The Seven Year Slip

“HE WAS RIGHT UNDER my nose,” I muttered to my new pothos plant, Helga, as I poured myself a glass of wine.

Here I was, sitting on the floor in front of my coffee table in my aunt’s apartment, furiously clicking on every link about a man who was seven years older, seven years farther away, seven years stranger, than the one who had kissed me over a lemon pie.

“Only now he’s so far out of my league I barely even recognize him. He doesn’t even go by Iwan. He goes by James Ashton. I would never have guessed Ashton,” I added, a little morosely, and sank back against the couch, clutching the bottle of wine to my chest. When I’d gotten Helga a few weeks ago, my mom told me that if I talked to it, it’d grow better, but Helga just looked sort of wilty. Probably because I dumped all my emotional trauma on her. “At least he made it, right? He made it. And I found him . . .”

It was a relief, because he wasn’t dead, he hadn’t gone back home. He’d made something of himself, exactly as he said he wanted to, and the more I scrolled through his life, digitally generated across Google, the more I began to wish I’d seen it all first-hand.

In the last seven years, he had been a dishwasher for only a month and a half before he graduated to line cook, where two-time Michelin-starred chef Albert Gauthier took him under his wing. Gauthier . . . wasn’t that the chef he’d talked about over dinner? A year later, he was sous chef, being recognized as a rising star, a talent to watch, gathering accolades like some people collected bottle caps. His career trajectory was astronomical. One critic loved his food, and all of a sudden his popularity exploded, and two years ago Albert Gauthier retired and handed over the reins of the restaurant Iwan had started at as a dishwasher. That restaurant?

The Olive Branch.

I remember the broad chest I’d run into on the way out the door.

I bit my thumbnail, skimming the different links and articles detailing his life in a messy, imperfect timeline—

Now that I knew he didn’t go by Iwan, I found him rather easily on the alumni page of CIA—as a notable chef. With his recognition at the Olive Branch, he’d made quite a name for himself in the culinary world. James guest starred on Chef’s Table and some Food Network shows; he’d been a frequent guest on travel food shows. And now he was opening up a restaurant all his own at the end of the summer, and I was sure that was going to coincide with this book proposal of his. The name of the restaurant hadn’t been announced yet, but I was sure it’d be something about his grandpa, maybe? Pommes Frites?

I smiled a little at the idea.

Somehow, he’d become even more handsome, aged like a handle of fine bourbon. In the videos online, he was magnetic and polished. If Drew did get him, he wouldn’t need much media training, which made my job easier.

I thought about that sweet, crooked-mouthed man with a taste for his grandpa’s lemon pies that were never quite the same twice, and I decided yes—this was good. This was okay.

I finished my glass of wine, opened his cookbook proposal, and started to make a plan. I was good at plans, good at my job, good at what I did. This was the one thing I excelled in, the one thing I could bury myself under and feel safe with—especially against this one awful thought in my head:

He couldn’t remember me, because if he did . . . wouldn’t he have tried to find me?

And I wasn’t sure I wanted to know that answer.

AND, AS LUCK WOULD have it, I ran late to the meeting the next morning.

To be clear: it was five minutes until 10:00 a.m., when the meeting was supposed to start, but by the sound of voices on the other side of the conference room door, I was about to be the last one inside. I smoothed down my black skirt, thinking that maybe I should’ve worn pants. Something that made me look cleverer, bolder. Maybe a different blouse, too—why did I always choose yellow? At least no one noticed the stain on the bow from my coffee this morning.

My heart beat quick and sick in my throat. Why was I nervous?

You’ve done this a hundred times before, I told myself. You’re good at this.

I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath.

And opened the door with a smile.

“Hi, there,” I greeted brightly. “Sorry I’m a bit . . .”

Late was what I wanted to say, but the words dropped out of my mouth as I came into the room and caught sight of the man seated at the head of the conference table. I’d rehearsed this moment in the mirror all morning—look pleasant, put-together, smile professionally (don’t smile too wide, don’t show your gums—act like your life is together, too). Maybe he’d recognize me. Maybe he’d think I looked familiar, and he’d flash that boyish smile of his—

I had it all down to a fine art by the time I got to the subway, going over the scenario in my head until I’d memorized exactly what to say and how to say it.

And all of it, in one split second, failed me.

Because the man at the head of the conference table was not the one I remembered. Curly auburn hair cut short on the side, longer at the top, accenting his sturdy face and clean-shaven square jaw. He’d lost the beard from the Instagram photos, but somehow gained the ability to leave me absolutely speechless. There were bits of the Iwan I knew—a smattering of freckles across his cheeks, a strong nose, soft-looking lips.

I immediately recalled what they felt like on me. The way he’d nipped at my skin, fastened his hands around my waist—

My stomach plummeted into my toes.

But for everything that stayed the same, so much had changed. Things I really couldn’t know until I saw him in person. Seven years had sharpened his edges, turned stretched-neck T-shirts into a fitted light gray blazer that hugged his shoulders in a sharp cut, Vans into sensible oxfords, dark sleepless circles around his eyes into refined crow’s feet, his entire appearance tailor-made. His gangliness had shifted to something solid and muscular, much more fit than the man I’d met over a month ago over a strange summer weekend. The man who kissed me, lips tasting like sweet lemon pie, promising to follow me to the moon and back—

His gaze rose to mine, pale gray eyes, sharp and bright, pinning me to the spot like a moth to a corkboard, and I felt every muscle in my body tense.

Oh, no, I was in so much fucking trouble.