“It’s amazing. And now dumb Warren won’t even get to see you in it.” She reaches for my hand. “Want to come in and show it off? Everyone’s been asking about you.”
“I don’t think so, Sabs.” The thought of seeing anyone but my best friend right now makes me feel a little sick, honestly. “You know it’s not really about him. Not totally. It’s…”
“Her.”
“Yeah. I still thought I might hear from her this year. What if I never get over it? I just want a normal birthday.”
Sabina squeezes my hand. “Want me to come over? We can stop by my house and grab some pajamas and snacks. Or you can stay over if you want. Mom and Mama Jess are out on date night.”
“No, I just need to go home, I think.”
“Alone?”
I nod. “I’ll call you if I change my mind.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Positive.”
She hugs me again. “Happy birthday. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Sabs.”
When I get home, I try to lie down, but I’m too angry to sleep.
I keep thinking about that cake. Warren fucked up, but the cake is the one thing he got right. My dad doesn’t bake, and I don’t think it ever occurred to him that I’d want a cake without a birthday party, which I’ve never asked for since my mother left. Cakes were her area. The night before my birthday she’d tuck me in like normal, but then I’d hear her banging around in the kitchen. Sometimes I’d fall asleep before she put it in to bake, and the sweet smell from the oven would wake me, tempting me to go out and ask for a piece. I never did, though. She always looked so happy to present it to me in the morning, and it’s the one time of year she encouraged me to eat cake for breakfast.
I don’t know the recipe by heart, and for a few moments, I consider trying something totally different. If not, I’ll have to drag out my mother’s old recipe box, the one with index cards of her favorite baked goods scrawled in handwriting I haven’t seen in years. This isn’t the night to go down memory lane.
But if I want it to be accurate, I’ll need to look. And I don’t want anyone else’s cake. I want the one that I used to wake up to, the one that proves there was a time my mother loved me.
I go to the kitchen and find the card right away and place it on the counter, making sure I have everything I need. I run my fingers over the faded ink and spots of dried cake batter that have stuck to the card. I think maybe it will make me feel closer to her, more forgiving of the fact that my birthday is almost officially over and for yet another year, she’s absent.
It just makes me angrier.
I lose myself in the task of baking. I measure dry ingredients, cream butter and eggs, and melt squares of unsweetened chocolate over the double broiler. I pour the batter into my mother’s old cake pans, which have been sitting unused at the back of the cabinet for so long that they’re practically antiques. It’s always strange touching her things, remembering that she was once here, living and breathing in the same house as my father and me. A few minutes after I slide it into the oven, the cake makes the kitchen—the whole house, maybe—smell impossibly sweet and delicious.
After the layers have cooled, I move them to the heavy glass cake stand and take way too long frosting them. I want it to look perfect. It’s only yellow cake, nothing fancy. But it feels good to have done something for myself instead of moping about all the ways I’ve been disappointed today. It’s a better way to end my birthday, rather than being actively angry at two people who’ve proven they don’t care enough about me.
I remember getting into bed but not falling asleep, and when I open my eyes, Warren is gently shaking my shoulder.
“Hey.” He gives me a nervous smile.
I look at him for several silent moments as I wake up. For a few seconds, I think I’m at his house, asleep on the futon. But no, I’m in my bedroom, and I’m still wearing my dress, and the clock on my wall says it’s 1:00 a.m. He’s still buttoned into his chef coat.
“Are you just coming home from the restaurant?”
“Yeah, I… I didn’t think you wanted to see me, so…”
“So you stayed.” I sit up so I don’t have to glare at him sideways. “I don’t get it. I thought tonight was—”
“It was. It still can be.” He smiles again, more confident this time. “Come home with me. I can still make dinner. You look… perfect in this dress.”
I want to. Go home with him. After all of this, I want to curl up next to him in the front seat of his car and drive to his apartment and be with him. It’s hard to stay mad at Warren. But I know it won’t be the same as if he’d kept our plans. I know that I’ll spend the whole time thinking about how he chose the restaurant over me, and I don’t want our first time together to be filled with resentment.
I have so many things I want to say to him, but the only words that come out are, “It was hers.”
He frowns and then his face drops when he understands. “Your mom’s?”
“Yeah. One of the things she left behind. I was saving it for something special.”
“God, Yvonne. I’m sorry.” He swallows. Reaches into his pocket and produces a folded piece of paper that he hands me. “I know this doesn’t make up for what happened, but I got you something.”
I slowly unfold the paper and stare at it, puzzled. It looks like a receipt.
“It’s tickets. To the orchestra. The L.A. Phil. I tried to get opening night, but they were already sold out. This is close, though. Just a week later.”
I love the L.A. Philharmonic, and I don’t go often enough. It’s not easy to persuade nonmusicians to go listen to classical music, and going with people in my orchestra has never been any fun. They dissect everything in real time, and it’s hard to just sit there and enjoy the music.
“I’m not…”
His eyes search mine for the missing words. “You’re not what?”
“Nothing.” I haven’t told Warren about my talk with Ortiz, and I don’t want to. It’s embarrassing to admit that you’re not good enough at what you thought you wanted to someone who’s one of the best in his field. “Thank you.” I fold the paper again and set it on my nightstand.
“You don’t have to take me,” he says. “But I hope you go.”
I don’t say anything and I don’t look at him. His eyes are too sincere. I know he’s truly sorry, but I’m not in the mood for apologies right now. I just want to go back to bed and wake up to a new day.
“Happy birthday, Yvonne.” He leans in to kiss me and I turn my face so his lips brush my cheek.
He closes the door behind him and I instantly snap off the lamp and slide back under the covers, still wearing my mother’s dress.
But before I can drift off, I hear my father’s voice in the hallway.
“… still upset?”
“I think she’s pretty mad, yeah.” Warren sighs.
“Aw, come on. She’ll get over it, right? It’s been a long day…. Want a smoke?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. If Warren says yes, I will kill him. It’s the one thing I’ve told him I don’t want him doing. I don’t care if he smokes pot—we both do, and together sometimes—but I don’t want him doing that with my dad. Sometimes I wonder if the weed is an excuse for my father’s detachment, a cloak that makes it okay for him to disappear while pretending he’s still here. I don’t want the same thing to happen to Warren.
Warren’s pause is much too long, but eventually he says, “Nah, I’m good, Sinclair. See you tomorrow.”
I’m still awake when the pungent smoke from my father’s pipe floats across the house and into my room.
8.
I sleep late the next day, and then I stay in bed even longer.
Saturday mornings used to be reserved for Denis. My father hated it, because he was still sleeping when my instructor arrived at 10:00 a.m. sharp. But Denis was inflexible with the time. He had a full roster, he liked to remind me, and if we weren’t happy with the time slot, he
was sure he could find someone else who’d be pleased to take it. My father got earplugs.
I wonder who has my old slot now. I look across the room at my violin case gathering dust, wedged between the wall and my backpack. I think of how there was a stretch of years where I practiced every single day. How I never felt quite right if I didn’t pick the violin up at least once each day, even if I only practiced scales. I remember so much about my weekly routine over the years, yet I still can’t recall the moment I fell out of love with violin.
I pick up my phone. There’s a text from Warren that I ignore. I go to my contacts and scroll through until I find Omar. He didn’t put in a last name. Just Omar. I wonder what he and Keely do when they’re not performing on the beach. Maybe they don’t hang out at all when they’re not playing or practicing, but I know better than that. There was a comfort between them that you can’t get from simply seeing someone at work or school every day.
I chew my lip, still staring at the screen. I’ve thought about him a lot since I saw him last week, but this is the first time I’ve pulled up his number.
Before I can stop myself, I text him.
Hi.
And then, because I realize I never gave him my number:
It’s Yvonne. From the beach.
I immediately shove the phone under the covers. So dumb. What if he doesn’t remember me? He must meet a million girls at the beach every day. Maybe he’s even met more than one Yvonne.
My phone buzzes by my thigh and my heart races with it. He must remember me if he’s responding so quickly.
But it’s a phone call, not a text. And it’s Sabina.
“How are you feeling?” she asks when I pick up. Her voice is croaky like it always is the morning after she’s been drinking.
“How many drinks did you have last night?”
“Don’t ask,” she groans.
“What happened after I left?”
“Tequila. Way too much tequila. So… you’re okay?”
“I’m all right.”
“Want to come over for dinner?” she says. “The mothers want to see you. Then I thought we could go to your house? I’ll bring the leftover booze from last night.”
“That sounds perfect. I can bring cake.”
“Oh God.” She groans again. “Dame thought it would be funny to get one of those huge birthday sheet cakes from Costco before he realized you weren’t coming. We destroyed it. I think I’m still in a sugar coma.”
“I kind of destroyed a cake last night, too,” I say, thinking of the ganache smeared into the linoleum of Warren’s kitchen.
“What?”
“Uh… I’ll explain later.”
Sabina yawns. “I’m going back to bed. Come over at six thirty.”
I stop in the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth, then head to the kitchen. I’m surprised to find my father sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a slice of my cake in front of him.
“You made this?” he asks, pointing his fork at the half-eaten piece.
“Yeah. I felt like baking last night.” I grab a cup and fill it with coffee, then lean against the counter, looking at him from across the room. “I needed to clear my head.”
He nods, and I think he’s not going to say anything else, just go back to reading something on his phone, like usual. Anything to avoid an actual conversation. Especially here, at the house, where he can’t hide in a hot, busy kitchen, barking orders instead.
But then he looks at me and says, “I didn’t know you had plans last night. I wouldn’t have called Warren in.”
“But he asked off. Didn’t you think about why?”
“I guess I didn’t put the two things together, Yvonne.” He taps his fork against the plate a couple of times. “I’m not entirely clear on what’s going on between you two.”
I move to the table. Cautiously, because I’m worried that once I decide to sit down, he’ll clam up.
“Neither of you talk to me about the other, so I figured it’s none of my business,” my father says, shrugging.
Lots of things aren’t a parent’s business, but from what I hear, that doesn’t stop most of them from firmly inserting themselves. I take a sip of coffee. My father and I drink ours the same way: black.
“I don’t know what’s going on with me and Warren, but after last night… I don’t know what I want to happen.”
“Well… relationships are hard.”
My face flushes. “We’re not in a relationship.”
“I mean all relationships are hard. I’m better with food.”
He’s not wrong about that. Even the birthday card he gave me was impersonal; he signed only DAD under the preprinted birthday message. Staring at the cash that was stuffed inside, I couldn’t stop thinking how I would have given that up for him to write LOVE before DAD. I know he loves me, but I’d like to hear it sometimes. The words rolled easily off my mother’s tongue, but even when she was here, my father didn’t follow her example.
He clears his throat. “You made this cake from scratch?”
“No box needed.”
“Frosting, too?”
I purse my lips. “Dad.”
“It’s very good, Yvonne.” As if to prove his point, he crams in a huge mouthful. After he swallows, he says, “I didn’t know you could bake like this.”
“The recipe is simple.” I focus on the place mat under my coffee cup as I say, “It’s the one she always used to make my birthday cakes.”
“I don’t remember it being so good.”
I know he means it as a compliment. It’s probably one of the best he could ever give, but it makes me sad all the same. She’s been gone long enough that he doesn’t remember her version. If he can get over her by now, why can’t I?
I’ve been going to Sabina’s house for years now, but her moms still fret when they serve me a meal.
“I know this doesn’t hold up to what you’re used to eating, but I hope you like it,” Mama Jess says, passing me the platter of grilled branzino.
“This looks amazing.” I put some of the flaky white fish on my plate and pass it on to Sabina. “I don’t think my dad’s ever made a whole fish. Not at home, anyway.”
“I don’t like that you leave the head on.” Sabina wrinkles her nose. “It’s staring at me.”
“He doesn’t really have a lot of time to cook at home these days,” I continue in the light-hearted voice I’ve learned to adopt over the years whenever I talk about him. I don’t have to use it in front of Sabina’s parents, but it’s instinct.
“Oh, that reminds me—did Sabina tell you Jess and I went to your father’s restaurant a couple of weeks ago?” Sabina’s other mother, the woman she calls Mom and I call Cora, asks as she spreads a napkin over her lap. They use cloth napkins in Sabina’s house. Every day, not just when they have guests.
“How was it?” I slide a large spoonful of roasted vegetables onto my plate.
“Perfect.” Mama Jess closes her eyes and lets out a sigh. “That veal is so incredible I don’t even feel bad about eating it.”
“The service was really great, too,” Cora says. “The chef even came over to our table to say hello.”
“My dad?”
“No, a young man.” Cora takes a sip of wine. “He went around to all the tables. Cute guy.”
“Oh, that was probably Warren,” I say.
Sabina rolls her eyes.
I still haven’t looked at his texts. Which reminds me that I haven’t heard back from Omar. My legs itch to walk down the hall and check my phone in Sabina’s room, but I force myself to remain still.
“Who’s Warren?” Mama Jess looks back and forth between Sabina and me.
“A dummy who doesn’t realize how good he has it,” Sabina grumbles. She grabs a bit of fish with her fingers and pops it into her mouth.
I pinch her thigh under the table. Sabina glares.
“He’s my dad’s sous chef,” I say. “SoCal Weekly is doing an article on him.”
&
nbsp; “Well, please tell your father—both of them—how much we enjoyed the meal,” Cora says.
“The overall experience,” adds Mama Jess.
After dinner, they surprise me with a beautiful homemade flan. Sabina sticks a candle into the custardy center and I blow it out, making a wish as I do. It’s the day after my birthday and none of my wishes have ever come true, but I figure it can’t hurt to try.
Back at my house, Sabina plunks a canvas bag of liquor bottles onto the kitchen counter and declares, “I’m making punch.”
“Since when do you know how to make punch?”
“I don’t. Someone made it last night, and I’m going to do my best to recreate it.”
I watch her get to work, already terrified of her concoction. “Who was there last night?”
“Everybody. Nobody. Cody was there.”
“Still objectively hot?”
“If you’re into the Disney prince sort of look… sure.”
Cody was my first, and we had sex three times. I met him at Damon’s right around this time last year, when every party was filled to bursting because the summer was over and everyone was together again. Cody does look like a Disney prince, but I found out after he started flirting with me in the kitchen that he was funny, too. I had kissed a couple of guys before him, but I knew by the way my whole body tingled when he brushed his fingers against my arm that I wanted much more with Cody.
Later, he found me waiting in line for the bathroom, and when it was my turn, he went in with me. We made out until people began pounding on the door, then we took our swollen lips to an empty bedroom. Cody was clumsy at almost everything besides kissing, and neither of us really knew what we were doing. But I liked being with him—the hardness of his body pressed against the curves of mine, and the warmth between us. It was the first time I realized someone could make me breathless with a simple touch.
Maybe it was weird to want to talk to a mother about my first time, but I wished I at least had the option. I told Sabina, but it wasn’t the same. I wanted someone—my mother—to be wary of my actions but proud that I was telling her. I wanted to show her Look, I’m growing up so fast, you probably don’t even recognize me. But the only person I had was my father, and that was too weird. He’d made it clear from our one and only talk that ever referenced sex that his main concern was I used protection. We’d done that.
Finding Yvonne Page 5
