The door opened and Julianna rushed in. She briefly stopped and scanned the room for an empty seat, then quickly went toward a spot on my left. A few people briefly looked up, half-interested, but then continued with their conversations and menu perusal.
I discreetly watched her, trying to figure out if she was all right.
She glanced up at me briefly and said, “Sorry I’m late.”
With difficulty, I turned my attention back to the board, but not before noticing Brit. She had a smirk on her face that made my stomach drop. I turned my back to the class and pretended to study the board.
This was going to be a very long day, and apparently not the fun it normally would be. My goal was just to get through it. I didn’t even care at this point how the food turned out.
“Harira is a tomato-lentil and chickpea soup seasoned with ginger, cinnamon, and fresh herbs. Seffa medfouna is a very popular dish, which usually has saffron chicken, lamb, or beef, but what makes it unusual is that it’s covered in a dome of couscous or vermicelli. We’ll be using vermicelli, known as chaariya. It’s also unusual in that it’s a main course dish but it’s sweetened with dried fruit and sugar.” At some people’s screwed-up expressions, I quickly added, “But it works. You’ll see.”
Julianna’s face was tilted up toward the ceiling, a far-away look on her face. I briefly wondered what she was thinking about.
“And, finally, we’re going to have a special-occasion cookie called kaab el ghazal, gazelle ankles or gazelle horns. They’re made with almond paste rolled in pastry dough and molded into boomerang shapes. And after this week’s cooking, I think it’s a special occasion.”
The class expressed agreement by calling out “Yeah!” or “Woo hoo!” At this minor uproar, Julianna’s attention was drawn back down and she looked around. Finally, she looked at me directly. Suddenly I felt like crying. I tightened my jaw to shut down any waterworks that were building up. She blinked a couple of times and turned away, her brows furrowed. Damn, I just didn’t get anything about what was going on.
I gave the class a few minutes to look over the menu, while I looked at my notes. Happy, excited chatter filled the room.
When I felt I could continue, I turned back toward the class. “Okay, everyone know what they’d like to work on?” Each student claimed his or her assignment and when almost every task was taken, I realized that Julianna had not volunteered for anything.
“Julianna, would you like to help out with the seffa medfouna?”
She raised her head, a forlorn expression on her face, and shrugged her shoulders. “Sure.”
That was the least enthusiastic I’d seen her over the past few days. Maybe I didn’t understand her, but I felt I knew her enough to say that it was uncharacteristic.
For the remainder of the day, I focused on the other students and what they were doing. I stopped and worked with anyone who needed help, and answered questions.
When I got to Brit, she was having trouble cubing her potatoes evenly and my attempt to demonstrate the technique wasn’t working. Some students needed more direct guidance, and Brit was one of them. So I stepped behind her and put my arms on either side of her and put one hand on each of hers. I guided the knife in her right hand while positioning the potato in her left. I made several cubes with her so that she could feel how the knife should feel slicing through the potato and how her knuckles should guide the knife. It probably looked like a scene out of Ghost, but my intent was only to help Brit learn the proper cutting technique.
“There. See? You think you got it now?”
Brit laughed and said, “Yes, mon capitaine. Thank you.”
Stepping back, I laughed as well. “Any time.” I started to walk away, then turned back halfway and inclined my head toward her dramatically. “And it’s ‘Yes, chef,’” I said emphatically. Brit laughed again, as did everyone at her table.
I became aware then of what I’d just done and how it must have looked. But I didn’t do anything with Brit that I hadn’t done with countless other students.
As I moved on to the next table, I scanned the room and caught Julianna’s eye. She was looking at me very pointedly and with determination. As of yet, I hadn’t seen that look. It was new, and it kind of scared me. I was probably just reading something into it. I moved on to the next student.
At the end of the afternoon, our last meal together as a class was ready. The classroom, saturated with the aromas of Africa and the Mediterranean, was hot and steamy and reminiscent of the North African landscape. I put on a CD of Moroccan music as my assistants cleaned up the tables, pushed them together, and arranged place settings for the students. The students themselves placed their finished dishes along the center of the communal table.
I opened a bottle of wine and brought it over to the table, where everyone was now taking a seat.
“I want to congratulate you all on a job well done. I really hope that you enjoyed this class and feel like you’ve learned something. Cheers!” I held up my glass.
“Cheers!” echoed around the table.
The meal was restaurant-worthy. As was often the case, a few of the students became friends and exchanged business cards or phone numbers.
Brit, across the table from me, was grinning slyly, seemingly at nothing. Her attention was on nothing in particular as she ate her food with gusto and engaged everyone around her in small talk.
Julianna politely took bites of her meatballs and seffa medfouna while her neighbor chatted. She said something in return once or twice and occasionally threw a glance at me. I couldn’t read her face. Her nonchalance was maddening. Was she angry with me or not? She hadn’t said a word to me all day and her demeanor seemed to change from one minute to the next.
Our meal finished, I thanked everyone again and informed them that I’d be teaching additional classes. “Please don’t forget to leave the evaluation forms you received in your packets at the front desk.” Papers in hand, the students began to leave.
I waved my hand to capture Julianna’s attention. When I had it, I mouthed and gestured my request for her to stay.
Brit waited until everyone except Julianna was gone, then approached me. “So we’ll talk Monday?”
“Yeah.” The air could not have been heavier as I tried to breathe normally. Brit lingered a moment, her eyes boring into mine.
Oh, please, just go already.
With a quick sideways glance at Julianna, she turned and left in her usual slinky way.
To her credit, Julianna kept her eyes on her canvas tote bag, filling it with her things slowly. Only when Brit had exited the room did she look up at me again.
The urge to apologize was strong but I didn’t know why, since I hadn’t done anything. That was turning into a regular thing lately. Maybe some sort of PTSD reaction after my last relationship.
Despite the wonderful meal I’d just had, my stomach roiled with acid. I gulped some air just before Julianna came over to me. I thought for sure that she was going to tell me to go to hell.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi. Listen, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about earlier.” I pointed to where Brit and I had our Patrick Swayze-Demi Moore moment.
Before I could continue, she held up her hand. “It’s okay. I know.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Yes, at first I thought you were getting your swerve on, but after watching you for a while, I realized what you were doing.”
Either despondency or relief must have been plastered all over my face because her eyes softened and her mouth curved up soothingly.
“It’s okay. Really.”
“So we’re good?”
“Yes.” She leaned in and pecked me on the lips. “We’re good.” My knees gelatinized.
“So, can we get together this weekend? I’d love to see you.”
“Definitely. But I won’t be free until Sunday evening.”
“Okay, why don’t I cook for you? At my place.”
“S
ounds great. Let me give you my number.” I pulled my phone from my back pocket, called up the “new contact” page, and handed it to her. She put in her number and gave the phone back. I felt like I’d just won the lottery. I’d have to tell Sasha, “Better luck next time.”
“Okay. Bye,” she said, brighter.
She left and I felt as if she had taken part of my heart with her.
The timing of our date actually worked out for me because I spent much of the next two days calling everyone I knew to help me with Brit’s party. I was drafting a little flyer to post at school to get student volunteers when I got the idea to ask Julianna. I knew she needed the money and I was more than willing to help her out.
And maybe this would help her truly believe that I wasn’t interested in Brit. I mean, if I were, I wouldn’t invite Julianna to help me cater her party, would I?
Dinner
WHEN MY DOORBELL rang, I felt a stirring in my belly that I hadn’t experienced in so long that I’d forgotten how good it felt. The nausea, the tightness, the pounding head. It was definitely part of the pleasure-pain principle.
I wiped my hands with a towel, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Julianna stood there, a bottle of wine in her hand, and my heart jackhammered. She’d put on a little makeup and done her hair differently, sort of spiky. It was hot. Not that she needed to wear makeup—she was beautiful just as she was. But I thought it was so cute and flattering that she wanted to look good for me. At least, that’s what I thought she was doing.
Everything was just as I’d wanted it. I’d left the A/C running all afternoon to make sure it would be cool enough in the apartment after cooking. The candles on the table were lit and the air smelled delectable.
“Hi, come on in.”
She stepped inside the threshold, then turned to face me. I was about to tell her to go in and make herself comfortable when she pulled her other hand from behind her back. A bouquet of Gerber daisies. Any solidity left to my heart melted.
Now with both hands extended, offering me wine and flowers, she smiled shyly, but enough to bring out her dimples.
“Wow, you are so incredibly sweet,” I said, wishing I’d come up with something better. I took them from her and led her inside.
“I remembered the tattoo, which I love, by the way.”
My face burned and she saw because she looked pleased. She ran her hand up my arm, and my entire body shook. “You are so cute when you blush,” she teased. “Do you blush everywhere?”
My tongue thickened, which I hoped would come in handy later, but it wasn’t so great right now for conversation. At the moment, I felt like I was thirteen again with a major crush on Jocelyn Rogers, the first girl who broke my heart. Would Julianna break my heart? At this point, I was more worried that I’d be a dumbass and do something to drive her away.
I closed my eyes for a second, and prayed that I would, at some point that evening, pull myself together to have some intelligent conversation.
“Thanks. I’ll go put these in water.” I held the daisies up and went in search of a vase, hoping that I’d come up with something interesting to say..
As it turned out, I didn’t have anything to worry about, because intelligent conversation was something that we did well, during and after dinner. My dinner was perfect, too. I made a special meal of pear-endive salad, beet-stuffed ravioli with buerre noisette, tempeh and brown basmati-stuffed cubanelle peppers, and roasted asparagus with lemon and parmesan. For dessert, there were molten lava mini cakes in the oven, and fresh raspberries steeped in vermouth and lime zest. I had also chilled a nice bottle of Moscato to round it all out.
We sipped the sweet wine slowly, enjoying the complex flavor.
“Dessert wine is generally served with dessert,” I said, chuckling, “but dessert needs a couple more minutes.”
Julianna put her glass down and her cheeks turned a sweet coral pink. “I have a confession to make.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I never was going to have a Moroccan dinner party.”
“No?”
“No. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you and that was the only thing I could think of saying.”
The Moscato had loosened my muscles and relaxed my pulse, which had been racing all evening, and I burst out laughing. “That is so awesome.”
She laughed with me and, falling into the effects of the wine, we finished off another glass, leaving a bit for after dinner.
When the lava cakes were done, I painstakingly made little hearts on the plates by putting a few dots of vanilla cream around the cakes and running the tip of my knife through them. In a moment of panic, I almost wiped off the little hearts, thinking that maybe that would seem too pushy or sappy. But then I thought that maybe she’d think it was cute.
Well, shit. I’d gotten this far on taking chances. I’d might as well keep going.
I brought the plates to the table and put one in front of Julianna. Her eyes lit up. “This is beautiful! And I’m sure it tastes as good as it looks.”
“Thanks. I hope so.” I sat down and looked at her. She was waiting for me to start, so I picked up my spoon. “Well, dig in.”
Julianna pressed her spoon into her cake with such anticipation on her face that I worried about disappointing her. When the chocolate ganache oozed out of the center, spilling into a pool in the center of her plate, her eyes widened and she licked her lips. My heart beat faster.
She lifted the cake to her mouth, slowly closed her lips around it, and closed her eyes. Did she moan?
“Oh. My. God. This is scrumptious,” she murmured. I would’ve completely melted with happiness if it hadn’t been for one thing. She had said nothing about the little hearts, one way or the other.
I looked down at my plate, at the little cream-colored hearts, and felt childish. Geez, I could be such a dork. I broke into my cake and watched the chocolate run out, probably like all my chances of succeeding with this wonderful woman sitting across from me.
“I love these,” she said.
“Hmm? What?”
“The hearts. I love them.”
“Really?”
“Yes. They’re very pretty. And very romantic.”
The warm, liquid chocolate in my plate was looking more like what was becoming of my heart.
Everything was perfect. And Julianna thought so, too, and she told me several times, much to my delight.
When our napkins were covered in chocolate and we had sighed with satisfaction, I stood up and grabbed our plates. Julianna stood up, too. “Can I help?” she asked.
“What you can do is take our glasses and wait for me on the couch.”
She giggled. “I think you might be trying to get me drunk. That’s okay, though. I trust you.” She went into the living room while I threw everything into the sink. I’d deal with the dishes later.
Sitting next to her, I once again felt like I had in junior high school, but this time I was experiencing the exhilarating stuff that happens when you’re thirteen and fourteen. Those days when you are just beginning to explore your sexuality and physical encounters. But at the same time, I hadn’t felt this comfortable with anyone in a long time.
She took a sip of her Moscato and drew her knees up onto the couch and faced me, glass in hand. “You know, I don’t believe in games and while I think some wooing is good, I think sometimes you need to be straight up.”
“Wooing?” I laughed.
She laughed, too. “Yeah. You know, courting, seducing, pitching woo, whatever you want to call it. It’s fun. But there’s a time and a place for it.”
“Oh, so serious.” I pretended to frown.
“Well, sometimes, you have to make your intentions known.”
I said nothing and waited for her to continue.
“I really like you and I’d like to see if we can take this somewhere. How about you?”
My heart must have skipped several beats and I didn’t know whether to indulge my feelings of elation or if I should
keep my guard up and proceed with caution.
I decided, fuck caution because if you don’t open up the door, love will never come in.
“I feel the same way.”
She took another sip of and put the glass down on the coffee table. “Okay. Good. So now we can get back to wooing.”
“Uh-huh. And how do we do that?”
She leaned over and lightly draped herself on me. Her lips were only a hair’s width away from mine when she said in a low, throaty voice, “By taking it slow. Achingly, torturously slow, until every inch of our bodies throb with desire and the mere thought of one another brings us close to coming.”
The room was suddenly brutally hot and my forehead broke out into a sweat and my throat swelled. “Wow,” I barely managed.
She pulled herself back upright, crossed my body with a really seductive motion, and picked up her glass.
In other words, we were going to be old school and hold off jumping into the sack until we were both ready. I was motionless for a few beats, then I breathed deeply and cleared my throat. “In that case, I have a proposition for you.”
One of her eyebrows shot up. My chest fluttered and my belly tightened. “Uh, yes, well, this is a business proposition.”
First she pouted playfully, then she said, “Oh?”
“I’m catering a party—Brit’s sister’s birthday party. It’s only two weeks away and I need help. Would you be interested? It’s a chance to earn a few bucks.”
Julianna’s eyes widened in a mixture of thrill and apprehension. “I—I’ve never done anything like that before. I mean, I’ve thrown parties, but I’ve never catered any.”
“There’s nothing to it,” I said, taking her hand. “All you have to do is follow my instructions. You’ll be helping me prep and plate. I’ll be doing most of the actual cooking.” I paused but she remained silent and wide-eyed.
“I haven’t been able to get anyone else with such short notice. I may be able to scrounge up a few students, but there’s no guarantee. And, besides, you said you needed the money, so here’s a way to make some. Please.”
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