by Tinnean
“Andrey.”
“—and I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“This isn’t going to look good to your RA.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving in the morning, and he’ll never see me again.”
Artemas worried his lower lip. “If I agree to this—”
Yes! I punched the air.
“I said if. If I do, I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Will you, old man? It’s gonna wreck your back.”
“Who are you calling old?” He wrapped his arm around my neck and rubbed his knuckles against my head.
“Pax, pax!” We were both laughing as we got into Artemas’s car and began the drive back to campus.
What a nice man he is, I thought as I toyed with the radio dial, trying to find a station we both liked. And he’s my friend.
Of course I didn’t know at that point what an obstinate man my friend could be.
* * * *
“I’m so sorry, Mom.” I watched Artemas carefully, waiting to see what he thought as I practiced my apology to my mom. It had taken most of the morning to get things sorted out with the administration, and then an accident on I-95 slowed us even more.
Artemas took his gaze from the road and met my eyes. He shook his head. “You know you won’t have to apologize. From what you’ve told me of your mom, she loves you, and she won’t blame you for something that wasn’t in your control.”
“We talked about this.” We’d actually discussed it most of the drive back to my dorm room, while I changed the sheets on my bed—I’d managed to convince him to take it only after he’d convinced me to share it with him, although all we did was sleep—and while I packed. Now I gave him an exasperated look.
“Okay, okay. What else are you going to say?”
“I…” My shoulders slumped. “I feel like such a useless piece of—”
“Don’t say it. It wasn’t your fault.”
“No, but I’ve always had my intelligence to rely on. No matter what went on in my life, I had that. Now I’ve got nothing.”
“Andrey…”
“I was going to buy my mom a house. I was going to develop a chemical formula that would give a guy a little self-confidence.”
“There’s a pill that already does that. It’s called Viagra.”
“Not funny, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Sorry. I know this is difficult for you.”
He couldn’t know. No one could. Now that I had no choice but to face my new reality, it was worse than having a limb amputated…
Shocked and disgusted with how maudlin and self-pitying I’d become, I shut down that train of thought, but I had to turn my head away to hide the tears in my eyes. “It’s like a part of me has been severed,” I confessed in spite of myself. “Like I’ve become mind blind.”
“Oh, b-Drey.” He reached out blindly for my hand, and I met his grip, grateful for its warmth. “We’ll manage.”
We’ll manage, not you’ll manage. Even though I knew it was going to be difficult, if not impossible, his words gave me hope. He saw a bright future ahead of me.
* * * *
“I’m so sorry, Mom.” We’d arrived at the outskirts of Muhlenberg in time to hit rush hour traffic, but I was finally home.
She stood before me, her face white. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry you felt you had to deal with this alone.” She pulled me into her arms, and the light floral scent she always wore filled my nostrils, comforting me. She kissed my cheek. “We’ll get through this together.”
“There’s nothing we can do. It’s gone.”
She tightened her grip for a moment. “We have each other. We’ll manage.” She stepped back and smiled into my eyes. “And you’re staying here, so don’t even think about finding an apartment just yet. Now. You said something about going to see Angelo? Why don’t you do that now? We’ll talk about this more in the morning.” Mom turned to my former chemistry teacher. “If you wouldn’t mind staying, Mr. Beaumont, I’d like to speak with you.”
“It’ll be my pleasure, Ms. White. Drey, are you all right driving your moped, or did you want a lift to Uncle Angelo’s?”
“No, I’ll be okay. Thank you again for coming up to Cambridge. Mom, I’ll see you later.”
“Drive carefully, sweetie.”
“I will, I promise.” The nights were getting cooler, and I slid my arms into a jacket, grabbed up my keys and left the house. My scooter was in the garage that was part of the rental. Fortunately, Mom hadn’t gotten around to taking it off her car insurance, so I had transportation to the restaurant where I hoped I might get a job.
* * * *
Angelo took one look at me as I stood hesitantly in the doorway of his office at the back of the pizza place, and his face lit up. He jumped to his feet, came around his desk, and wrapped me in a bear hug that almost fractured my ribs.
“Drey!” He kissed my right cheek and then my left. “It’s good to see you, kiddo. But what are you doing home in the middle of the semester? Christmas break isn’t for another month.”
I explained the situation to him. “I can’t stay at Harvard,” I concluded. “So I came home.”
“That damned kid,” he snarled.
“What?”
“John Haskell. Spoiled, self-centered brat. This is all his fault.”
It might have been, but what was done was done, and nothing would be remedied by tearing into him about it. “Were…were you serious about keeping my job for me?”
“Serious as a heart attack.” He turned, grabbed a black apron, and thrust it at me. “Get in the kitchen. That idiot of a cook I hired after you left for Harvard went home sick for the second time this week. Sick, hah. Hungover is more like it. I swear I’m gonna can the son of a bitch.” Angelo looked grim. “We’re in the weeds again because of him.”
I was sorry to hear they were slammed—I’d had the feeling they were when I’d walked through the restaurant and seen the frantic actions of the servers—and it was too bad the cook couldn’t work, but I was relieved Angelo was willing to take me back. “I came across a pizza place in Cambridge that had an interesting take on caprese pizza. I’d like to give it a try—but not tonight.”
He smiled at me, ruffled my hair, and gave me a slight push. I slipped off my jacket, put on the apron, and strode into the kitchen to begin work.
“Oh, thank God. Chef’s back.”
“Where?” I looked over my shoulder.
“You, silly.”
I blushed. I was a decent cook, but I’d never seen myself as a chef. “Okay, what orders are up next?”
“One bacon and pineapple, one plain cheese, one barbecue chicken.”
I hurried to the sink and washed my hands. “Joe, you start on the bacon and pineapple. Chuck, you do the plain cheese. Do we have barbecue chicken?”
“No.”
Shit. “Lou, get to work on that. Do we have any zucchini?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll cut one into rounds, bread it, and deep fry it.” I used to make a spicy ranch dipping sauce that went well with zucchini, and while the zucchini fried, I’d get started on it. “Let’s move with a purpose, people.”
They grinned and got to work. I took a zucchini from the cooler, and once the slices were in the deep fryer, I took out the ingredients and began whipping up the dipping sauce. I’d send it out to the table that had ordered the barbecue chicken pizza with apologies for the delay and the chef’s compliments.
I might not be able to come up with chemical formulas that would give me enough confidence to talk to a guy anymore—although come to think of it, I never had a problem talking to Artemas—but I could put together a recipe for food people enjoyed. I had a job, even if it wasn’t the one I’d always dreamed of. I had a place to live. And most importantly of all, I had friends who cared about me, friends I hadn’t even realized I’d had.
Chapter 3
Mom would have let me continue living with her, but I was too old to sleep on the loveseat in my mother�
�s living room, so I’d found a one bedroom apartment I could afford. The bedroom might be compact, but the kitchen was huge, and I often played—it broke my heart to label it as experimenting—with new recipes there.
I looked at the calendar on the kitchen wall, and I frowned. Nine years had passed. I hated this day worse than any other throughout the year, even more than the day Dr. Griffin had more or less told me to suck up the loss of my intellect, and it seemed to roll around faster every year. I sighed and dressed for work. Hopefully, I’d get so wrapped up in cooking, I’d forget about it, and it would be a good evening.
* * * *
“Hey, Chef, guess who’s in the dining room,” Chuck asked as he punched an order into the computer. Uncle Angelo’s was a small place, and everyone pitched in wherever they were needed. Just then, Chuck was needed at the front end of the house, since Jill, our usual server, was out on maternity leave.
“Emeril Lagasse?” I’d long since stopped trying to get my kitchen crew to stop calling me chef.
“No.”
“Wolfgang Puck?”
“No!”
I grinned at the batch of dough I was preparing, then glanced up through my eyelashes. “All right, then, who?”
“Mr. Beaumont.” My crew were all young enough to have had Artemas as their chemistry teacher and always referred to him as Mr. Beaumont.
I felt a grin light up my face. Artemas and I had been friends since he’d driven up to Cambridge eight years before, and he usually ordered his favorite, a four cheese pizza I’d made especially for him, with mozzarella, fontina, romano, and parmesan, although every once in a while I’d convince him to sample a new pizza recipe I’d decided to try out, and I’d wait, holding my breath, until he gave it a thumbs up.
I continued working on the dough.
“He said to surprise him tonight and make him something special.”
That was unusual, but why he’d changed things up wasn’t important. I’d give him the absolute best I could come up with.
For some reason my mind seemed to whisper add parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. I considered the herbs for a minute before I shook my head. Back when I still had my IQ and was able to come up with workable formulas, I’d used a distillation of those herbs in what I called another love potion. Of course they’d done nothing but make it taste good. “Okay, that’s gonna take some time. Lou, come up with something he’ll enjoy until dinner is ready.”
“Will do, Chef. How about that amuse bouche I was experimenting with?”
“Sure.”
“I’m on it, then.” Lou went out to the bar and returned with slices of a mini watermelon the bartender kept in the bar fridge for various frou frou drinks and began to cut them into one by two inch lengths
“Yes, that’ll be fine. Does Artemas have his Magic Hat #9?” It was his beer of choice.
“Angelo was getting it for him—” Chuck assured me. Angelo worked the bar on the weekend when high school kids tried their luck with fake ID.
“Good.”
“—and a Stella Artois for his companion.”
“My mom’s here?” Occasionally they’d come by for dinner, two adults needing a break from the kids they came into contact with every day—him in his classroom and her at the library—or so Mom liked to tease me. Although she preferred Michelob Light. Was her taste changing?
“No, Mr. Beaumont brought some guy I’ve never seen before. He’s a real cutie—” Chuck started to say.
“Aren’t you supposed to be straight?” Lou asked as he used a mortar and pestle on some chilies and table salt to grind them really fine. He’d sprinkle the watermelon slices with the chili salt and place a piece of chopped scallion on top. It made a nice presentation.
“If you’d let me finish? Thank you. As I was about to say, if I swung that way, I would be totally envious.”
“For once you’ve got that right. I swing that way, and I’d totally do him,” Lou informed us.
Chuck and Joe both blew raspberries at him.
“Oh, really?” My heart clenched. I’d known my feelings for my former teacher were deeper than his for me, but I’d assured myself I was content to have his friendship. And while I was certain he saw other people—he made no attempt to conceal the fact he was bisexual—he’d never brought a date to Uncle Angelo’s. I’d never had it rubbed in my face before.
“Don’t pay any attention to Chuck, Chef. He’s an asshole.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t you have tables to wait on?”
“Yes, Chef.” Chuck almost ran back to the dining room.
I forced a smile. “I’d better get out there and say hello.” I wiped my hands on my apron, and when I smoothed back my hair, getting flour in it, my crew snickered, but I ignored them. I ducked into the small john off the kitchen and sighed in frustration at the flour turning my black hair gray. I ran my fingers through my hair and shook out the flour. That was better.
My crew were still laughing as I hurried through the kitchen to the dining room. I just wanted to look presentable for a customer—for my friend—I gritted my teeth. I was making matters worse.
I strode out to the dining room, and my gaze went directly to Artemas’s table, near the big window that looked out on Main Street. It was dark now, and there wasn’t much to be seen except the headlights of passing cars.
Artemas’s companion saw me approaching and leaned forward to say something. Artemas swung around in his chair, then grinned and rose. “Drey. It’s good to see you.”
“Same here.” I glance toward his companion, and oh my God, Chuck had only gotten it partly right. This guy was so much more than a cutie, he was drop dead gorgeous, with rich auburn hair, violet eyes that would have made Elizabeth Taylor envious, and lashes that could start a wind storm simply by him blinking. How could I compete with someone like that?
“I’d like you to meet Oliver. He’s my—”
His boyfriend? Jealousy flashed through me, and I didn’t want to hear it. Over the years, since I’d taken over the kitchen, Uncle Angelo’s had gotten the reputation for being the place to bring your girl if you wanted her to become your fiancée. “Your food’s as good as a love potion,” more than one successful suitor told me afterward. Was this what Artemas had in mind when he asked for something special—something to woo this guy?
“Hello, Oliver. It’s nice to meet you.” You always knew you couldn’t have Artemas, I reminded myself, so be happy he’s found someone he’ll be happy with.
“I’ve been telling him about your amazing pizzas.”
“Have you?” Dammit, I’d spoken too curtly, and the enthusiasm drained from his face to be replaced by confusion. “I’ll make sure you’re not disappointed.”
“I’m certain I won’t be.” Oliver was all graciousness, and I wanted to spit in his eye.
“Drey, can you come back and share a drink with us?”
“Sure.” I curled my fingers in my apron. “Artemas has never brought a date here before.”
“Oh, I’m—”
I turned to my friend, not even bothering to offer a smile. “I can’t stay, we’re getting slammed, but I wanted to say hi. And to welcome Oliver, of course.”
Artemas gave me a puzzled look. Fortunately, Lou arrived with his watermelon chili salt amuse bouche, and I was able to retreat to the kitchen.
Blindly I went to work gathering ingredients, but once I had them lined up at my work station and saw which herbs I’d selected, I knew I couldn’t do this. A headache began throbbing behind my eyes. I turned to my crew, to find them all observing me as if they’d never seen me before.
“What?”
“Uh…nothing, Chef.”
But I knew they’d been whispering about the situation I’d found myself in. I’d been so certain no matter who Artemas fell in love with, I’d be able to deal with it. And I would.
Just not tonight. “Joe, take over for me, please. I’m going home. Lou, I have some limoncello chilling in the fridge. Woul
d you see Chuck serves it to Artemas and…” The name was like poison in my mouth. “…and Oliver after dinner.” I untied my apron, folded it neatly, and set it aside, when all I wanted to do was fling it at the wall. I could feel their eyes on me as I walked out.
* * * *
I trudged up the stairs to my apartment above my landlord’s garage, and let myself in. As I wandered through the empty rooms, I flipped on the lights, hoping they would cheer me, but it didn’t help. I’d never known the place to look so lonely.
I walked into my kitchen, set the oven to preheat, and took out a Dutch oven. While the oil I’d poured into it heated, I gathered up what I’d need to make beef stew. It would be good tonight, and the fact I didn’t have much of an appetite wouldn’t matter. It would be even better tomorrow.
Once again parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme crept into my mind, and why the hell not? It was just me here at home. The ingredients for a Wiccan love potion wouldn’t affect anyone but me, and I was already in love. I measured out those herbs into a bowl, added the beef, and tossed the cubes until they were well-covered.
As I browned the herbed beef, I thought over what had happened at Uncle Angelo’s. I knew I’d get over it. I had no choice in the matter, not if I wanted Artemas to be happy, and I did.
I added the remaining ingredients, placed the Dutch oven into the oven, and set the timer for an hour. When it went off, I’d check on the stew, then set the timer for another hour.
With that done, I stripped off my houndstooth trousers and the black T-shirt with the Uncle Angelo’s logo, and stepped into the shower. It did nothing for my headache, and I was so down I wasn’t even tempted to jerk off.
Once I’d dried my hair and body, I swallowed a couple of ibuprofen and changed into lounge pants and another T-shirt, one that read, You’re the other half of my rainbow.
All that remained now was to wait. I retrieved one of my high school chemistry books from a small bookshelf I’d banged together and thumbed through it. The notes I’d made in the margins might as well have been Greek for all the sense I could make of them, and I slammed the book shut and tossed it aside.
Why did I torment myself like this? I couldn’t have Artemas any more than I could have my lost intellect… My eyes began to burn, and I buried my face in my hands, but before I could start crying in earnest, someone tapped on my door, and I sniffed and swore under my breath.
