“Nice to see you,” Marcus says, puppy-dog eyes gleaming. And I have to admit, it’s nice to see him too, especially since the last few hours have been full of things I’d rather unsee. I don’t know how he acts around most people, but he always seems genuinely pleased to share my company, and since I’m feeling very unwanted at the moment, I’m drawn to him more than usual.
“Did I miss anything exciting tonight?” I ask, hopping off the barstool.
“Nah, it was kind of dead….No pun intended.” I snicker, and he blushes, his cheeks filling up with a smile. “So, um, I was just going to head back to my dorm,” he says. He grips the ends of his scarf nervously, rocking back on his heels. He takes a deep breath and adds, “Do you…want to come? Maybe see what campus life is like?”
I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. Several missed texts with a similar “where are you?” theme light up my screen. I dismiss the messages with such intensity it’s a shock I don’t crack the glass. Thinking of Charlie all polka-dotted and happy next to an equally colorful Kim propels me to say, “Sure.”
“THIS…is a dorm?”
Marcus is fumbling for his keys outside of a brick four-story building that looks nothing like a typical college residence. When I did my campus tour of the Culinary Institute last year, our guide had mentioned how there’s not much student housing on campus, and most tend to get apartments nearby. Forget about the sprawling college dormitories you’ve seen on TV and movies, she said, because Chicago schools just don’t have that kind of real estate. But I didn’t expect this: it looks like a converted warehouse, all open and industrial and cool as hell.
“It’s new; they just acquired the building last semester,” Marcus says, guiding me up the stairs. “I guess they’re trying to offer more living space so not as many students will have to commute in for classes, but probably they’re just trying to make extra money.”
I’m only half listening, though, because he is living my DREAM and I don’t want to hear anything even remotely negative about it.
His actual room is quite small, sparsely decorated, though I haven’t spent enough time in random boys’ rooms to know if interior design ranks on male living concerns. The space is pretty claustrophobic, with four manila walls closing in, compounded by the fact that half the room is occupied by another human. When we walk in, his roommate doesn’t even look up, mesmerized by his laptop. Marcus makes no attempt to get his attention either, and since the two of them are comfortable with mutual avoidance, I do the same, having mastered that skill after four years of high school. Looks like I’m more prepared for college than I thought!
Marcus has several stacks of poetry books around his bed—his BED.
There’s nowhere to sit except his bed.
We both seem to realize this simultaneously, eyeing the mattress with uncertainty. He runs his fingers through his closely clipped hair, and I swear I see a bead of sweat drip down his forehead. This was his idea, but Marcus isn’t handling having a girl in his room very well. I’m not even a romantic prospect, but he’s all jittery, like his inner shyness has clawed its way out to a physical manifestation. And I don’t blame him; I mean, something about a bed implies…activities. Since I certainly didn’t come here for that, and he looks closer to vomiting than putting the moves on me, the whole thing is much more awkward than I’d anticipated. Not that I’d put much thought into this outing in the first place. Hooray for impulsiveness!
We sit, knees practically touching, the muffled sounds of an undeterminable band coming from his roommate’s headphones. I can’t stand this painful discomfort, so I just start rambling.
“So this is the Culinary Institute.”
He nods, giving me nothing.
“And you like it here, right?”
More nodding. More nothing.
“Right, how could you not? You get to cook all day—for class! That’s amazing. I would love to be baking instead of balancing equations and memorizing leaders from ancient civil wars. Your classes must be so awesome; hey, can we go see a classroom?”
This gives him pause. “It’s ten o’clock at night.”
“So?” I say, desperate for a change in scenery.
“So…they probably aren’t open.”
“But you don’t know for sure.”
“I mean, I’ve never had the urge to make crème brûlée in the middle of the night….”
“You haven’t?!” I exclaim.
He laughs, breaking the tension, and I can feel his wave of relief as we head back out into the night, yet I almost detect a twinge of regret. That can’t be it, though, because he seems much more relaxed and back to his usual amount of Marcus angst once we’re outside one of the school’s main buildings. We try a few locked doors before finally finding an open one; thank you, incompetent nameless janitor.
Even though it’s late and we’re technically trespassing, Marcus perks up, a proud pup showing off. We slip into a large room that’s easily one of the most beautiful spaces I’ve ever seen: rows of gleaming metal tables, with hanging pot racks displaying every size of copper pot and saucepan known to man. Drawer after drawer of cutlery, wall after wall of hanging aprons; I almost cry after noticing the Bakers Pride convection oven. It’s like the biggest, most well-stocked Williams-Sonoma ever, without the exorbitant price tags to deter you from diving in. I want to touch everything, to fire up the stovetop and cover myself in stacks of recipe books, and I almost do, until I see—the FOOD. A built-in refrigerator that takes up an entire wall, with glass doors proudly displaying all the climate-controlled deliciousness within.
I actually shed a tear.
“Do you just love every single day of your life?” I whisper.
Marcus stands tall, chest out, his surroundings filling him with confidence. For as long as I’ve known him, his presence has always been partially crumpled, like it’s too presumptuous for him to declare a physical space. But here he is poised, self-assured: a complete 180 from earlier. “I can’t complain,” he says with a grin.
“I mean, the Black Phoenix is not too shabby as far as kitchens go, but this…this!” I spin around, overcome with joy.
“It’s cool, no doubt, but being in an environment like this…it’s more cutthroat than you think,” he says with an eyebrow perched.
“More cutthroat than having a hell demon as a sous-chef?”
He nods. “You’ll see.”
“You think?”
“I know,” he says, taking a step toward me. “I’ve seen you in action; you’ve got the chops. No one can caramelize a calf’s brain like you.”
“Aww, I bet you say that to all the girls.” I take a deep breath, letting his admittedly absurd compliment fill my heart with hope. “I can’t wait. Thank you for bringing me here tonight. I needed this.”
“Happy to help.” Marcus inches forward again. “I like you being here with me,” he adds quietly.
Somehow we’re now in very close proximity, even more so than when we were sitting on his bed. I’m suddenly aware of his woodsy scent, which is usually masked by spices and oils, and how his dark brown eyes are two shades lighter than his skin—again, features I’ve never paid particularly close attention to. But it’s impossible not to notice now, with his eyes tracing the curves of my face, his mouth turned up in a hopeful smile.
This is not good, I say to myself. You shouldn’t be here. It’s clear to me now that an innocent campus tour has presented an opportunity for a werewolf to share feelings I didn’t realize existed. We’ve never been alone together, always surrounded by a collection of monsters and kitchen fumes masking any romantic inklings he’s been experiencing. Damn it! How did I not see this? Am I the worst matchmaker or what? I have to find an escape without hurting him.
He presses his lips together, leaning forward ever so slightly, and my eyes dance around the room, searching for an excuse. When I land on the clock, I call out, “Oh my Gods!”
Marcus reels, eyes wide in shock. “What’s wrong?”
> “It’s eleven thirty!” I cry. “I’m going to be in so much trouble!”
He snaps into action, free of whatever love bubble was encasing him. “Let’s get you a cab.”
We don’t say anything as we stand by the curb, trying to flag down a cabbie. I give him a little wave once I’m inside the car, and he barely manages to wave back, biting his lip like he’s just made a huge mistake.
I don’t have much time to process, though, because once I exit the cab, I find Charlie sitting on my front steps.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Charlie stands, peacoat unable to contain the chip on his shoulder. “Uh, I thought we had plans? To talk to my dad?”
“Well I didn’t know for sure, since you pretty much disappeared after school,” I say, matching his bitter tone.
“I had an MA meeting. I thought you knew that.”
Oh, I know everything, I say to myself, brain flashing back to the paint-splattered flirtfest.
“So where have you been? You didn’t answer my texts. I stopped by because I was worried about you,” he presses on.
I cross my arms in stupid defiance. “Out.”
“Obviously. Where? With who?”
I picture Marcus leaning in to kiss me, and my stomach turns. “Marcus. From work.”
“Okay…” He waits for more details, but I can’t bring myself to share. I stand in the cold, trying to remind myself of the feelings that fueled me to go off with Marcus in the first place, but now everything is cycloning together, like a horrible tornado of guilt, anger, and regret. What am I even doing anymore?
“This isn’t like you,” Charlie says. “I don’t understand why you won’t just talk to me.”
He’s right, I know he’s right, but for some reason I can’t give him that satisfaction. I feel like I’m on a crumbling ledge, and even the slightest movement will cause a cave-in. I want to reach out, I do, but will he be there if I fall? Do I even deserve to be caught?
When I don’t answer, he waves his arms in frustration. “Okay, well, it’s late and I’m tired.” He starts walking to his car, before turning back to me. “Are you gonna go to the carnival with me tomorrow?” he asks, eyes more sad than hopeful.
“Yeah,” I say, the most enthusiastic response of all time. If you still want me to, I say to myself.
“Great.” His voice is flat.
Can’t wait.
“I think our choices are nachos or a hot dog on a stick.” Charlie reads from a cartoonish food truck menu. Everything is printed in neon bubble letters, making it impossible to decipher what kind of overpriced “food” the vendor is pushing. “Although, maybe this says corned beef, instead of corn dog? That wouldn’t be a thing, right?”
I barely look up, choosing to pick at a loose thread on my coat. “Corned beef doesn’t really scream winter carnival,” I say through a frown. “Shouldn’t you know what’s on the menu? You spent so much time planning this.”
His face points to the sky, like he’s looking toward the Gods to give him strength. He inhales deeply through his nose, a string of comebacks surely circling his skull. But because he’s the son of a politician and a natural peacemaker, he simply replies with, “I wasn’t on food.”
I make a noncommittal grumbling sound, and Charlie orders us some cheese fries. You’d think my culinary aspirations would turn me off artificial foods, but I do love me some processed nacho cheese: a point Charlie knows all too well.
“Try to enjoy this, okay?” he says, handing me a loaded fry. “If not for yourself, then for me. Despite my longtime disengagement from this school, I did try to make this carnival semi-enjoyable, and someday, we’ll look back on our senior year winter carnival with rose-tinted nostalgia, right before we yell at meddlesome kids to get off our lawn.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping me from saying something truly horrible. “Ugh, fine. But only because I’ll get to scold children someday.”
“That’s the spirit.” He kisses me through my wool beanie, and I try to let his warmth run through. At least he’s trying, I think. But my heart is struggling to thaw, and it’s not from the cold.
The senior class is crammed into Manchester’s comically small parking lot, where a series of carnival games, rides, and food trucks are parked for a night of winter enchantment. I’m not one for crowds, or classmates, or rides that were only assembled hours before; all of this is making me scream to go home. But because things between Charlie and me are chilly at best, I agreed to plaster on a smile for exactly one hour, during which we’d meet up with Amani and drink hot chocolate. My soggy marshmallows are almost gone, and we still haven’t found her. It seems like every single Manchester senior is here, in pursuit of games with oversize teddy bear prizes and dark corners to make out in. Maybe it’s my constant presence at Navy Pier’s nonstop carnival, but the whole thing seems ridiculous, except for the part where Charlie’s arm is wrapped around me. Even though I hate this, I’d rather he be here, next to me, instead of in one of those dark corners.
Finally, we find Amani, who in turn has found Kim. Fantastic. They’re both trying their luck at a game where you have to squirt water at a target to make metal ponies run. The fact that the water isn’t frozen is maybe the most magical thing here.
“Five bucks on number nine!” I yell, throwing my support behind Amani’s horse in an attempt to get into the spirit of things. The race comes to its photo finish, and Amani and Kim spin around, total losers at the game but winners in effort.
“I was robbed,” Amani says. “My horse had a bad knee.”
“Yeah, and I think mine had gait problems,” Kim adds.
“Both of which, I’m sure, are undoubtedly true,” I say. Kim sends a bright smile my way, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to shoot back daggers. I quickly lock eyes with her to get her match reel over with, only there’s no way to prepare myself for the scene before me. At first, I think I’m having double vision; I see strands of white twinkle lights, just like the ones that hang above us now, and the swirl of a Tilt-A-Whirl, copied directly from the one to my right. Under flashing fluorescents, Kim and Charlie close in for a kiss, slow and sweet, while he holds a pink cotton candy puff and she holds on to him. There’s tinny carousel music playing, but is it in my head or in my ears? This scene could be right here, right now; it’s practically pulled from the present. I stumble back, breaking our eye contact, and frantically start looking for the corner where the couple in my vision were tucked away for an embrace. I don’t see it, but I sense it; the details are blurry, but the feelings are real. Was this a warning, a flash to the immediate future? Are Kim and Charlie about to have their first kiss?
“Are you okay?” Charlie clutches my forearm, his eyebrows knitted in concern. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Normally I take comfort in his touch, but now I’m completely numb. “I…I’m fine. Just dizzy from all this merriment,” I lie. I look up at him for a clue, but having already been treated to a separate scene of his togetherness with Kim earlier, all I see now is worry in his dark green eyes.
Amani signs, What just happened? But I shake my head. Our group wanders off to find the next cheap thrill, and I drift to the back, engulfed in angst. The carnival sights and sounds all fade into a single neon hum, matching the pulse of paranoia in my veins. What is happening and what is meant to be melt together into one solid lump where my heart resides. I’ve seen them together before, of course, but something about the immediacy of this vision gives it an urgency I can’t ignore. It replays on an infinite loop, pulverizing my senses and grinding me down to dust.
I’m going to lose him. I can’t stop it from happening. And the constant threat of his departure is something I can no longer bear.
I come back into focus just as Charlie and Kim are high-fiving over Skee-Ball, laughing and having fun, and something inside me snaps.
“ENOUGH!” I yell, turning three shocked pairs of eyes my way. Everyone’s quiet, like I just let
the air out of the fun balloon.
Charlie, still holding a ball, whips around, trying to find the cause of my outburst. “Amber, what?” he says after coming up empty.
“You! The two of you!” I wave an accusatory finger at the future pair. “I can’t take it anymore!”
“Are you serious?” he spits back. Horrified at being perceived in a negative light, Kim holds her hands up by her shoulders, palms out, displaying her innocence.
“I don’t understand. What did I do?” she asks.
Amani tiptoes to my side, like she’s approaching a beehive ready to burst. “Hey, maybe you want to take it down a notch, before it’s too late?” she says in my ear.
“No,” I lash back. “No, I do not. I have literally reached my max.” The vision that should have faded away by now keeps running on its circuit, adding fire to my flames.
Charlie grabs me by my waist, escorting me from the group. I try to squirm away, but he has quite a hold on me. As we hurry off, I hear Kim ask Amani, “What’s going on?”
He guides me to a spot far from the sounds of prize bells and ticket takers, by a relatively quiet cotton candy machine. Pink and blue puffs of fluff dangle from a pole—just like in my vision—while my relationship hangs in the balance.
“I have had enough of this.” He scowls, arms crossed firm. He’s mad—beyond mad. I’ve only seen him like this once, after his dad vanished in goblin cross fire. I didn’t know how to reassure him then, and I certainly don’t know what to say now. “Are you having some sort of psychotic break?”
I kick a discarded pop can. “Maybe.”
“Why? Do you have Skee-Ball-related PTSD you want to fill me in on?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, I’m being ridiculous?” He gestures to himself overdramatically. “I didn’t just have a fit in front of everyone.”
The Sweetest Kind of Fate Page 11
