Infinite Repeat

by Paula Stokes

  “I can probably handle that,” I say.

  “Perfecto. See you in a little while.”

  Right as I get to my car, I get a better idea. Turning around, I jog back into the coffee shop and nearly bump into Ebony on her way out. She’s got an army-green messenger bag slung over one shoulder and a to-go cup full of soda in her other hand.

  “Where’s Mr. Mitchell?” I ask.

  “He’s in the office doing the orders.”

  “Do you think he’d let me cook some stuff here to bring to Amber?”

  “Aww.” Ebony pats my cheek with her free hand. “Such a quick learner. I’m sure he wouldn’t care as long as you pay for what you use.”

  “I might need a favor from you too,” I say hesitantly.

  She arches her pierced eyebrow. “I’m not going to play waitress. Sorry.”

  “No. I need some white wine for a sauce I want to make.”

  “Oh, sure. I think I have a couple of bottles in my purse.” She fakes like she’s going to pull wine out of her messenger bag and then turns back to face me. “Sorry. I guess I drank them at lunch.”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, I say, “I was thinking maybe you’d buy me some.”

  Ebony cackles. “You have got to be the only kid in the history of ever who asks someone to buy him booze so he can cook with it.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m lame. Whatever. Will you do it?”

  “Why not?” She’s still chuckling under her breath. “Will one of those little single servings work? And you can dump what you don’t use? I’m sure an adult beverage would go great with whatever you’re planning, but I don’t want you driving around with an open container.”

  “No worries. I only need a little for the sauce and Amber doesn’t even drink.”

  “A rock star who doesn’t drink?”

  “She’s far from straitlaced, but her dad’s a recovering alcoholic,” I say.

  “Ah.” Ebony nods. “Well, yeah, I have time to hook you up. But find out from Keith if it’s okay first.”

  Even though Ebony is technically my boss, she’s only about five years older than me and she jokes around like we’re equals, so I feel comfortable talking to her. It’s a little different with Keith—Mr. Mitchell. He seems like a nice guy, but he doesn’t chat much with his employees—especially not the kitchen crew. Sometimes I wonder if he’s afraid of us, or if he’s back there in the office googling our criminal records instead of processing payroll and ordering supplies. I guess with all our tattoos and piercings (and C-4’s foot-long beard), we might look a little intimidating to the average dad, but hey, he let Ebony hire us.

  I stroll into the office, doing my best to look nonthreatening, reminding myself that it’s no big deal if Mr. Mitchell says no. I can always just get the Sub Station food as planned, and it’s not like Amber will be disappointed.

  He’s sitting in front of his computer, which is so old it still has a disk drive. I knock on the door frame and he looks up at me. “Everything okay, Micah?”

  “Yeah.” I tuck my hands into my pockets. “I was wondering if I could cook something here. Uh, it’s a surprise for my girlfriend. I want to take it over to her house.”

  “Something off the menu?”

  “Probably not.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “I mean, the menu is great and all, but I was thinking about stuffing chicken breasts and making a white wine beurre blanc to go on top. And then if it’s okay, I wanted to do a chocolate mousse cake for dessert? Kind of like one of our brownies, only amped up a little.”

  “Wow,” Mr. Mitchell says. “That’s an elaborate meal. What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s a congratulations thing. Her band just recorded an album.”

  “Impressive.” Mr. Mitchell takes off his glasses and polishes them on his shirt. “Well, we don’t have wine, of course, but you’re welcome to help yourself to some chicken and whatever else you need. Just make a list of what you use and I’ll charge you the wholesale price.”

  “Awesome,” I say. “Thanks a lot. I’ll use the prep area and stay out of everyone’s way.”

  “Are you going to need help with anything?” Mr. Mitchell asks.

  “Nope. I got it. I found the dessert recipe online last night and it’s pretty straightforward.”

  “Nice. Let me know how it works out. I’ve been meaning to update the menu someday.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Be sure to clean up after you’re done.”

  “Will do. And Ebony said she’d get me the wine. But only for cooking,” I add quickly.

  “Right. Only for cooking.” Mr. Mitchell smiles wryly. “I do remember what it was like to be young, you know.”

  “Yeah?” I fiddle with my barbed-wire bracelet. “I mean, of course you do. You’re not that old.”

  His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. “Good to know.”

  Shit. Did I just call my boss old? “Thanks again,” I say hurriedly. “Bye.”

  I duck out of the office and start gathering everything I’ll need before Mr. Mitchell can change his mind. I’m going to make tonight a do-over of last night. First, I will rock Amber’s world with an amazing dinner. And afterward I’ll tell her about April 5th, about why I was so weird, hopefully without her phone blowing up a thousand times during the conversation.

  Chapter 7

  It takes me two hours to get everything prepared just the way I want it. I start with the chocolate cake so it has time to bake and cool. Then I work on the chocolate mousse, adding all the ingredients to a small saucepan and slowly bringing them to a boil. I prep the chicken filling, butterfly and pound the breasts, stuff them, and put them in the oven. Ebony returns with a single-serve bottle of wine just as I’m whipping the heavy cream for the mousse. She hangs out to observe for a few minutes, her eyes following the beaters as they whirl through the mixing bowl.

  “Now I see why Amber puts up with your crap,” she says. “Maybe you can go on tour with Arachne’s Revenge and be their cook.”

  “No thanks.” I remove the bowl from the mixer and fold the chocolate mixture into the whipped cream. “I’d rather open my own restaurant.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure this’ll more than make up for being a head case.” Ebony grabs a spatula from a tray of utensils and scrapes a little mousse off the side of the mixing bowl. Her eyes roll back in her head as she tastes it. “Whoa. I think your talents are wasted here.”

  “So it’s good?” I can’t keep from grinning. “It’s called Chocolate Mousse Trifecta.”

  “It’s called somebody is getting lucky tonight.”

  “Nah. Her parents will be home. But I’m lucky she’s not pissed at me, right?”

  “Barf. So whipped.” Ebony coughs into her hand. “And I’m not talking about your fabulous mousse either.”

  “Get lost.” I grab the mini bottle of wine and pour some of it into a saucepan. I add a slosh of vinegar and turn up the heat.

  “Good idea. But first . . .” Ebony reaches for the mixing bowl again.

  “No double-dipping.” I slap the spatula out of her hand and it lands on the floor, spraying flecks of mousse around her boots.

  “You are so cleaning that up.” She grins as she turns and heads for the front. “Have fun tonight.”

  “I plan on it.”

  After Ebony leaves, I layer the two types of mousse on top of the cake and put the dessert in the freezer to set. I finish making the beurre blanc, slowly adding the small bits of real butter to the sauce to keep it from breaking. Then I package up everything into Styrofoam to-go containers. Lainey’s dad looks at my list of ingredients and charges me ten bucks, which I know is probably way less than what I actually owe.

  “Thanks again,” I say, heading out into the sun. It’s a little after six thirty. Amber and the band should be done by now.

  Amber’s mom lets me in when I get to her house. “They’re in the basement, of course,” she says. “They’ve been at it all day.”

  I don’t hear any musi
c coming through the floor. Maybe the band is just finishing up. “Yeah, she seems really committed,” I say.

  Amber’s dad looks up from where he’s flipping through a magazine on the sofa. “I’m about ready to be committed,” he jokes. He drops the magazine onto the coffee table. “I don’t understand how you kids all aren’t deaf from that music.”

  “We probably will be eventually,” I admit. Gesturing at my containers from the restaurant, I say, “Can I borrow a knife? I brought cake.”

  “Help yourself.” Amber’s mom gestures toward a chopping block full of knives on the kitchen counter. “Just be careful.”

  I grab a chef’s knife to slice the cake and balance it on top of the cake pan and Styrofoam containers. Then I carefully open the door to the basement and make my way down the steps.

  The first thing I see is the entire band sitting on the couch in front of the TV.

  The second thing I see is Amber, sitting so close to Nate their legs are touching.

  The third thing I see is a pizza box on the coffee table.

  “Micah!” Amber looks up at me, a half-eaten slice of pizza dangling from her right hand. “Is it six already?”

  “Almost seven,” I say, setting everything down on the coffee table.

  “Sweet,” Nate exclaims. “Did you bring dessert?” He reaches for one of the containers.

  “If you touch that, you will lose a hand.” I glance meaningfully at the knife.

  Nate raises his arms in surrender. “Mellow out, boss. I was just joking.”

  “I’m plenty mellow,” I say through clenched teeth. “And I’m not your boss.”

  Amber’s guitarist, Damien, hops up from his seat. He stretches his arms over his head. “Long day, huh? Anyone need a ride home?”

  “Hold up.” Eli tosses his long, dark hair back from his face. “This is just beginning to get good.”

  “Eli, don’t start,” Amber warns.

  “Yeah, yeah. Fine.” Eli fiddles with the collar of his Naruto T-shirt. He twirls one drumstick in his right hand as he glances from me to Nate to Amber. “You said I can leave my kit here, right? Since we’ll be practicing again tomorrow?”

  Amber glances toward the drum set. “Sure. No point in pulling it all apart.”

  “I think I’ll leave my guitar too,” Damien says.

  The two of them head for the stairs. “Nate, you coming?” Eli asks.

  Nate stands up slowly, making a big show of how tall he is, a hint of challenge flickering in his stare. “I don’t know. Amber, are we done here?” he asks, not taking his dark eyes off me for a second.

  “Yeah.” She looks back and forth between the two of us. “See you tomorrow.”

  I wait until the three of them are gone before I say anything. “Thought you had family stuff tomorrow.”

  “I did. I mean I do,” she corrects herself. “Janne just wanted us to squeeze in another short practice before next Saturday since we might not be able to get together during the week with school and Nate’s work.”

  “Right. Nate’s work. Cancer might not get cured if he takes a day off from his crucial bar-back duties.”

  Anger flashes in Amber’s blue eyes. “Why are you being an ass? I already told you we’re just friends.”

  “Amber, that dude is trying to get with you. Do me a favor and stop pretending to be blind, okay?” I perch on the arm of the sofa, a buffer of two cushions between us.

  “So what if he is? I’m not a sheep.” Her voice softens. “And I only want to be with you. Can we just forget about him? Come on, Micah.” She scoots over close to me and runs one hand up and down my arm. “What’d you bring me?”

  “I brought you dinner, but I see you couldn’t wait.” My voice is still cold.

  Amber swipes the empty pizza box from the table. “My dad ordered it for us because we practiced straight through lunch. I only had one piece, I swear.”

  I thaw a little bit. “I guess I did tell you not to skip any meals.” I show her the stuffed chicken first, peeling the lid off a circular container with the beurre blanc sauce, which amazingly still hasn’t separated.

  She inhales deeply. “That smells like heaven. How did I get so lucky?”

  I slide down onto the sofa next to her and try to forget about Nate. “As I recall, you got caught with weed and then had the good sense to do your community service at the Humane Society.”

  “Right. A love spawned from crime and punishment.” She leans over and gives me a peck on the lips. “Some solid choice-making on both of our parts.”

  “Yup. Now let’s eat.” I hand her a set of plastic silverware and we both dig in.

  The chicken isn’t as hot as I would have liked, but it’s still delicious and the cheese filling is melted to perfection. Amber practically dies when she sees the dessert.

  “So. Much. Chocolate.” She spoons one bite into her mouth and moans with pleasure.

  “I thought you’d say that.” I grin with satisfaction as I watch her eat. I even sample a few bites myself. The consistency of the cake is perfect and the mousse is just the right sweetness.

  After we finish eating, Amber rests her head on my shoulder while I flip through the TV channels. Her family has this huge cable subscription—it’s mind-boggling to me that in two hundred channels the only good thing I can find to watch is David Dark’s new reality TV show: Masterbakers.

  “This show makes me feel fat,” Amber announces as we watch Chef David demonstrate how to make a molten lava cake that oozes just the right amount of chocolate when you cut into it.

  “Whatever, Skeletor,” I say, pulling her onto my lap. “You could gain twenty pounds and you’d still be skinny.”

  She looks up at me through a shock of white-blonde hair that’s fallen in front of her eyes. “How do you always know how to say the right thing?”

  I tuck the hair back behind her ear. “I got a book from the library.”

  She snorts, her face melting into a grin big enough to show teeth. “What’s funny about that is the idea of you in a library.”

  “You calling me stupid?”

  “No.” Amber adjusts her body so that she’s facing me, one leg on either side of my lap. She runs her hands through my hair, dragging her fingernails softly down the length of my scalp. I can smell her flowery perfume and the baby powder deodorant she always wears. And beneath that, just a hint of sweat that I find way sexier than the products she uses to mask it.

  I snake my arms around her lower back and pull her close, kissing the first part of her my mouth makes contact with, which happens to be her chin. She angles her face so that our lips meet, her tongue finding mine before I can even inhale. I relax back into the sofa cushions, my mind going blissfully blank.

  “I missed you so much,” Amber murmurs. She slides one hand up under my shirt as her mouth finds mine again.

  The gentle pressure of her fingertips makes me exhale sharply. I bite gently on her lower lip. “Missed you too.”

  She’s got both hands under my shirt now, slowly working up the fabric like she’s trying to tug it over my head.

  “Hey now,” I say, pulling back. I grab her wrists playfully in one hand.

  “What?” She winks. “I’m still hungry.”

  “Me too.” I stare at the hollow of her neck, at the black bra strap peeping out from the collar of her shirt. “But let’s not forget where we are. Your parents are right upstairs.”

  She looks me straight in the eye, leaning in so close that my vision splits her into two. Her nose grazes mine. “Upstairs,” she whispers. “That’s like another planet in some other solar system. Upstairs is light-years away.”

  “No it’s not,” I whisper back, my lips curling into grin. “It’s like twenty feet.”

  “Fine,” she says, brushing her nose against mine again. “Then just kiss me.”

  “If you insist.” I crush my mouth to hers, tangling my hands in her hair, our bodies wedged so tightly together now that I can feel the individual wrinkles in her
T-shirt through my own clothes. I almost laugh when I think about how willing she is to get busted fooling around. I love that about her though—how she just has a feeling and goes with it, consequences be damned.

  Her shirt rides up in the back and I drag my fingertips across her bare skin. She breaks away from the kiss and makes this noise between a gasp and a sigh that almost does me in. But then I hear the door to the basement open.

  “Incoming spaceship,” I whisper.

  Amber slides off me in one smooth motion, quickly adjusting her shirt and finger-combing her hair. I busy myself gathering the silverware and food containers together.

  Her mom’s head pokes around the edge of the stairs. “Early day tomorrow, remember?” She’s got a basket of dirty clothes in her arms.

  Amber glances at her phone. “It’s only eight o’clock, Mom.”

  “It’s cool,” I say quickly. “I should run this cake pan back up to work before they close.”

  Amber eyes the remainder of the Chocolate Mousse Trifecta. “Mom, you’ve got to try this.”

  “Oh, right.” I scoop the rest of the cake into the cleanest of the Styrofoam containers. “You can keep it.”

  “It looks delicious,” her mom says. “I had no idea you were so talented, Micah.”

  Amber swallows back a giggle. I give her a look as her mom heads for the laundry room.

  “You’re so talented, Micah,” she says as she follows me up the stairs.

  “Yup.” I dump the empty Styrofoam containers in the kitchen trash and run some water over the chef’s knife.

  “Please come to Chicago next weekend so you can remind me of your many talents.” Amber hooks her index finger through one of the belt loops on my jeans.

  “You are out of control,” I tell her. “You might want to take something for that.”

  She gives me a wide-eyed innocent look as we pass through the living room, where her dad is watching ESPN. “You might want to give me something for it,” she whispers.

  Once we make it outside, we both burst out laughing.

  “Out of control,” I say again as I lean in to kiss her good-bye.