I thought I would feel better once the secret was out, but instead, I felt worse. It was silly to think I could tell the truth about a few things and make everyone see that Jason was an amazing person rather than the jerk they’d assumed him to be, and everything would be fine. Life didn’t work that way, and even though I knew that, it didn’t make his silence any easier to deal with.
It might’ve taken a couple of days and a long weekend spent mostly locked in my room, but I eventually called the news station Jason had set me up with. Against my better judgment, I agreed to host a cooking segment for their Saturday morning broadcast. It was scheduled to film in one week and then air that weekend.
I’d more than likely make a fool out of myself on TV.
But it was a risk I was willing to take.
22
Tatum
If I wasn’t at work, I was in my kitchen. I’d pull random things out of the fridge and cook whatever came to mind, taking notes as I went and then tweaking what didn’t work. Before I knew it, I had page after page of creative meal ideas.
“Where’d you come up with these names?” Kelsey sat on the counter, flipping through my spiral notebook while I prepared my next dish.
“I don’t know,” I answered, my attention set on the task in front of me. “Just whatever came to me at the time, I guess.”
“Sherlock Holmes–Made Pizza? Alexander Graham Bell Peppers? These are pretty catchy, Tater.” She continued to flip while I continued to focus on the sauce bubbling in the pan. “You’re Not a Jerky sounds good, but I think my favorite is Sorry for Jambalyin’.”
Had I actually listened to her instead of just pretending, I would’ve known where she was going with this, and I might’ve thought about snatching the notebook from her hands. But I didn’t. Because apparently, I had yet to learn my lesson.
“Are all of these about Jason?”
I peered over my shoulder, catching the glint in her eyes that told me denying it would be a waste of my breath. In case it wasn’t already obvious, I hadn’t learned that lesson, either. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. They have nothing to do with him.”
“Okay . . . then what was the inspiration behind Missing You So Jam Much?”
“What’s your point, Kels?”
“My point is . . . I’m sure there’s something about Jason in every one of these, whether it’s in the title or the dish itself. Have you talked to him at all?”
My chest tightened, but I attempted to ignore it and focus on what I was doing. “Not really. I texted him a couple of times to tell him that he didn’t have to worry about anyone at work thinking he was an asshole, but all I got were really short responses.”
I stirred the sauce, disregarding the hum that came from behind me.
“Do you think he’ll be at your parents’ house this weekend?” I believed if I could just get him in the same room, I’d be able to make him talk to me. Even if it were only for one minute, it would be better than nothing.
It had been a little over a week since he’d left my apartment, and still, I’d heard almost nothing from him. To make matters worse, he’d skipped lunch last Sunday. Truthfully, it hadn’t surprised me; I’d prepared myself for it, pretty much knowing he wouldn’t show up, but that hadn’t made it easier when I’d stood next to his mom and he wasn’t perched at the bar in front of me.
“Oh, uh . . . no, he won’t be there.” That was enough to lock up every muscle in my entire body. “He’s actually out of town this weekend—left yesterday.”
I set the wooden spoon down and slowly faced my best friend. “Where’d he go?”
“Aunt Lori said he went to Vegas.”
Pretending to be unaffected by something when the person you’re trying to hide it from can see your face never works out. Yet I tried anyway. “Any idea why?”
“Honestly, no. But I didn’t ask. I knew I wouldn’t be able to lie to you if it had to do with Jen, so this way, I can tell you that I don’t think you have anything to worry about. He’s probably going to see a friend or relative or something.”
“Kelsey . . . you’re his cousin; you know all his relatives live here.” I appreciated the smile I got from that, even if it was small and only lasted two seconds. “And we both know he went there for her. There’s no reason to kid ourselves.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Uh, yeah I do. She was making plans to visit him; probably to work things out. I mean, this was bound to happen sooner or later.” Later would’ve been an easier pill to swallow than the one I’d gotten, which had left me thinking he’d run out of here and headed straight to her.
“I just hate seeing you upset about it.”
“I’m not.” Yeah, I totally hadn’t learned anything over the last week, because it seemed I was still lying. I waved her off and went back to the pan on the stove. “We weren’t dating, Kels. It’s not like he broke my heart or anything.”
“Tatum . . . I just went through this entire recipe book that you’ve made up since your fling with Jason ended. You can’t tell me that you aren’t in love with him. Pretend all you want that him visiting Jen doesn’t bother you, but we both know that’s bullshit.”
“We were sleeping together for a few weeks. That’s it. There’s no way anyone can fall in love that fast. You’ve clearly watched too many Nicholas Sparks movies.”
“If that were the case, I’d be convinced one of you would die soon.” She laughed at her own joke, and no matter how lame I thought she was, I couldn’t bite back the amusement that played on my smiling lips. “You know you can be honest with me, right? It doesn’t matter that he’s my cousin; I’ll always listen to you, no matter what it’s about.”
I peered at her over my shoulder. “I know. Thanks, Kels.”
She held up one finger and added, “That’s a lie. I don’t want to hear details of his appendage . . . or sex. I draw the line there.”
“Were you able to get Saturday off, Tatum?” Mrs. Peterson asked, pulling me from my daze.
I was on the patio with Kelsey, her sister, her mom, and her aunt, while her dad and Nick manned the grill on the dock below. This was the second Sunday I had to be at this house without Jay, and I wasn’t sure how many more I would be able to handle. There was a good chance I’d spent the last hour lost in my thoughts while staring at the sun dancing off the lake. If he didn’t show up next weekend, someone would have to spoon-feed me and wipe the drool from my mouth.
I smiled at Diane and nodded. “Oh . . . yes, ma’am. I switched shifts with someone. I’m working Wednesday night now.” That meant I wouldn’t have to see Michael, and nothing made me happier than an entire shift without his moody ass.
Genuine happiness shone in her bright smile. “That’s so good to hear. I hated the thought of rushing through your very first TV appearance or pushing the celebration off until Sunday. I would have, of course, but I want it to be special for you, not feel like every weekend.”
“I really appreciate it, Mrs. Peterson, but please don’t go out of your way for me.”
“Nonsense.” She tsked. “Saturday will be all about you, and now we won’t have to cut the party short for you to go to work.” Her eyes glimmered with excitement. “And Jason will be here, too. He’s flying back from Nevada late tonight. I’m sure he wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
While the conversation carried on around me, I tried to tell myself that just because he was in Vegas, that didn’t mean he’d gone for Jen. And even if he did see her, it didn’t mean they were trying to work things out.
Fun fact: It’s much harder to lie to yourself than it is to someone else.
But it didn’t matter what I tried to tell myself, because my heart was shattered. I’d adamantly denied having feelings for him, citing the impossibility of becoming attached to someone so quickly, and while I still believed that to be true, I couldn’t explain the emptiness in my chest or the pain where my heart used to be.
When Lori mentioned getting the
salad ready, I couldn’t have been more relieved. At least if I had food in front of me, or if I were in a kitchen, I’d be able to concentrate on something other than my pain. Not to mention, I wouldn’t have to continue listening to Kelsey argue with her mom over what was better—tile or hardwood. Those two didn’t understand the concept of an opinion to save their lives. Kelsey would gripe about this for a week, until they found something else to argue about next Sunday, all the while oblivious to the fact that she was just like her mom.
After using the restroom and washing my hands, I joined Lori in the kitchen. She already had the bowl sitting out and the vegetables on the counter, waiting to be shredded and diced into a beautiful garden salad. I didn’t need direction, though I accepted it anyway. She pointed to the container of cherry tomatoes and slid a knife my way. The gesture alone was calming, considering our roles were typically reversed.
“Did I ever tell you about Jason’s seventh birthday?” Lori’s sweet voice caught my attention. She smiled and then returned to chopping the carrots. “He has always been indecisive. Ever since he was a baby.”
I didn’t know where this story was going, but I began cutting the tomatoes and listened.
“Bill had moved in a few months before, so while it wasn’t exactly new, there were still a lot of learning curves we all had to figure out. Anyway, I thought it would be nice to let Jason pick his own birthday dinner. He was seven, so I figured he was old enough to have a say in what we ate on his special day.”
“I probably would’ve asked for mac and cheese,” I said through laughter.
“I would’ve been happy with that, just as long as he picked something. But dear Lord, that boy didn’t make it easy. At breakfast that morning, I asked him what he wanted. He said he didn’t know, so I told him to take a bit and think about it. A few hours later, he came up to me, his little face scrunched and his tiny hands balled into fists.”
I stopped what I was doing and looked at her. “What happened?”
She shook her head and laughed beneath her breath. “He didn’t know what he wanted to eat for dinner. I offered a few suggestions, things I knew he liked, but he didn’t want any of that. So, I told him to think a little more about it. By three that afternoon, I kind of needed to know what I was making in case I had to make a trip to the store. But he still hadn’t made up his mind.”
“He spent that whole time thinking about it?”
“You know it. He sat up in his room for most of the day, and the more he thought about it, the more frustrated he became. And as I’m sure you can guess, I was just as mad as he was. I must’ve suggested every dish under the sun, and he turned them all down. I told him if he didn’t tell me, I would have to order pizza.” She looked at me and added, “He about lost his mind when I issued that threat.”
“Did he not like pizza?” I couldn’t imagine any kid not liking it.
“Oh, that wasn’t it at all. It’s just that he didn’t want pizza. Finally, Bill stepped in. He must’ve realized I was about to explode and decided to help out. He was great when I needed moral support, but up until that time, he hadn’t ever asserted himself in a parental role. Jason was never one to argue or give me problems, so Bill never needed to step in before.”
She stared ahead and smiled, more than likely lost in the memory.
“He calmly sat next to him at the table with a piece of paper and a pen. And rather than ask Jason what he wanted, he asked him what he didn’t want. Once they had a very extensive list of everything he wasn’t interested in, they started thinking of foods that didn’t have any of those things in it. It took maybe two minutes before he decided on something I’d never made before.” She dropped her chin and swayed her head side to side as silent humor shook her shoulders.
“That’s a cute story. You’ve never told me that one before.”
Her eyes sparkled when she turned to me, stepping closer to add the carrots to the bowl. And in her natural, motherly voice, she said, “It takes him a while to know what he wants. Sometimes, he has to figure out what it is that he doesn’t want first. But give him time . . . he always comes around.” She winked and then returned to the cutting board.
I was speechless for a moment, but the second I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant by that, Kelsey’s dad walked in with a pork loin on a tray. Seconds later, the others followed, effectively silencing my question.
Jason might not have been there, but that didn’t stop me from staring at the empty seat at the table, picturing a frustrated little boy who couldn’t decide what he wanted to eat on his birthday.
The day had come to film the cooking segment for the news station. Nothing had prepared me for the onslaught of nerves that wrecked my stomach and left me stuttering like a fool.
“You almost ready, Ms. Alexander?” one of the production assistants asked after knocking on the open door to my dressing room.
That had to be the best part of it all. I had my own room with a table and mirror. I might not have had a team to style my hair or apply my makeup, but at least I had a place to do my own.
I gave my reflection one last glance and then hopped off the chair. “About as ready as I’ll ever be,” I mumbled while making my way out of the room.
The young woman led me down a narrow hallway to the empty studio. I’d pictured a full audience, yet that wasn’t what greeted me. In fact, they didn’t even have rows of seats lining the back wall like I’d expected. Instead, the only people around were a few cameramen, a couple of guys wearing headsets in a closed-off sound booth, and the host—well, I assumed she was the host—in an area set up to look like a kitchen.
She wore her light-brown hair twisted into a bun and pinned to the back of her head, which I typically thought made women appear old, but on her, it worked. Her eyes were heavily lined, the lids perfectly smoky, and I couldn’t help but be jealous of it. No matter how many tutorials I watched on the process, I always ended up looking like I’d just rolled out of bed with three-day-old mascara smudged beneath my eyes. And don’t get me started on the tight skirt that hugged her hips or the blouse that showed off her cleavage while still being classy. Her simple black pumps gave her calves definition I could only dream about. Without a doubt, this woman could have made a Victoria’s Secret model insecure.
Standing in the manufactured kitchen located in the far corner, she instructed someone I couldn’t see about the lighting. She’d say something, and one of the overhead bulbs would become dimmer or brighter. This happened several times until she gave the invisible person the thumbs-up. In my opinion, it looked exactly the same as it had before she started to tinker with it, but I wasn’t the professional, so my opinion didn’t matter.
“Gemma, this is Tatum Alexander.” My tour guide smiled while she made the introductions. With her clipboard held against her chest, she turned to me and said, “Everything you requested is stocked in the kitchen and ready to go. We have the dish you already prepared, which is what you’ll use to present to the viewers at the end. We’ll go through a bit of each step just to show the process, but ultimately, you won’t fully cook anything. So don’t stress. It’s quick and easy. You ready to have a little fun?”
I’d heard this speech before, though it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d repeated it a dozen more times; it wouldn’t calm my nerves. Don’t stress, my ass. Quick and easy? I doubted it. These people had probably never met the likes of me.
They were in for a treat if they thought this would be fun.
Everything was great until the camera came on. That blinking red light did nothing but taunt me until I stood frozen, staring wide eyed into the lens while Gemma used her television voice to seduce the viewers. Granted, the viewers wouldn’t come for five more days, but that didn’t stop the anxiety from strangling me.
“Tatum, why don’t you talk a little about what ingredients we’re using today,” she prodded in a sickeningly sweet voice.
I focused on the items laid out in front of me and attempted to em
ulate her tone, hoping it would make me sound inviting and happy like it did for her. So, I picked up the bowl of romaine and said, “Lettuce.” Then I moved on to the bottle of oil, doing the same until Gemma leaned closer and whispered, “Speak up—they can’t hear you.”
“Corn.” I made sure to speak louder, more clearly, and continued going down the line. Once I got to the last ingredient, my nerves began to wane, and I finally started to think I could do this.
Apparently, I was living in a fantasy.
“Tatum . . .” One of the crew members stepped up to the counter. This surprised me since they weren’t supposed to be in front of the camera, though he didn’t give me time to question it before continuing. “You need to look up when you speak, like you’re talking to the viewers.”
I nodded. Look up . . . I could do that. Talk to the viewers . . . easy.
He went back to his place in the shadows, and we started over.
“Lettuce.” I lifted the bowl, same as the last time, yet now, I did so while staring into the lens with a smile on my face. I had to admit, setting it down to pick up the next item wasn’t easy without looking at what I was doing. “Butter. Corn.”
No one whispered any direction, and the director guy never came back or stopped me. I could just see it now . . . my own show with my own theme song.
I grew lost in the lyrics and beat of what that song would be as we moved from one step to the next. Gemma would ask me a question or turn to the camera, going off on some tangent about food that I didn’t pay attention to, while I shined like the star I was born to be.
“What are you doing now?” She must’ve felt the need to give every detail, and when I didn’t, she’d direct me into an explanation.
With the bottle tipped slightly toward the pan on the burner, I said, “Adding oil.”
The (Half) Truth Page 28
