Dinner for One (19 page)

“No.” He’s been too focused on the fact he’d done it at all and subsequently avoiding that knowledge.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say he did it because he knew you wouldn’t go out with him if he told you who he was.”

“I wouldn’t have,” admits Bastien.

“And that doesn’t make what he did right. He did something that upset you, and you really liked him, really put yourself out there for him. I think you’re allowed to have a sulk about that, at least for a little.” She hands his phone to him. “I think you should maybe read these messages. Listen to the voice mail.”

Fleur stands up, puts her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think the new review was a pity one, or because he was sleeping with you. I think he gave your food a second chance and he liked it, so he fixed his mistake.” She shakes him a little where she’s gripping him. “I’m not saying to go out and forgive him, but maybe try to think past the initial hurt.”

She leaves him there, turning off the TV as she passes and disappearing into her bedroom. The room is completely dark save for the light of his phone screen and the digitalized clock on the DVD player.

It takes him a little while, sitting there by himself, to gather the courage to look down at his phone. He’s got near twenty messages, five missed calls, and three voice mails. Only three of those things are from James. The messages all follow the same line.

I’m awful, and I’m so unbelievably sorry. I fucked up. I was going to tell you, tonight actually. I kept wanting to, and I know I should never have lied in the first place, but I like you so much, and I was afraid of what would happen. I know that’s not an excuse for acting like a jackass, but it’s the truth.

I’m really so sorry. Please call me.

The voice mails say the same thing, and James sounds wrecked in them. Bastien’s stomach twists as he listens to his voice, the way it cracks and gets rough and how he repeats himself, stumbling over words. He does sound genuinely sorry.

Maybe it’s wrong, but it makes Bastien feel a little better knowing he isn’t the only one hurt by this. James may have lied, but he did really like Bastien, and that doesn’t fix it, doesn’t make it magically okay. It does make Bastien’s chest hurt a little less, though.

He texts back the truth.
I need time.

He doesn’t wake up the following morning till his alarm goes off at nine.

WHEN HE’S
lost count of the drinks he’s had—a variety of rum and gaudily colored cocktails with the occasional shot thrown in for the hell of it—they stumble onto the beach and collapse on their backs in the sand. His head feels heavy, but the world isn’t spinning so he’s pretty sure everything’s A-OK.

“Water,” he says, smacking his lips. That last cocktail tasted like ass.

Dorian almost whacks him in the face with his waving hand. “There’s an ocean full right there. Help yourself.”

He scrunches up his nose. There’s a reason that’s a bad idea. He just can’t recall it at the moment. He rolls his head to the side, and Denver’s staring at him, green eyes opened wide and his dirty-blond hair in complete disarray. He’s got his head propped on his hand. “Tell us about the chef,” he says.

“He’s perfect,” says James fervently. “Even when he’s annoying the fuck out of me.”

“He annoys you?” asks Dorian, and when he turns to look, he’s mirroring Denver’s position.

“Duh.” He squirms till he’s comfortable on his back, and he looks up at the night sky and the blurry stars rather than his siblings’ curious expressions. “He doesn’t put his shoes away. That’s a tripping hazard you know.”

They both laugh loudly at that, and he finds himself giggling along even though he’s not sure what’s so funny. He sighs. His eyes feel hot. “I miss him.”

“So you gotta get him back,” says Dorian earnestly.

“We need a plan,” says Denver. “A fantastic one!”

They’re quiet for so long after he thinks they’ve fallen asleep. “Guys?” he whispers. They hum in answer. “Why aren’t you suggesting anything?”

“Waiting on you.” Dorian pokes his arm. Hard. “We don’t know what he likes.”

“Food,” says James decisively. He thinks about it. “And his cat.”

“You could get him another cat!” Denver’s arms flail around with his excitement. His head peeks over James. “I want a cat. Can I get a cat too?”

Dorian tells him no at the same time James says, “If you want.”

He zones out, half-asleep as they bicker about getting a cat. He thinks it’s probably not smart to fall asleep on the beach, but he can’t be bothered to move. He’s
comfy
.

Denver jostles him, and it feels like his stomach sways to the right and sloshes back to the left. He gags. “Oops.” Denver stops the shaking. “Tell us more. Dorian says a cat is a bad idea. The other cat might not like it.”

“More?”

“What food does he like?”

“French food. He’s French.”

“I’m going to shake you if you don’t give us more detail than that.”

He closes his eyes, feels like his body is melting into the sand. He tells them about the pastries that made him want to give up all other food and about that first meal Bastien made for him at the restaurant. The one he’d been inspired to write a good review about, not the actual first one. He’s still not sure who made that dish. But that’s beside the point. He tells them about spaghetti on his carpet and the best Russian food he’s ever eaten. He talks about crepes in the morning, and french toast in bed. There’s a food truck a couple streets from Bastien’s, and it serves the best burgers—they get lunch there at least once a week. “Hot dogs,” he blurts, remembering Bastien’s love of the disgusting food at the game.

His eyes widen mournfully. “And he likes the Pittsburgh Penguins.”

That leads to more laughter, and then someone’s coming along, telling them they need to return to their hotel rooms. “M’comfortable,” James tells them.

“You can’t sleep on the beach.”

He thinks that’s dumb.

He passes out the moment he crawls into bed. He wakes in the morning with the hangover from hell. His head feels like it’s splitting in half, and he’d like it to hurry up and finish the separation so he can be done with it. Of course then his stomach decides he’s on a rollercoaster, and he has to rush from the bed, only to find Denver already bent over the toilet. He makes it to the tub.

“I’m never drinking with you two again,” he says when he can finally speak and everything feels less topsy-turvy.

Denver looks wounded, one hand clutching his head like if he stops it’ll fall off.

Dorian looks like he hadn’t been drinking at all. James kind of wants to pummel him. He’s leaning against the doorjamb, watching them be sick.

“I came up with an idea,” he says. “Once you two are done, we’ll get breakfast, and I’ll explain.” He disappears into the bedroom.

James groans. “I don’t want food.” He never wants to eat again.

Denver tilts his head back as he gargles, holding the mouthwash out to James. He spits. “I could actually really go for pancakes right now. And sausages. Maybe a donut.”

“How are you a model?” he asks incredulously.

“Have you seen my face?” Denver points to his face, and James scrunches his up in response. Denver huffs. “I’ve been told it’s a nice face.”

James is polite and he waits till Denver leaves the room before he laughs at him.

Despite his stomach’s desire to be nowhere near food, he goes to breakfast and valiantly tries to choke down plain toast. “I want to hear this idea,” he says, fairly sure it’s going to be absurd.

Dorian leans forward eagerly, a strip of bacon dangling from his fingers. “So you both love food and cooking. It’s the big thing you have in common. You need to win him back with it. Make him food you know he likes. French comfort food, something along those lines. Steer clear of non-French dishes, because you want to show him you’re embracing the French food you originally insulted. This way you’re putting in effort, and it’s personal. He’ll find it charming.”

It’s not a bad idea, but there’s one tiny hiccup. “How am I supposed to get him to eat anything when he won’t talk to me? I doubt he’s going to pop over for dinner.”

“You’re going to put the food in containers and leave it in his mailbox.”

“Makes more sense to leave it outside his door,” interrupts Denver, talking around a mouthful of eggs. It’s not attractive. Both of them make faces at him, and he hastily swallows. “You want it to seem like a cute present. Leave it on his doorstep. He’s in an apartment building, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Doorstep,” repeats Denver, like he’s all knowing.

“You don’t think someone will take it?” worries James.

“If he lives in a nicer building, I don’t think his neighbors are going to feel the need to steal food left outside his door.”

“I think he’s right.” Dorian drops a piece of bacon on James’s plate. “You need to eat. We can’t brainstorm on empty stomachs.”

He takes a miniscule bite, and then a bigger one when he gets a scathing stare in response. “What do we have left to brainstorm?” he wonders aloud.

“What you’re going to make, how long you’re going to do this, backups! Every good plan requires a backup.”

They’re absolutely crazy, and he must be as well because he finds himself scribbling recipes and ideas on napkins. It feels good to know he’s trying.

Chapter Twelve

THE ONLY
thing on his mind when he finally walks through his door is sleep. He is absolutely exhausted, thinks he might lie down and not get up for a week. James doesn’t even check his phone. He considers it for half a second, but then he swears he hears his bed calling to him, and he can’t say no.

He sleeps for fourteen hours.

His phone and any possible messages it might hold are the first things on his mind when he cracks open his eyes and groans at the light filtering through his window. It’s just a matter of crawling from his bed and going to retrieve it. His skin is stiff and sore with sunburn, his head battered from a week of far too much drinking. He’s got a bruise the size of a cantaloupe on his thigh and no recollection of how it got there.

He has a brief moment of wondering if he can will his phone to cross the house to him, but he’s thinking it’s unlikely. Then again he thinks it’s unlikely he’s going to be able to move anytime soon. If he had his phone, he’d call Laurence and ask him to come over and retrieve it for him.

Flinging his arm over his eyes, he shifts one leg so the bottom half hangs over the side of the bed. He waits a minute and moves his other leg a little closer. Inch by inch he moves toward the side of the bed, dangling his limbs over till he has no choice but to pour himself from the bed and stand on legs that feel brand-new.

A shower is a must.

He gets under the spray when it’s cold, hoping to jolt into wakefulness. Mostly it leads to a lot of cursing, and he almost falls over when he jerks away from the icy spray. He cranks it to the hottest it can go and stands there. It’s probably his imagination, but he’s almost positive he can smell all the alcohol he drank leaking from his pores.

His sunburn feels like it’s on fire, and he’s forced to turn the water to lukewarm. Emerging from the shower, he’s bright red like a lobster, and his nose is peeling. It’s not an attractive look. The idea of putting clothes on is appalling, so he pads naked into the living room and retrieves his phone, turning it on.

There are a lot of messages and missed calls, but none of them look to be from Bastien. Laurence and Marcy are responsible for most of them as he scrolls through his notifications, and he makes a note to call them soon. It’s not fair to blame them for this. About three quarters of the way down the list, his heart thumps, and his breath catches.

I need time.

It’s probably asinine to feel so giddy about such a short response, but it’s a response and it’s not telling him to fuck off. He can give Bastien time. That’s not a problem. He’ll give him all the time he needs. Should he still carry out his plan, though? If he doesn’t leave notes with the food then he isn’t trying to talk to Bastien really, and he’s not pressuring him. Bastien doesn’t have to eat it. He could throw it away if he wanted to. The thought of that makes James’s eyes burn, but he pushes it back.

He clears his messages, responding to the important ones, and goes to get his laptop. He sets it up on the kitchen island and googles French recipes. Some of them are highly complicated, and he thinks they’d be better left for a not-first-attempt. It’s not going to mean much if the food he leaves Bastien tastes like dirt.

The first recipe that really jumps out at him is for poulet basquaise. The name is familiar, and when he looks at the picture and subsequent ingredients, he recognizes the dish Bastien had first served him. And that… well, it’s perfect.

He pulls out the pots and pans he needs and goes to his fridge only to realize he’s been gone for a week, and all of his fruits and vegetables are looking a little on the dejected side. Right, he thinks. So grocery shopping first. His stomach gives a low grumble of agreement. He opens the fridge door again to take full stock of what he does and does not have. The answer is he doesn’t have anything really, and a look in his freezer reveals similar.

Using the notepad on his phone, he types up a lengthy list of all the things he needs. He tries to anticipate what might be required in future dishes he chooses as well. Going to the grocery store every day isn’t something he particularly wants to do. Normally he shops on Sunday, because that’s the day the nearest supermarket restocks. He’s expecting a Monday afternoon to be much calmer.

Surprisingly it’s not. If anything it might be busier. Aren’t these people supposed to be at work?

He dodges children who have just come from school and are being towed along behind their parents, filled with energy and rearranging everything on the shelves when the adults look away. He makes a mental note to never come shopping at this time again.

His cart is overflowing when he’s done, and he has to flag a cab down to get it all back to his place. He should suck it up and get a car—he can afford it—but the idea of driving in New York City makes him queasy. It’s bad enough when he’s in the cab. He tends to spend the rides with his eyes closed, thinking of peaceful things and not the way he’s being tossed around like he’s in a washing machine.