Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

by Laekan Zea Kemp

  Pen watches my mouth, barely breathing, and then the bowl topples to the floor. I’m pinned between Pen and the counter. Our mouths are open, foreheads pressed hard against each other. Her eyes urge me on, but my own are full of questions—where to put my hands and my mouth.

  She presses her lips to mine and it doesn’t feel like it did the first time, fervent and afraid, this temporary cosmic bang muffled by alcohol. This time we’re right in the middle of it, of the flames and the heat and the power. It feels deliberate and important, and I wonder if she can hear the tick tick tick inside me, her closeness winding me like a clock.

  I grip her in handfuls, my bones aching like they’re reaching for her too. Her tongue forces its way into my mouth, and somehow we make it to the bed. She tugs at the apron strings until they’re tangled around her knee. She laughs, leading my fingertips to the bare skin beneath her shirt. She finally gets the apron undone, the button on her jeans unfastened next.

  The timer buzzes above the oven, loud and shrill.

  Pen braces herself against my arms. She pulls back, both of us panting and slightly dazed. I wait for her to ignite again, but that fierce look in her eyes that made my knees shake has disappeared. She rushes to the oven, steam rises from the cupcake tin as she pulls it out.

  I retrace my steps, every touch, trying to figure out where it went wrong. But then Pen carries one of the cupcakes over to me.

  I take a bite, mouth watering.

  “Do you like it?” she asks.

  The flavors spark on my tastebuds, each bite revealing a new layer that takes me by surprise. I take another one and then it hits me. Long after I’ve swallowed, the taste grazing the tip of my tongue. Heat.

  “Well?” she presses.

  “Where’s the spice coming from?”

  Pen’s mouth twists, the tiniest bit wicked. “Secret ingredient. Ghost pepper flakes.”

  “It’s unbelievable. I’m serious, it’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  She glances at the floor, the mess that we made. “Even without the icing?”

  “Even if it was dipped in toilet water first and served in a dirty diaper.”

  She laughs. “So, it’s good, then.” Her eyes brighten. “You think I’m good.”

  “No.” I brush some brown sugar from her cheek. “I think you’re amazing.”

  After dessert, Pen lets me commandeer the kitchen and make us dinner. I use the leftover chocolate to make mole poblano, Pen placing a half-broken candle between our plates as we use one of the empty boxes as a dining table again. The candle sits tilted in the gap between the cardboard flaps.

  “I’m not sure that’s safe.”

  “It’s good ambience.” Pen takes the first bite, lips puckered as she closes her eyes. “This is… What is this?”

  “Mole poblano. My mom used to make it when I was a kid.”

  She shakes her head, fighting with whether to laugh or hold the flavors in her mouth. She takes another bite, nodding as if she’s confirming it wasn’t some kind of fluke. “I know what this is,” she finally says. “But I meant you. What are you? I didn’t know you could cook like this.”

  I fiddle with my fork. “Well, I do work in a restaurant.”

  She rolls her eyes. “No way you learned how to cook like this by plating six hours a day.” She takes another bite, savoring it. “Is this why you wanted the job?”

  “This, as in, did I want to cook?” I shrug. “Well, yeah. I like cooking.”

  She points her fork at me. “Mm-mm, you love it. I can taste it.”

  I look down again, not letting the smile make it past my lips. “Well, coming from you, that’s a pretty big compliment.”

  She sits up, her chin on her knee. “Come on, I’m not some kind of prodigy. I just…”

  “What?” I narrow my eyes at her. “Like to cook?”

  She hugs her knee closer. “I love it.”

  “I can taste it.” I hesitate before saying, “I could taste it before we even met.”

  Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve eaten at Nacho’s plenty of times, but that night we helped you move in and you cooked dinner for everyone, I finally realized what it was that kept me coming back, what keeps the entire neighborhood entranced and arguing over whether Nacho’s enchiladas are better than their abuela’s or if his famous coconut cake can cure a broken heart.”

  “Nacho’s has been around a long time. People like a little magic, and the myths are good for business.”

  “But the magic is you.” I lean closer. “People don’t like the food because of the myths. They love it because of you.” I reach for the loose strand of hair that keeps escaping her ponytail. “So do I.”

  She crawls over, hands against my shoulders, and when she looks into my eyes, I realize she’s measuring the sincerity in them.

  I don’t hold back. “I think I’m in love with you, Pen.”

  She closes the space between us, her lips resting against mine. Careful this time. We hold each other, breathing together until my back is pressed to the floor, until exhaustion has Pen tucked into the crook of my arm, her head against my chest.

  She looks up at me. “I love you for saying that.” She kisses me on the cheek. “I love you.”

  I brush the flyaways from her face. “Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “About the restaurant…”

  She hesitates, drawing circles on my skin again. But then she says, “Yes.”

  Eventually, we make it back the bed, too stuffed and tired to take off our clothes. We don’t need to. We’ve shown each other more of ourselves than we’ve revealed to anyone else, and for me that’s enough. To know that I can let her see me, that she’s willing to let me do the same, it’s enough.

  When I wake up, Pen is curled against my arm. Her eyes ease open and that’s when I register the door grinding against the chain, the sound what had actually woken me.

  “Penelope!”

  Ignacio Prado stands on the other side, trying to ram his way through.

  Pen snaps up, her voice a whisper. “Shit.”

  I slide to the floor wedging myself as far underneath the bed as possible. Pen jumps to her feet, wrenching the door open before her father can bust it down.

  He charges inside. “Why aren’t you at home?”

  I watch her feet as she backpedals, still drowsy.

  “Pen, I said why aren’t you at home?”

  She stops. “I… am home.”

  “You know what I mean. Why aren’t you at home with your mother and Lola and Hugo?”

  I can’t see her face, but I can see her hands clenched around the hem of her shirt.

  She lets go, exhales. “This is where I live, Dad.”

  “Are you trying to prove a point?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Were you trying to hurt your mother? Because that’s what happened when she woke up and you were gone.”

  He won’t admit that he’s just as hurt, but I know Pen must hear it in his voice.

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.” Her hands are fists again. “I was never trying to hurt anyone. Why can’t you just believe me?”

  The bed creaks, mattress sinking as her father sits. He’s quiet, and I wonder if he’s realized what a mistake it was to fire Pen; if he’s blaming himself for the distance, still unsure how to build a bridge safe enough for either of them to cross. But someone has to take that first step.

  Pen slumps down next to her father. They sit in silence for a long time, Pen’s toes a light pitter-patter against the floor.

  “I’m sorry.” She exhales. “I don’t know what else to say, how else to show that… I’m so sorry.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” her father asks. “Because you think you’re still being punished?”

  “I’m here because it was the right decision. You and Mom made the right decision.”

  I strain to hear them reach for each other, but then I realize that the
other night at the restaurant was the first time I ever saw them embrace. When he first walked into the kitchen, every single employee held their breath, waiting for him to throw her out again. But he didn’t.

  “Angel said you had another job somewhere else.”

  “El Pequeño Toro.”

  He’s thinking, quiet again for too long. Then he says, “Keep it.”

  She jumps to her feet. “But… what about—?”

  “Pen…”

  “The other night… What was that about if not—?”

  “Penelope, we are not discussing this right now.”

  “But you… You made me think…”

  She can’t even get the words out. I wonder if she’s thinking about the conversation we had last night, about how she’s the heart of that place, the magic of her food doing just as much for the neighborhood as her father’s good deeds. She deserves to fight for her place there, but he won’t even let her do that.

  Her father stands. “When it comes to the restaurant, I still need more time.”

  “How much time? What does that even mean?”

  “It means it’s my decision.”

  She turns her back on him, her voice unsteady. “You know what it means to me. You know how much this hurts.”

  But he doesn’t. How could he? Pen’s depression is practically invisible, her ability to disguise the worst of it a necessity of living in her father’s house. He’s made her stone, and even now he can barely see the cracks. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.

  “And as long as you feel that strongly about it, you’re not stepping foot back in that kitchen.”

  “Because I love it?” Pen snaps. “Or because you hate it?”

  “Trust me, Pen.” His voice is low and full of regret. “After almost twenty years… After what I’ve been through, you would too.”

  “Is that what you think you’re protecting me from? Your life?” Her voice shakes. “What about my life?”

  He reaches the door. “Go live it.”

  When it falls closed and I hear the latch fasten, I pull myself out from under the bed.

  Pen stares at the floor. “That’s it, isn’t it? If the other night didn’t change his mind… nothing will.”

  I pull her against my chest, trying to quell what I can feel are sobs. But she won’t let them reach the surface.

  “He’s wrong,” I say. “One day he’ll see it.”

  “And what if he doesn’t?”

  “He’ll regret it.”

  Her voice comes out cold, numb. “We both will.”

  My cell phone screams from the kitchen counter. I let it ring to voice mail. A few seconds later they call again.

  Pen wipes her eyes. “It’s probably work.”

  I flip through Angel’s text messages. “I’m sorry.”

  “Lunch rush,” she murmurs. “It’s okay.”

  “I’m telling him I can’t come in.”

  She halts my typing. “Don’t. I’ll be fine.”

  “But I’d rather stay here with you.”

  “And I’d rather not have both of us get fired from my father’s restaurant.” A faint smile cuts into her cheeks. It quickly disappears as she says, “Besides, I have to go to work in a couple of hours, anyway.”

  I examine her more closely, afraid of leaving her alone. “Is this you doing the scary thing?”

  She looks down, tugging on the hem of my shirt. “I’ve been doing the scary thing.” She meets my eyes again. “And I can keep doing it.”

  “But not alone. Not anymore.”

  She presses her forehead to mine. “Thank you.” And then she pushes me out the door.

  “Can I see you later?”

  I won’t be able to leave without knowing when I’ll see her again. As if leaving without making plans will open the world up to all kinds of disasters, my entire life unraveling unless it’s tethered to some moment with her in the future.

  “I get off late tonight,” she says. “But tomorrow I’m free around seven.”

  “Tomorrow, then,” I say.

  “Tomorrow.”

  She kisses me and I hang onto it for too long.

  “You’re gonna be late,” she reminds me in a whisper.

  I press my face to her neck.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  23

  Pen

  THE CITRUS PEEL I’M grating revives the memory of Xander’s lips, the heat starting in my taste buds before traveling, inch by inch.

  And then he said, I love you.

  I wasn’t sure if I was ready—for what I was feeling and what I wasn’t. I was afraid of the fact that I wasn’t afraid of him. Not even a little bit.

  But what if I was wrong? What if I was just grasping for something permanent because everything else in my life felt like such a mess? What if my body and my heart and that voice in the back of my mind were just lying to me? What if that was all they’d ever done?

  I’ve lied to the people I love before, I’ve lied to myself, but every word I say around Xander doesn’t feel like one. The words he says don’t feel like lies either.

  … the magic is you.

  You.

  I stare down into my pancake mix, trying to sense something supernatural. Lemon zest, blueberries, vanilla extract, cinnamon. Ingredients placed in my pantry by strangers, random and not rescuing anyone. I don’t feel like magic, and if there were something special about my food, my father wouldn’t still be keeping me from the restaurant. Whatever spell I’ve cast over Xander hasn’t worked on him. Because there isn’t one.

  Or maybe that’s just another lie. One I’m telling myself, one my father believes out of fear that I’ll turn out just like him. That I’ll be happy about it.

  I thought when we were working side by side the other night that he finally understood how my food makes me feel. But now I know that none of that matters. Not enough to change his mind.

  But I can’t change mine either, and even though I’m not sure if Xander’s right, if there’s magic in what I make, I know there’s magic in the way it makes me feel. That’s how I’m going to survive this, by creating each day from scratch. Starting with this one.

  I pour the first pancake into the center of the pan, the sizzle a welcome sound. The last time I made pancakes was also the last normal morning before my lie ripped everything apart at the seams. I’d been so anxious, spoon furiously beating the side of the bowl while Hugo looked on, both of us completely oblivious to the fact that everything was about to change.

  After I down an entire stack, I peer through the peephole, checking that the hallway’s empty before easing out the door. I graze each key on my chain, my hand shaking as I slip the right one into the lock. It sticks and I take a deep breath, sliding it in straight. Footsteps rush past me and I tense.

  The two kids I dragged down this very hallway for obnoxiously knocking on my door are sword fighting with foil-covered cardboard. They stop when they see me, swords falling at their sides. I expect them to run and hide but instead they stare, the younger one taking a tentative step closer.

  He points to a piece of foil pinned to his chest. “This is my hall monitor badge. My mom made it for me.”

  I lean closer, HALL written in marker and spelled with one l. “I like it.”

  He looks down, cheeks red. “Thanks.”

  “We’ll watch your apartment while you’re gone,” the older one says. “If you want…”

  There’s a hard knot in the back of my throat. “Wait here.”

  I head back inside my apartment, pulling some leftover cupcakes from the fridge. The two boys are waiting a few inches from the door when I step back out.

  “For your services.” I hand them the cupcakes, and they immediately peel back the foil. “You two shouldn’t be working for free.”

  As I head toward the elevator, their cheeks are already stuffed. The doors ding open and they run off, swords raised. They’re arguing over who gets the last cupcake, the doors closing just as the loser is be
headed, the winner swallowing his spoils.

  When I arrive at El Pequeño Toro, not a single trace of sugar left on my tongue, I’m immediately afflicted by the same permanent scowl that every other employee has mastered in an attempt to scare away customers.

  At first, it’s just a twitch, a weight tugging at my mouth. Then I finally let it sink there. Honestly, it doesn’t matter whether I smile or frown or bare my teeth. The little felt mustache, which has now become a mandatory part of my uniform when I’m running the drive-through, will hide any emotions, or lack thereof, that I choose to express.

  The emotion I’m feeling at the end of my shift is a mix between impatience and indifference until Josie comes over to inform me that David had a family emergency and she needs me to cover his shift too.

  For the next four hours I push buttons and count change and shove bags into people’s hands without so much as blinking. Just as I’m on the verge of collapse, Claudia clocks in behind me.

  I don’t dare attempt small talk, but over my shoulder I can sense her staring.

  She comes up beside me, refilling the condiments by the drive-through window. “I thought your shift ended a couple of hours ago.”

  “I’m covering for David. He had a ‘family’ emergency.”

  She refills the napkins, finding other things to organize or clean up in my work area. I don’t know why she’s hovering and I don’t really care to ask.

  “I didn’t think you’d come in today,” she says.

  “I’m on the schedule.” I push food into a sedan, closing the window before they can ask for more hot sauce.

  Claudia stops, the disdain that’s usually on her face replaced by something softer, something that makes both of us uncomfortable. “I heard about what happened,” she finally says.

  The memory flashes across my face, just for a second. I pass another order through the window before quickly keying in the next one.

  “Pen, are you okay?”