowed to a thin but steady stream of regulars.

I take my customary practice lap, scouting out the best-looking celery root and potatoes and pricing out the Brussels sprouts and kale. The winter sky hovers above me like liquid mercury, silvery and bright, casting shadows around the dozens of colorful tents.

“Hannah, Hannah, bo bana!”

Shauna calls to me from beneath her green-and-white tent, smiling widely as she rubs together her gloved hands. I skip up to her tent and lean across the ice tray to give her a hug. “Long time no see,” I say.

“Where have you been? It’s been, what, almost a month?”

“Life got … complicated. But I’m back! And I need two petit filets.”

“Take your pick,” she says, pointing to the corner of the ice tray. “We have a few packages.”

I scan the tray for two suitable filets, which I plan to sear and serve tonight with a red wine reduction, celery root puree, and roasted Brussels sprouts. I grab two filets, along with some chicken breasts and a packet of bacon, and hand them to Shauna. “That should do me for now.”

Shauna grabs her calculator and tallies up my goods. “A lot less than you used to buy,” she says. “Scaling back?”

I chuckle. “Something like that.”

“Yeah, well, keep an eye on those flames tonight, huh?” She winks. “Kidding, kidding. But remember, whenever you decide to—
ahem
—throw some sort of underground party again, I’m here for all of your butchering needs.”

“Finest pork in America, right?”

Shauna raises an eyebrow. “Damn straight.”

We load the meat into one of my bags, and I stop by a few more stands to load up on celery root, potatoes, kabocha squash, butternut squash, and Brussels sprouts. By the time I finish, my load rivals the weight of a small rhinoceros.

Standing in the gated area of the market, I shuffle toward the opening facing Massachusetts Avenue, never fully lifting my feet off the ground. Every few steps I drop the bags on the pavement, shake out my arms and begin again. I’m fairly certain I’ve already pinched a nerve in my neck, and at any moment, my left shoulder might dislocate.

“Need any help?”

I whirl around and find Blake standing in front of a table of mushrooms, wearing a thick jacket and a pair of gloves. The winter cold has stained his cheeks and nose the color of bing cherries.