by Dana Bate
“Listen, it’s fine. Sometimes you gotta stuff the muffin. I get it. At least one of us got laid.”
Blake squints at me, pausing for dramatic effect before he speaks. “I’m going to ignore the crazy talk coming out of your mouth right now and blame it on the fact that you appear to have some sort of eye infection.”
I reach up and touch my eye, which is tender and swollen, most likely due to the gobs of Halloween makeup I never washed off.
“That aside,” he says, “I want to apologize about last night. I feel really awful that I kept you waiting like that, but there was a fire in Nicole’s apartment building. I couldn’t leave her there alone.”
“Oh my god—you’re kidding.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not. Apparently some woman in her building threw a Halloween party and lit, I don’t know, a hundred candles or something, and one of them set the living room drapes on fire.”
“Jesus. Was anyone hurt?”
“Two people were seriously burned, but everyone else got out in time. It was total chaos up there. That’s why I didn’t come home for hours. I would have called, but my cell phone died.”
Well, it’s official: I am the biggest a-hole in the universe. Way to go, Hannah. And what’s worse, it now seems like I would care if Blake slept with Nicole. Which I wouldn’t. Obviously.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah, her building is wrecked. She had to crash at her friend Emily’s place. What a nightmare.”
I run my fingers through my hair—or, rather, I try, but my fingers get stuck in the tangled mass matted to my head. “Sorry for falling asleep on your couch,” I say. “You should have kicked me out when you got home.”
Blake laughs. “And awake sleeping beauty? Nah. You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to bother you.”
“I’m amazed I was able to sleep that soundly.”
“I’ve seen your sleeping conditions, Sugarman. The air mattress? If you can sleep on that thing every night, I’m guessing you can fall asleep anywhere.”
“Touché.” I grab a glass from Blake’s cupboard and fill it with water from his Brita pitcher.
“But anyway, I’m really sorry for ruining the rest of your night. I’m sure you had better things to do than sit around on my couch.”
Part of me wants to pipe up and tell him I did have better things to do, how he ruined an opportunity for me to spend time with Jacob, but I quickly realize Blake is unlikely to care about my failure to make out with a guy who didn’t call me for two full weeks. So, instead, I decide to focus on the reason I was in his house in the first place.
“I think the party itself was a success,” I say. “I picked up a few potential clients for future events.”
“As you should have. The food was fantastic. You’re really talented.” He tugs on the handle to his coffee mug, pulling the mug back and forth along the counter. “So what are you up to today?”
“Other than untangling my hair and scrubbing this makeup off my face?”
“Yes, other than that.”
“Not much.”
“How do you feel about taking a little field trip?”
“A field trip?” Why would he want to take me on a field trip? To have the conversation we were supposed to have last night? I don’t want to have that conversation. Like, at all. If I could avoid having that conversation for the rest of my life, that would be excellent. “Blake, last time you took me on a field trip I ended up having to smell raw seafood and Gorgonzola for the better part of an afternoon.”
“I promise this trip won’t involve fish or stinky cheese.”
“Rotten eggs? Manure? Rancid BO? Any of that on the schedule?”
He laughs. “Not that I know of. Come on, it’ll be fun. I want to make up for leaving you in the lurch last night. No unpleasant surprises. Promise.”
I bite my lip and stare into Blake’s eyes, which are fixed earnestly on mine. I should avoid this field trip at all costs, but Blake’s expression is so sincere and sweet that I can’t see how he could possibly want to evict me. Not with those eyes. Not today, at least.
“In that case,” I say, “I guess I’m in. But can you at least give me a hint as to where you’re taking me?”
Blake flashes a broad smile and winks. “Nope,” he says. “It’s a surprise.”
I’m going to tell Blake about the supper club. Today.
As I rinse the gobs of hairspray out of my tangled mess of hair, I decide this is the only option. I may never know what Blake wanted to discuss last night (the supper club? my rent? something else?), but in the end, it doesn’t matter. Last night was a wakeup call. The anxiety, the guilt, the overwhelming sense of betrayal—I can’t go through that again. This ruse has gone on long enough. I have to tell him the truth.
When we get to wherever he is taking me, I’ll sit him down and break the news. I’ll explain about the flooding in my apartment. I’ll tell him we’ll never use his house again. I’ll tell him I’m sorry. Then I won’t have to carry this secret around anymore. Blake and I can be normal friends, friends without secrets, two people whose relationship isn’t built on a lie. I want that—I want a normal friendship. Blake is goofy and fun, and my mood invariably improves when he is around. He can’t find out about the supper club from someone else—from Geeta or Nicole or someone I don’t know. He has to find out from me. And if I come clean, he’ll be less likely to evict me. You can’t evict someone for being honest, can you? Not in my warped view of the world.
By noon, Blake and I are traveling down Twenty-third Street in his Volkswagen SUV, heading south until we hit the on-ramp for I-66. Blake pulls onto the interstate, tapping his thumbs rhythmically against the steering wheel as Van Morrison’s “Everyone” blares through his speakers. We bump along I-66 and zip across the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, crossing into Virginia for the second time in the past forty-eight hours. Blake Fischer’s Magical Mystery Tour continues.
The car swirls through a disorienting series of loops and exits until I have no idea where we are. A small red-and-white cooler rattles against a brown shopping bag in the backseat. I hope there’s food in there. The last thing I ate was a cold bacon-wrapped oyster at one in the morning. I’m starving.
Blake turns off Jefferson Davis Highway onto a virtually empty two-l ane road, and through his window I spot a series of white headstones lined up in tightly packed rows. Arlington National Cemetery. The place, I am guessing, where Blake’s father is buried.
My palms start sweating. I’ve never been good with death and mourning and all of that. I never know what to say, and whatever I do say usually comes out wrong. How can I be of any comfort to Blake when I didn’t know his dad? If anything happened to my dad, the last thing I’d want is sympathy from some bozo who never met him.
Blake glances in my direction as I wring my hands. “Relax,” he says. “We’re almost there.”
Just as a gated opening to the cemetery appears on our left, Blake turns right onto another narrow road, taking us in the opposite direction. I guess we’re not going to the cemetery after all. I peer out the window and read the lettering on the brown-and-white sign at the corner of the intersection: us MARINE CORPS MEMORIAL.
Blake’s SUV crawls up the broad hill along a private road, passing a series of tall oak trees whose scarlet and ocher leaves flicker in the midday sun. Given how mild the weather has been the past month, I sometimes forget it’s autumn, but even with temperatures hovering in the fifties and sixties, the leaves have finally started to turn. When we reach the top of the hill, an iconic image looms in front of us: six men, cast in bronze, huddling together as they drive a sixty-foot flagpole into the earth. The American flag flaps lazily in the air. The Iwo Jima Memorial.
Blake turns onto the circular drive surrounding the monument and follows it around until we reach the parking lot on the other side. “All right,” he says, throwing the car into park. “You ready?”
I nod. I wrack my brain for t
he possible significance of this particular memorial (from what I gather, Blake’s dad was in the navy, not the marines, and he definitely didn’t fight in World War II), but I come up dry. I have no idea why we are here.
We hop out of the car, and Blake passes me the cooler. “Can you carry this?”
“Sure,” I say.
I grab the handle and follow Blake as he walks around the circle toward the monument. But as we get closer, Blake veers right and starts walking along a small footpath, away from the memorial and back toward the access road we just ascended.
“Uh, Blake? The monument is back there.”
“I know,” he says and keeps walking.
He leads me toward a giant rectangular bell tower, which soars more than a hundred feet into the air and, with its black steel beams and plates, looks a little like a prison. He passes the bell tower and continues across the brittle grass until he finally stops at the point where the broad, grassy hill begins to descend to the main road.
I drop the cooler to the ground with a thud and wipe my hands on my jeans. “All right, I give up. Care to explain why you took me all the way to”—
And then, as I look over Blake’s shoulder, I stop. In the distance, I see the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the Capitol dome lined up side by side, the top of the Washington Monument piercing the sky like a bright white sword. The three buildings reflect the sun, lighting up the horizon with a celestial glow.
Blake lets out a satisfied sigh as he stares out across the landscape. “My favorite view in the city,” he says.
I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with the crisp air, thick with the smell of damp leaves and tree bark. “It’s … spectacular.”
Unlike the view at POV Lounge, where the monuments loomed so close I wanted to reach out and touch them, the monuments from this angle look like far-off figurines, part of a skyline etched in white marble.
“You think it’s good now—you should see it at sunset,” Blake says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t want to wait until sunset. Couldn’t risk you coming to your senses and turning down my invitation.”
“Well, sunset or no sunset, I’ve lived in Washington for three years and have never seen the city from this angle. It’s special, Blake. Thank you.”
Blake breaks into a cartoonish grin and lifts up his index finger. “But wait—there’s more!”
He opens the brown shopping bag and pulls out a wool blanket, which he shakes out and lays across the grass. He empties the rest of the bag’s contents onto the blanket: fresh bagels, a canister of coffee, two mugs, some napkins, and some plastic utensils. He flips open the top to the cooler and grabs a jug of apple cider, two containers of cream cheese (one plain, one with chives), a package of smoked salmon, a bunch of green grapes, and a fat air-cured sausage.
“Ta-da!” he says. “I thought we could have a little picnic. A little thank-you for your help with the party last night.”
“Isn’t paying me ‘thank-you’ enough? Isn’t that how hiring a caterer usually works?”
Blake scrunches up his lips and casts a sideways glance. “I guess so.” He shrugs. “It’s also an ‘I’m sorry’ for deserting you last night. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s the best I could do on short notice.”
I scan the bagels and cream cheese and fruit scattered across the picnic blanket, a feast haphazard in its display but deliberate in its construction. “Don’t apologize,” I say. “It’s great.”
And the thing is, it is great. All of it. The food, the weather, this place. There is an indescribable magic in the air, and whether that’s due to Blake or me or some intangible wonder, all I know is that right now, among the trees and monuments and colorful picnic lunch, there is, much to my surprise, nowhere else I’d rather be.
But the day is still young, which means I still have ample time to screw it all up. And, if my past behavior is any indication, I probably will. Because that’s what I do. I screw things up.
I plow through one cup of coffee and half a bagel before I muster the courage to bring up The Dupont Circle Supper Club, but the powerful combination of caffeine and carbohydrates convinces me this is my moment. I have to say something.
“So, Blake,” I say as I smear more chive cream cheese on my bagel. “I have something to tell you.”
Blake pours himself another cup of coffee. “Same here—me first.”
I stuff a hunk of bagel in my mouth. “Okay …”
“Remember Nicole from last night? The belly dancer?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, it turns out her aunt is on the admissions committee at L’Academie de Cuisine, the culinary school up in Gaithersburg. I told her about the amazing ice cream you made and your cooking ambitions, and she said she could put in a good word with her aunt. Assuming you’re interested.”
I nearly choke on my bagel and throw back some coffee to wash it down. “Wow, Blake, I don’t know what to say.”
Blake leans his elbows against his bent knees. “I know there are competing thoughts on whether or not culinary school is worth the cost, but given how talented you are, I thought you should at least consider it.”
“I will. Thank you.” I pour some apple cider into a mug and take a sip. “Coming up with thirty grand, on the other hand … Not the easiest task in the world.”
Blake offers a wry smile. “Listen, if you’re not interested …”
“No—I’m interested. Definitely. It’s just … complicated, that’s all.”
“Because of your parents?”
I nod. “And … a few other things.”
“Well, think it over and let me know. Apparently there’s still room in the program that begins in January.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a pamphlet held together by a large paper clip. “Here’s the application, if you’re interested. You can do what you want, and it’s not any of my business, but I think this could be a great step for you. You’re really talented, Hannah.” He smiles softly. “You’re really something.”
I stare into Blake’s gray-blue eyes, which twinkle in the midday sun, and I feel something inside me stir. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
The apples of his cheeks fill with red, and he smiles and looks away as he smoothes the front of his black Patagonia fleece. “So what did you have to tell me?” he asks, looking back up at me. “By your tone of voice, it sounded important.”
I meet his gaze, his eyes glittering with sincerity and kindness. He wraps his arms around his bent knees and raises his eyebrows expectantly. From his expression, one thing is clear: Blake believes in me. He cares. He thinks I have what it takes to become a professional cook. And I’m about to ruin everything.
I take a deep breath, about to launch into a lengthy preamble, when I let out a long sigh and shake my head.
“Never mind. Forget I said anything.” Then I pour us both another cup of coffee.
CHAPTER
thirty-four
I should tell him. I know I should tell him. But I can’t. I try—several times, actually—but each time I lose my nerve. Blake is the only person, aside from Rachel, who believes in me. He doesn’t think cooking is a trivial hobby. He doesn’t think I should apply to grad school and cook on the side. He understands how much cooking and food mean to me. He gets it. And if I tell him what I’ve been up to behind his back, I could lose his support. I don’t want that to happen.
So instead of talking about The Dupont Circle Supper Club, we spend the next few hours lying on the hill behind the Iwo Jima Memorial, finishing off the food and working our way through the Sunday Washington Post. Once Blake finishes reading through the Sports section, he looks at his watch and sighs.
“We should probably get back soon,” he says. “I have some last-minute campaign stuff to do. And I’m sure you have other plans.”
I pull the sleeves of my fleece top over my hands. “What time is it?”
“About three o’clock.”
&nb
sp; I roll over on my back and stare at the sky. “What time does the sun set these days? Five-ish? Six?”
“Something like that. Why?”
I push myself up by my elbows. “If you’d be willing to make a quick run to buy some magazines and snacks, I’d be willing to stick around for a few hours until sunset. Since you say it’s worth seeing.”
Blake scrunches up his lips and considers my proposal, obviously torn between working on his ANC campaign and wasting time with me. Imperiling his campaign for neighborhood commissioner isn’t my primary goal, but I definitely wouldn’t mind if he didn’t win on Tuesday. Finally he grabs his keys and jumps to his feet. “Why the hell not? This is the first weekend I’ve had off in ages. I’ve earned a little fun.”
He drives off and returns twenty minutes later with some chips and pretzels, a bunch of candy, and a stack of magazines—Food & Wine and Us Weekly for me, Sports Illustrated and The Economist for him.
As I flip through the latest tales of celebrity woe, Blake throws me a bag of gummy bears. “Some sugar for the Sugarman,” he says, laughing at his own joke.
“Oh, Blake. You slay me.”
“I try.” He lies down on his side and props himself up on his elbow. “So I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ve been thinking about this ever since we chatted the other week. Why do you care so much what your parents think?”
I pop a gummy bear in my mouth and chew it slowly, trying to avoid having to answer for as long as possible. How do I explain twenty-six years of history?
“They’re both famous professors, for starters,” I say.
Blake raises an eyebrow. “So?”
“So … I’ve spent my whole life having people say, ‘Oh, you’re Alan and Judy Sugarman’s daughter? Wow.’ It’s clear from everyone’s reaction that my parents obviously made good career choices—the right career choices.”
“For them,” Blake says.
“Right. For them.” I roll a green gummy bear between my fingers. “But every time I talk with my parents about my career, they make a pretty strong argument for why those are the right choices for me, too.”
