Lost in Love (12 page)

Darcy doesn't get it, so I explain. “I don't think it's black-and-white. You can meet the right person at the wrong time. If I'd met Austin ten years from now, he might have been divorced already and this whole situation would have been completely different. Austin is still my soul mate. Even after what he did. But just because someone's a soul mate doesn't necessarily mean you should be with them.”

The girls contemplate this. The soft sounds of a flute float over to us as a roaming musician strolls by. A couple sitting on the grass next to the bleachers are kissing. Another couple walks by, holding hands and smiling at each other like nothing will ever stand in the way of their love. Like nothing will ever change.

“Are you saying you might get back together with him?” Rosanna asks again.

Maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing. Maybe there's even a chance it could work out. Being here in my Zen place, the summer night and big sky all around, the history of my longing to find a soul mate as present as the soft
breeze, it feels like anything is possible. Even the possibility of us.

“I don't know,” I admit. “Part of me wants to believe him. But I mostly feel like I need to protect myself. I could be setting my life up to be destroyed like his wife's is.” I lean forward on the bleacher, hugging my arms around myself. “It makes me sick that I hurt a woman I didn't even know existed. This woman's husband walked out on her and it's all my fault.”

“No it isn't,” Rosanna says. “You said yourself that Austin wasn't happy with her. He was thinking about leaving her before he even met you. You're not why they broke up, Sadie. You can't break up a happy marriage.”

I've heard that before about how no one can break up a happy marriage. But if Austin hadn't met me, they'd probably still be together. And his wife wouldn't be suffering the way she is now. What if Austin was the only one who was unhappy? What if his wife really loved him?

But I'm starting to see the situation in a different way. Maybe what happened will be better for his wife. She feels horrible now, but someday she'll be free to meet the man who will love her in a way Austin never did. Now Austin knows true love is bigger than what he was settling for. And his wife has the chance to find that kind of love, too.

Everyone deserves to find true love. Everyone deserves to love someone the way I loved Austin . . . and the way he keeps saying he still loves me.

KITCHENS AND I HAVE NEVER
gotten along. The extent of my culinary capability does not stretch beyond making toast. Which I've burned way too many times. I don't even buy groceries. The refrigerator would be empty if I lived here by myself. So the fact that it's stocked right now with groceries that I bought from not one but two different stores is astonishing.

Even more astonishing? I'm attempting to cook dinner for Logan tonight. No, I
will
cook dinner for Logan tonight. How hard could it be? Millions of people cook dinner every night. To be on the safe side, I'm starting two hours early. That way I'll have everything under control if I encounter any recipe mishaps. This is my first time following a recipe. The way you have to time everything down to the minute
is kind of freaking me out. And I've never seriously cooked before with special ingredients and flamboyant tools like whisks. So initially I was a little intimidated. Then I was like, Excuse me. You are a badass. You stare down creepers on the subway and hook up with random hotties in dressing rooms and throw drinks in bad boys' faces. You will not be intimidated by some measuring spoons.

There are several key components to this dinner I'm making. I want it to look like dinner at any decent restaurant. We're talking roast pork loin with sides of creamy au gratin potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, green beans with toasted almonds, and warm sourdough bread. Boom.

Preparing the stuffing for the mushrooms comes first. My eyes water when I start chopping the onion and are on fire by the time I chop the last slice. Mental note: Avoid recipes with onions. Washing and drying the mushrooms takes way longer than I thought it would. By the time I've mixed the stuffing, it's half an hour later, I forgot to preheat the oven, and the potatoes won't be done in time if they're not in the oven ten minutes ago. And I don't need a mirror to know that my mascara is smeared.

Now I remember why I hate cooking.

My aversion to all things culinary is a bigger issue. When I was fourteen, I decided to take on the monumental task of making Daddy breakfast for Father's Day. Except I didn't know how monumental making eggs, bacon, and hash browns would be. Multiple pans sizzling
concurrently flummoxed me. My mom had asked if I needed help like five times before I started cooking. I had to ban her from the kitchen so I could concentrate. I wanted to do this all on my own, something sweet for my dad that he would notice and remember. But when I put the plate down in front of him at the dining room table, what he noticed were the burned eggs and soggy hash browns. And what he remembered was that I couldn't even cook a simple breakfast.

“Looks great,” he said with a forced smile. He didn't want to be sitting at the dining room table, which I had carefully set with one of the fancy placemats we only used for company and the good silverware Mom kept in the sideboard for holidays. Daddy wanted to kick back in the breakfast nook with a strong coffee and an onion bagel, devouring the financial section of the Sunday paper. He was only pretending to be happy about his ruined breakfast.

That night I overheard my parents talking in the living room.

“Who burns eggs?” Daddy said.

Then he laughed.

Whatever. Moving on.

Sadie comes home sometime between a pork loin rebellion and a dustup with potatoes that would rather not be sliced. She does a double take when she sees me in the kitchen actually cooking.

“No. Way.” Sadie comes around the breakfast bar. The
kitchen looks like a bomb exploded, followed by a tornado that swirled every pot and pan in all directions. Making a huge mess of the kitchen wasn't my intention. But I can't say I'm surprised. My first attempt to cook a grown-up dinner is not going as smoothly as I'd hoped. “You're cooking?”

“You could call it that. Or racing with the clock to produce something remotely edible before Logan comes over.”

“Do you want some help?”

“You are so sweet. But I want to do this myself.”

“Okay, well . . . I'll be in my room if you need me.”

“Oh wait, there is one thing.” I sift through the pile of eggshells and scrunched paper towels and potato peels until I uncover a cookbook. The au gratin recipe snarls at me with a vengeance. “What do they mean by ‘combine'? Do they mean mix together? Or just put in the same bowl?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Are you supposed to stir?”

“Let's see the recipe.” Sadie reads the directions. “I think you can just mix them together lightly.”

“How do you know?”

“I don't, but that's my best guess from cooking over the years. You pick up on techniques.”

“You're like the recipe whisperer.”

Sadie reads some more. “You know this has to cook for an hour and a half, right?”

“And Logan will be here in an hour and this is nowhere near done and I haven't even gotten in the shower yet?
Yeah, I know.” I am trying not to freak out. Epic fail. Why is cooking so hard? Did I not start early enough? Two hours should be plenty of time to throw together a main dish and a few sides. This whole cooking thing is supposed to be something anyone can do. I must be doing it wrong. Just like those burned eggs on Father's Day. Daddy was right. Who burns eggs?

“Do you have something in the oven?” Sadie asks.

“A couple things. Why?”

“Is one of them burning?”

“The toasted almonds!” I yank the oven door open, shove my hand in an oven mitt, and pull out the cookie sheet. The almonds are so burned they're smoking. I was only supposed to put them in for ten minutes. And I was supposed to toss them halfway through.

“Do you—”

The smoke detector goes off with the loudest, most annoying beeping I've ever heard. The beeping is so loud I can't hear the rest of what Sadie is saying. She puts her fingers in her ears and looks up at the smoke detector. I look where she's looking. I didn't even know we had a smoke detector.

“How do we turn it off?” I yell.

Sadie pulls a chair up to the stove and stands on it. She tries to reach the smoke detector, but she's at a weird angle that's not letting her reach it. I motion for her to get down. Then I switch places with her. With one foot on the chair,
I wedge my other foot against the edge of the counter. Part of being a badass means showing loud smoke detectors who's boss.

“Get the broom!” I yell at Sadie.

She rushes out and back with the broom. I smack the broom wildly at the smoke detector. Sadie is yelling at me about some button I'm supposed to push to make the beeping stop. But we are way beyond buttons. Plastic pieces go flying. A battery pops out. The beeping finally shuts up.

“That was the loudest. thing. ever,” I gasp. Being a gangsta smacking a broom around in the kitchen is already a thing of the past. Now I'm reduced back to being the girl who not only can't cook, but who pretty much sets her kitchen on fire when she tries.

Something else is burning in a pot on the stove. I know I need to take the lid off and look, but I am afraid.

Sadie helps me get dinner together. She calms me down enough to let her take over while I get in the shower. I throw on the outfit I mentally planned in the shower and rush back out to finish up. Dinner is far from perfect, but at least it's edible. Mostly edible. Like 70% edible. Okay fine, 50%, minimum. Logan won't get food poisoning or anything. Fingers crossed.

“I think you're all set,” Sadie says right before Logan is supposed to get here. “I'm taking off so you can have the place to yourself.”

“Are you sure?”

“Totally. Rosanna's out with Donovan. You guys can have a romantic dinner.”

“With the stench of burned almonds in the air.”

“Trends have to start somewhere.”

“Can you imagine? Welcome to Per Se. Enjoy the freshly crisped almond aroma.”

“Crisped would actually smell really good.”

I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Logan will be here any second.”

“I'm out.” Sadie dashes to her room and grabs a smaller bag than usual. “Have fun!” she trills on her way out.

I frantically scoop food onto plates. This is not the chic scene I was envisioning. The mushrooms are inexplicably falling apart, the au gratin is still in the oven, and the second batch of almonds wasn't toasted enough. Oh, and I totally forgot about the bread. It's not warm. I could stick it in the oven, but I'm afraid I'll forget about it and burn down the entire apartment.

The doorbell buzzes. I run to the intercom and buzz Logan in. Lighting! We need romantic mood lighting up in here. I get a few candles from my room and put them on the table and bar. Where are the matches? Why are there never any matches when you need them? Rosanna might be right about organizing. At least then you know where everything is.

I open the door for Logan right before he knocks.

“Hey, babe,” he says, all lanky sexy sloucher.

Maybe I'll eat him for dinner.

I let him in. Then I kiss him like I haven't seen him in weeks.

Logan breaks away. “What's that smell?”

“You mean the freshly crisped almond aroma? It's a new trend. Per Se started it.”

“Is something burning?”

I grab the front of Logan's shirt, yanking him toward me. He came straight from work. He took that job at the bike shop and apparently didn't change his shirt before coming over. But the grease stain on the front of his shirt isn't even bothering me. I press up against him, avoiding contact with the grease. “Oh yeah. Something's definitely burning.”

“No, I mean . . . for real.”

How is Logan not all over me right now? Since when can he resist a sexy innuendo?

“There was a culinary mishap,” I disclose.

“Was Sadie cooking?”

“Guess again.”

Logan smirks. “We know you weren't cooking.”

“Then how did I make you this?” I sweep my hand at the table, hastily set with incomplete dinner plates, an absence of silverware, and unlit candles.

“You cooked?”

“Only for you.”

“Why?”

“Um, because I wanted to make you dinner?”

“Oh,” Logan says. He looks mildly disgusted. Maybe the burned almond stench is making him nauseous.

“What's wrong?”

“I thought you were ordering in.”

“That was what I told you to cover up the surprise. See? I cooked dinner for you. You're the only one I've ever cooked dinner for.
Ever.
And it turned out to be a complete disaster. Surprise!”

Logan attempts a smile. “That was sweet of you, babe. I appreciate it.”

“But . . . ?”

“No, it's just I thought you were ordering from Strip House. I was psyched for steak.”

“Seriously?”

“You made it sound so good.”

“Yeah, no, I planned a whole thing. I went to Whole Foods
and
Trader Joe's for ingredients. I started cooking two hours ago and it didn't even turn out right. After I followed recipes and everything.” Why is he being such an asshole? Has he always been an asshole and I just never realized it before?

Logan stretches his arms out to me. “Come here.”

“You are the only one I've ever cooked dinner for,” I repeat.

He puts his arms around me, hugging me softly. “I'm sorry. This is coming out all wrong. I'm flattered you cooked for me.”

“Attempted to cook. Everything is ruined.”

“Let's see.” We go over to the table. Logan examines the plates.

“The au gratin is almost done.”

“It looks good,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Because it's not.”

“I'm cool with eating everything you made.” He pauses. “But we can go out if you want. Your call.”

Not cool, Logan. Not cool. You should be sitting down and digging into this meal the girl you adore put her heart and soul into. Even if it's only 30% edible. You should not be shifting awkwardly by the table, hoping to go out and eat somewhere better.

Would he even treat for dinner? Or is he expecting me to treat again? I pay almost every time we go out. Which, whatever, I love treating my friends. But Logan is more than my friend. He was my boyfriend before and apparently wants to be my boyfriend again. He paid almost every time we went out in Santa Monica. Shouldn't he be trying harder to win me back?

“Would you treat if we went out?” I ask.

“I can treat. Do you want to go out to dinner?”

“Of course I don't want to go out to dinner!” I snap. “I just spent two hours cooking for you!”

“But if you don't like how it turned out . . .”

“You should be more supportive. You should be eating this gourmet fail no matter how bad it tastes.”

He looks at me blankly. “You'd really want me to eat something that tasted bad?”

“Hello, I'm exaggerating. It's not that bad.”

“Then why did you say it was?”

“Because I was embarrassed! Cooking is supposed to be this easy thing anyone can do. Except me, apparently.”

“So it's not for everyone. So what? You're talented in lots of other ways.”

Now he's saying I suck at cooking. He took one look at the dinner I made him and can't wait to get out of here.

I give up.

“Hey.” Logan slides his hand through my hair. His dark eyes smolder. I try not to lose myself in them. “It's okay. We'll do whatever you want.”

“What if I don't want to do anything?”

He tries to touch me again. I shrug away from him.

“Do you want me to leave?” Logan asks.

“That's the best idea you've had all night.”

So he leaves. No kiss. No see you tomorrow. He just walks right out.

I may be talented at lots of other things, but Logan is a master at leaving me behind. Good to see that making a huge effort for someone who is supposed to love me has such awesome results. But didn't I already know relationships come with way too much disappointment?