The Seven Year Slip

THE APARTMENT SMELLED LIKE food—warm and spicy—and the soft sounds of a radio hummed through the apartment, playing a tune that’d been popular years ago.

That voice—I knew that voice. My heart swelled in my chest, so much so I felt it might burst.

I took a step in, and then another.

No way. No way.

“Iwan?” I called hesitantly—hopefully?

Was I hopeful, or was this weird feeling in my stomach dread? I wasn’t sure. I took another step down the hallway, slipping out of my flats. What were the odds?

The sound of footsteps rushed across the kitchen, and then a man with auburn hair and pale eyes poked his head out of the doorway.

And the door clicked closed behind me.

Iwan wore a dirty white T-shirt, the neck stretched out, and frayed jeans, so different from the uptight man who had sat down across from me in the conference room, devoid of everything that made him glow. He smiled that kind, lovely smile of his, as if he was glad to see me.

Because he was.

Impossible, impossible, this is—

“Lemon!” he greeted me happily, and even the way he said my stupid nickname was different. Like it wasn’t a secret, but a sanctuary. He threw his arms wide and pulled me into a hug. I wasn’t that big of a hugger, but the sudden crush against his chest, the closeness—it made my heart slam into my rib cage. The dread turned into fluttering, terrible, hopeful butterflies. He smelled like soap and cinnamon, and I found myself wrapping my arms around him and holding him tight.

I met you in my time, and you’re so different, I wanted to tell him, pressing my face into his chest, but I doubt he’d believe me. I don’t know why you changed. I don’t know how.

And, quieter, I don’t know you at all.

“You’re such a sight for sore eyes. And you’re right on time for dinner,” he said into my hair. “I hope you like japchae.”

I stared up at him as though he might as well have been a ghost. My brain was buzzing. The apartment did it again—like it had for my aunt and Vera. But why now? Another crossroads?

Iwan frowned, and let go of me. “Is something wrong?”

“I . . .”

I realized I didn’t care. He was here. I was here.

And I was happier than I’d been in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted, “that I didn’t come back.”

“Everything work out well with your apartment?”

“What?”

“With the pigeons,” he said.

“Oh, yes! Everything’s working out fine. I just came to—to check up. To see how you were. I’m sorry I didn’t knock first.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I was sure you’d be back. Well,” he added, with a shy grin, “I was kind of hoping, at least.”

We stood there for another awkward moment. Like he wanted to say something, and I sort of did, too. I missed you—but was that too forward? I missed this you—that would’ve been too weird. I wanted to shake him and ask him if I was the reason he passed on Drew’s offer, but he wasn’t that man.

He wouldn’t be that man for years.

Then he cleared his throat and invited me into the kitchen, where he turned down the radio and returned to the stove. The moment passed. I followed him, dumped my purse by the counter, and climbed up on my barstool, as though it were routine. Was it routine at this point? This felt comfortable. It felt unreal.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, picking up the wooden spoon he had abandoned in the pan and stirring whatever was inside.

“Fine.” Then, when I realized I’d used that word so often in the last few weeks, I added more truthfully, “Overworked a little, honestly, but I’ve been painting more.” Then I reached down to my purse at my feet, and took out the travel guide to NYC to show him my new paintings. I had finally colored the one with the girls on the subway, and I really liked how they had turned out, bathed in blues and purples.

“Oh, gorgeous!” he cried, and took the guide to flip through and see all of them. “These are really something. I tell you what, someday when I get a restaurant, I’ll commission you for a few pieces.”

I thought about the Olive Branch and his cookbook proposal. “I doubt they’re your aesthetic.”

“Of course they are.” He closed the book and handed it back to me. “What do you say?”

I was flattered—it was a nice thought. “I don’t take commissions, sadly.”

“Then how about an exchange?” he replied. “Dinner at my restaurant for the rest of my life.”

That was a lovely future he painted. I would’ve been enraptured by it, if it existed. “Okay,” I said, because it didn’t exist, “but only if I get my own table.”

“Set aside for you every night—best table in the house.”

“It’s a deal, Chef,” I replied, reaching out a hand, and he shook it—his grip firm and warm, fingers calloused. At least his handshake hadn’t changed in the future. Except maybe in that meeting room he’d held on for a second too long.

“You’re going to regret that,” I said, as he went back to his simmering saucepan, and I put my travel sketchbook back into my purse.

“Nah, I don’t think I will.”

No, he’d just forget about it.

I took stock of the apartment. In the past few weeks since I’d been gone, he’d made himself at home. There were dishes drying on the rack, and a few crumbs on the AC outside, where Mother and Fucker nested. He took two floral bowls out of the cabinet and plated them both with some sort of noodles with vegetables and meat. He brought both to the yellow table and didn’t even ask before he took out a new bottle of wine.

“I remembered you liked rosé, so I bought more just in case you came back around,” he said, to my surprise, and motioned over to the table. “We can eat.”

“Wow, are you trying to impress me?” I joked, slipping off the barstool, and joined him at the table. It was so easy, existing with him. Maybe it was his nonchalant smile, the way it disarmed me like very little else did. Whatever it was, the panic that had set into my bones since the meeting with James, and later the lost bid, ebbed away.

“Ha! Maybe,” he relented, and sat down opposite me and poured us both a glass of wine. “Bon appétit, Lemon.”

I hung on the way he said my name, like it was something tender. “Can you say it again?” I asked, before immediately realizing how weird I sounded.

“What, bon appétit?” He made a face. “I know I suck at French, you don’t have to rub it—”

“No, my nickname.”

A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth, and he leaned forward on his elbows and said, “Oh, so you like it now?”

Mortification crawled up my neck. “No. I just—I need to get used to it. Because you clearly won’t stop.” But, of course he didn’t believe me. I didn’t believe myself, either. “Never mind,” I quickly added.

Suddenly, the sharp ring of a cell phone cut through the kitchen.

“Not mine,” I told him, because my cell phone didn’t work in the past.

“Oh! Sorry,” he mumbled, pushing himself to his feet again, and went to go retrieve an old flip phone from the charger on the counter. He really wasn’t one for technology, was he? He read the caller ID and his nose scrunched—something he tended to do, I realized, when he was confused. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he said, and answered it as he left for the bedroom. “Hey, Mom. Is something up?”

I sat there quietly, looking down at my plate of cold noodles, vegetables, and meat. Should I go ahead and eat or . . . ? I tried not to eavesdrop, really, I did, but the walls in this apartment were paper thin, and the bedroom was just on the other side of the kitchen.

“Yeah, I’m still looking for a place—no, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said with a laugh. “Stop worrying so much, will you? Look, I have a friend over. I’ll call you later? I promise.” A pause. “I’ll let you know. Love you, too. Good night.”

As he returned, I tried to pretend like I was doing something—I folded my napkin, unfolded it, inspected the silverware (I didn’t even realize my aunt had metal chopsticks), and as he sat down, he asked, “Do my dishwashing skills leave something to be desired?”

“No, no, they’re perfect,” I quickly replied, putting the chopsticks down. “I just. Um. My reflection in the . . . The walls are thin,” I admitted, and he snorted a laugh.

“My mom. She’s worried sick. Like mothers are,” he added with a roll of his eyes, taking a napkin from the table. “Anyway, she says hello.”

“You’ve told her about me?” I asked, surprised.

“I’ve told her I’ve met a friend,” he replied. “And so of course she immediately assumes we’re going to elope to Vegas.”

“Wow, that’s quite a leap.”

“That’s my mother.” He laughed. “Let’s eat?”

“Bone appetite,” I said, making him almost choke on his wine as he went for a drink, wheezing a laugh, and I took a bite of food to keep myself from looking too smug. I was starving, as it turned out. The cold noodles were delicious, and the meat was so tender it almost melted in my mouth.

“A good pork shoulder never lets me down,” he replied, “and admittedly this is kind of a comfort food for me. It’s been a rough few weeks.”

“Oh! Your interview!” I gasped, suddenly remembering. He did look a little worse for wear, come to think of it. His hair was greasy and pushed back, and the white T-shirt he wore looked like it’d gone through a lot today, the collar slouching, revealing the birthmark on his clavicle. I immediately looked away from it. “Did you get the job?”

He swallowed a mouthful of food before he struck a pose and said, “I am officially their new dishwasher. I just forgot how grueling it was.” He showed me his hands. They were dry and cracked already, and when I held his hand, his skin was rough to the touch.

“You need a good moisturizer,” I said as he drew them back, and looked forlornly at his nail beds. “Or rubber gloves.”

“Probably . . .”

“It’ll be okay. It’s not like you’re going to stay a dishwasher forever.”

“No, and cracked hands aside, it’s been so cool. I’ve worked in kitchens before, but there’s something about the Olive Branch that just . . .”

“Is that the name of the restaurant?” I ask, even though I already knew.

“Oh, yes! I didn’t tell you?” When I shook my head, he gave an apologetic smile. “You should come by sometime. I’ll wash your plates really well.”

“I am flattered, Iwan.”

He grinned, swirled his noodles around his chopsticks, and ate another bite. “The head chef is magnificent. He knows exactly how to pull the best out of all of his cooks. He runs a tight ship, but I’m looking forward to it,” he said, almost reverently, and then he scrunched his nose. “Well, mostly.”

I quirked an eyebrow.

“So, there’s this line cook position opening up, and I want to apply for it but . . .”

“But what? Do it! Apartments around here are stupidly expensive.”

“I know, but I just got hired, so I’m not sure I should. I haven’t earned it, really, and there’s this other guy applying for it, anyway. He preps vegetables. Everyone thinks he’s going to get it.”

“Which is why,” I guessed, “you’re not even going to try for it.”

“I’m not sure if I should? What if I’m not good enough? What if I make a fool out of myself in front of Chef? I’ve lucked into this chance to study under my granddad’s idol. Grandpa never got formal training, and I want this more than anything. I want to make him proud, you know? And I don’t know if—”

I reached over and put my hand on top of his. It startled him into silence, and he looked down at my hand, and then back up to me. I rubbed my thumb gently against his skin. “James Iwan Ashton,” I said gently, “you are talented and you are tireless, and you deserve that spot just as much as anyone else.”

“I haven’t paid my dues—”

“And who decides on what dues you need to pay? If you want something, you have to go for it. No one else will be more on your side than you.”

He hesitated.

I curled my fingers around his hand, and held it tightly. “Be merciless about your dreams, Iwan.”

He shifted his hand and instead laced our fingers together, his dried and cracked, and mine soft and pale. “Okay,” he finally agreed, and turned those lovely gray eyes to me again. “Though I don’t think I ever told you my first name.”

“Of course you did,” I replied quickly, slipping my hand out of his. I returned to my food. “Remember? The first night.” I tapped the side of my head. “This brain’s like a steel trap.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure it is.” He tilted his head, debating for a moment. “Did I ever tell you about the restaurant I want to open?”

That piqued my interest, and I sat up a little straighter. “No?”

He perked up like a dog offered a bone. “I haven’t? Okay, okay—picture it: long family-style tables. The walls are red. Everything is comfy, the leather on the chairs broken in. I’d get a local artist to design the chandeliers, hire all my favorite people, put your art on the walls,” he added with a wink. “It’ll be a place where you feel a bit at home, you know?”

I thought about the dishes in the cookbook he pitched—the noodles on dry ice, the dumplings that needed a commercial steamer, the chili sauce recipe that required rare African Orange Bird peppers—and I couldn’t imagine it.

“It sounds like somewhere I’d eat, and I hate eating out at restaurants,” I replied. “What would it be called?”

“I dunno. I never really had a name for it.” He grinned, slow and melty like butter. “I think I got a few years to figure it out.”

Seven, to be exact.

He finished the rest of his wine as I set down my chopsticks, because while there was a little bit left, I couldn’t finish it. He motioned to the bowl, and I said, “Oh, yes, please have it.”

“I’m nothing if not a gastronomic black hole,” he replied, putting my bowl on top of his.

I grabbed my wine and sat back as he finished my noodles. There was an idea slowly forming in my head. “So, I have a scenario for you.”

“Go on,” he said, his mouth full.

“There’s this author, right? At work.” I tried to keep it as anonymous as possible. “My friend and I are in this auction—all of the bidders were supposedly going to make it to the next round, but . . . he just turned us down.”

His eyebrows jerked up. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. And it’s frustrating because I know he’d be amazing with my friend.” I chewed on my thumbnail, before I realized what I was doing and quickly stopped. “What would you do?”

“Do you know why he passed?”

Because of me, I fear. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm. That’s tough.” He began to get up with our bowls, but I slapped his hand away and took the dishes away myself.

“You cooked, I clean, remember?” I declared, and turned on the water in the sink, waiting for it to get warm. He followed me into the kitchen, and as I stood there, he hooked his chin over my shoulder and leaned against me. He smelled like dish soap and lavender, and it took every willful bone in my body not to melt into him like ice cream on the pavement in summer. “Well,” he said, his voice rumbling against my skin, “could you go and try to convince him?”

I scoffed a laugh. “Sadly, it doesn’t work that way. And to make matters worse, both my friend’s and my careers were kind of riding on this. I just don’t get it. We should have made it to the next round.”

“It’s a pity he isn’t a chef. In restaurants, a good kitchen is a good team. We all work off each other and most of the time it’s better if we all like each other, too. My friends have been in places where everyone kept sniping at each other, and it was so awful they quit. People are the most important thing in any kitchen.”

The people? I eyed him. “You really believe that?”

He gave a shrug, like it was a no-brainer. “Absolutely. We don’t get paid enough to work somewhere shitty, especially if we have the résumé to go somewhere else.”

I turned off the water and stared at him, my brain whirring a hundred miles a minute. Oh my god, that was it. All I had to do was appeal to the chef in him—the him who told me this exact thing. I’m sure he’d had a shitty time in a kitchen by now; from what I’d read, they’re a dime a dozen. It was a long shot—but I believed in long shots.

He hesitated. “What? Is there something on my f—”

Turning to face him, I looked up into his lovely moon-colored eyes, and planted my hands on either side of his face, smushing his cheeks together. “You’re a genius, Iwan!”

He blinked. “I . . . am? I mean—of course I am.”

“A genius!” I pulled his face down to kiss him. His lips were soft and warm, startled at first. He barely even registered it before I pulled away. “I’ll see you later, okay?” I turned to leave, but he caught me by the hand and pulled me back. His grip was tight—tighter than usual. In a desperate, longing sort of way.

“Just a moment,” he murmured, and kissed me again.

This time he was ready for me, his mouth hungry, and I melted into him. I curled my free hand around his shirt, keeping him close. He let go of my hand and, reaching down to grab my waist, suddenly lifted me up off the floor and planted me on the counter. He looked up into my eyes, the bright paleness of his turned stormy. His floppy hair fell into his face, and there were bits of gold in it when the fluorescent lights of the kitchen hit it just right. “Incentive,” he growled, and kissed me again and again, quick snaps across my cheeks, against my neck, “so you’ll come back a little sooner.”

“Did you miss me that much?” I asked, my arms wrapping around his neck.

He murmured against my mouth, “I’d have to lie to say no.”

And the worst part was? I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay as he kissed me savoringly, his hands gripping my thighs as he leaned into the kiss. But I could see the time on the microwave behind him, and it was already nine o’clock. If I wanted to make it to the Olive Branch before it closed, I had to leave now.

“I’ll come back,” I whispered, regretting that I had to go.

He didn’t believe me. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Even though it really wasn’t up to me, it wasn’t a lie technically. I would see him again. But if the apartment had brought me back now, I knew it could again—and somehow in my heart I knew it would. So he kissed me one last time as I slid off the counter, as if he wanted to seal the promise with his lips, and I knew I had to go then if I wanted to leave at all, because it was getting harder and harder to break away.

Remember rule two, I told myself, and tore away from him. I gathered my purse and what little resistance I had left, and fled before I convinced myself to stay.