Back To U

chapter Fourteen

Celery salt and love make Mom’s Potato Salad.





"When I said I'd take you out for dinner, I didn't mean the cafeteria." Gwen slid her plastic tray along the metal counter tracks.

"You already have the meal ticket. It makes sense."

When had her daughter become fiscally conservative? Oh. It felt so new to think Missy worried about her, sweet and troubling. She’d wanted to protect her child from the world of adults, even after her child had become one. "I've got money, hon."

"Dad’s giving you money?"

She couldn’t blame Steve for that. Missy thought he’d been the only one working for the past twenty years because she'd kind of thought it too. "Half of what Dad and I have is mine. We just need to figure things out. I might be ready to sell the house."

She’d said it out loud, hadn’t she? When she’d found temporary shelter in the cooking program, it had rolled around in her head as a possibility, so maybe cheating with another kitchen had made it easier to let hers go. That was a good one. She’d be sure to share that with Steve.

"Things will work out, Mom. They will."

She tried to see the strain on Missy’s face. Her family home, her family... but she just seemed so grown up about the whole thing, her focus on the Mexican bar. "You know, Mom, the food’s not as good as yours."

"It could stand a little improvement. And it wouldn’t take much work." She laughed at herself as she put a burrito on her plate. "Toasted cumin and lime juice in the refried beans."

"What?"

"It's a game I play when I eat here. I try to think of what inexpensive thing I could do to the dish to make it taste considerably better. It’s how I got fired."

Now Missy looked shocked. "You got..."

"Yeah, I never told you that, did I? Old man Jameson did not take kindly to work study students who failed to follow explicit written instructions," she shrugged, "The recipe."

"Did Dad know?"

Gwen couldn't remember if it had ever come up. Probably not. "I knew Dad a little from high school, but he was a couple of years older. He was getting ready to leave Belmar, really, when I got here. Well, I left during my sophomore year, and he graduated that spring."

"You dumped Max for him."

"I..." There was a difference, wasn’t there, between secrets and privacy? Even with people you loved. "Max left me, and I went home. Your Dad called me when he got back to town, and we went out."

Missy seemed to have heard enough about her parents as people and took a hamburger off the serving line. "Okay, do this one."

Gwen lifted her chin as if to say the challenge wasn't great enough. "Worchester sauce in the beef."

Missy lifted the small bowl of potato salad.

"Celery salt."

"Really?"

"I've put celery salt in every potato salad I've ever served you."

"Well, it was always good."

They sat at one of the small rounds near the coffee urns, and Gwen felt... not like friends. Mothers and daughters were mothers and daughters for a reason, a one-of-a-kind relationship. But she and Missy together had a friendly quality they'd never had before. It was something on more even footing, more generous in nature. The relationship felt promising. "Well, since you have complimented my cooking, and you took my side and gave me a Kleenex, let me return the favor and tell you how great you were on Halloween."

Missy smiled.

"Really, really great. I haven't heard you like that before. It was different than choir."

Missy laughed. "Duh."

"That's what you love. You should do that."

"You know what's weird?"

"Your grandmother as Hannah Montana?"

"How weird was that? She's got good legs. Except for when she broke one."

"Yeah, except for that one ankle, she was hot." And living with Max. She'd go get her later, but what the hell was she going to do with her?

"What I was realizing is that I miss choir."

"Well, honey, you just left high school. It's natural to miss that."

"No, just choir. The music. It was challenging. Sometimes I wasn't happy with the band in Washington because it was so boring. After I learned the songs, I didn't learn anything." She looked apologetic. "I know it's, you know, kind of lame, but I like all kinds of music. And I like to try lots of things and for it to be hard sometimes."

"I don't think that's lame at all. I think that's another sign that it's your gift. If I had to cook Italian all day every day I'd be bored. I love it, but I also want to try other things, lots of other things. Why wouldn't singing be that way too?"

"Yeah."

"You should…" Gwen stopped herself.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What? I know your nothing doesn't mean nothing. Ever. Why didn't Dad ever figure that out?"

Gwen laughed. "I don't know." She studied the girl, the young woman who had been her little girl and felt, for the first time, that Missy would be all right without having anybody to worry over her. She'd screw up, probably plenty, but she would be as okay as anybody could be. "I don't want to tell you what to do any more."

Missy raised her eyebrows.

"I will, on occasion, give you a suggestion."

Missy nodded as if accepting the compromise they both knew would be violated a million times over. "I will, on occasion, take one."

"How about now?"

Missy looked around the cafeteria, put her finger quickly in her mouth, and lifted it as if testing the wind. "Yeah, okay."

"I suggest that you look into the music program here. You can use your college money next semester, and I’ll talk to your Dad about settling things and pay my own way."

"I already have."

"Have what?"

"Checked on the program. Got the paperwork in the room."

Gwen felt a relief she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting to feel. She’d done a good enough job after all. "We'll celebrate."

"They have brownies."

"That need cinnamon."

"They have brownies that need cinnamon."

"And I have your favorite movie."

"You brought Cinderella?"

"I brought Cinderella, and it doesn’t need anything but us."





Gwen stopped in the hallway when she spotted her bag propped against the door. He'd been there.

Missy walked to the door and waved her over. "You gotta see this."

"No. No, I don't."

"Oh, yeah, you do."

Gwen took the remaining steps down the hall. There, on the floor in front of her bag, Max had left a dozen peppercinis, their waxy yellow skins still shiny and pickly damp. They were arranged to spell out one word. Sorry. "Bastard."

Missy nodded. "Bastard."

Goddamn him if it wasn't the most charming thing any man had ever done for her. Maybe she needed a wider range of male acquaintances, but she was pretty sure it really was that quirky and sweet.

"Austin would have never done anything that great."

Gwen shook her head. "Bastard."

"Austin wouldn't know a peppercini from a pepperoni."

Gwen tried to breathe deeply and stop her head from racing around in contradictory directions. It was sweet and charming, and that was his problem, his problem that became her problem, twice. He’d ditched her once in a crisis and ditched her again for his beautiful French chef. What the hell was wrong with her? Was she still wearing that kick me sign from third grade?

Missy sighed. "And Austin would never be able to spell sorry."

Gwen snorted, tried not to laugh, but Missy started to giggle, and they both laughed until Missy doubled over and Gwen put her back against the wall and slid down to the floor, the peppercinis kicked into a new arrangement on her way down.

Across the hall, a door opened, and Annie peeked out. "Everything okay?" She reluctantly stepped into the hallway, eyeing Gwen laughing into her knees and Missy, bent over with her head against the door.

Gwen waved toward the peppercinis but couldn't talk, so Annie studied them. "It looks like a message."

She leaned closer and pointed to the first pile. "That looks like an S and then, I don't know, a P... Must be from Guy. It looks Norwegian."

Gwen hooted in renewed laughter and tried not to wet herself.





Cinderella, the poor girl, suffered in story after story, movie after movie. Never once in a remake had she been given a break. Gwen reached into the large bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap. Cinderella would always find herself left home when the step-mother and inferior step-sisters headed to the ball.

"Cinderella, huh?" Annie took a fistful just before Missy's hand reached in from the other side.

It felt right to be between the two of them, enjoying the common ground of butter and romance. "It's not just any Cinderella. It has Bernadette Peters."

"Who's Bernadette Peters?"

Missy leaned around Gwen to help Annie catch up. "And Whitney Houston."

"Who's that?"

Missy shrugged like she didn’t really know either, and Gwen considered that Bernadette Peters had been a long shot, and Whitney Houston probably equally obscure for anyone born after the eighties. But surely Annie would have heard of... "Brandy?"

Annie glanced at her water bottle.

Gwen laughed. "She’s Cinderella in this one."

"Oh." Annie went back to the popcorn. "We were only allowed to watch PBS."

"This one’s more PBS than the other versions. A little bit feminist even." Gwen hit play, and they watched Whitney belt it out over the opening credits. She’d return later to trick out Cinderella’s coach, the curly tendrils of pumpkin vine turned to gold but still keeping an organic beauty.

Missy had said something the first time she’d seen the movie, something so child sweet. It was in the saddest part before the fairy godmother came... "Missy, do you remember when you saw the part where everyone leaves for the ball and Cinderella is crying? And you said, you were little, you said, momma, why doesn’t she ride her bike?"

Missy laughed. "Really, I said that?"

"Yep."

"Well, I was adorable."

Annie leaned forward to see Missy over the bowl of popcorn. "And wise."

Missy smiled. "I was." Gwen felt Missy tap her ribs with her elbow. "I forgot that for a while. But I remember now."

"We’ll all try to remember." Gwen elbowed Annie like a game of tag and waited for her to respond.

Annie's eyes widened as she got it. She grinned. "I’ll remember too." She seemed to think about it for a moment. "I can still like Guy right?"

"Of course," Gwen turned up the volume as the dreamy prince appeared in his opening scene and all three sighed. "We're not dead."





"You are so dead."

Max, his back to Gwen, continued to toss the salad. It was Caesar. The bastard.

"You give me back my mother."

"Nope."

"You can't keep her."

"Can and will."

"She's not your mother. She's mine, and she’d be mine even after a divorce."

Max turned, eyebrow raised, and Gwen had to concede that one. She wasn't technically divorced herself, although she’d done her part so couldn’t really be blamed. Not really. And at least he knew she was married. She hadn’t known he was living with anyone. "Hey, why isn’t she here?"

"Your mother?"

"Chef Gaspard."

"We aren’t together anymore."

"Right. You just keep telling yourself that, amour, ‘cause I don’t think your woman got the memo."

Max hesitated, and she knew just by looking at him there was more to his story than he was willing to spill. Good thing she didn’t need to hear it. She’d take the moral high ground because she damn well could. "At any rate, even when a real relationship ends, and clearly we never had one, the parent stays with their child. The other person never gets the parent. They might get the car or the house or even the kids, but no parent ever defects sides and ends up with the non-blood relation."

Max set the salad on the table next to a platter of grilled chicken breasts and a basket of warm French bread. The bastard had clearly learned more about cooking from Chef Gaspard than she had, and she was paying the woman. Maybe she should sleep with her instead. She was totally going to save that one to hurl on her way out.

"Ellen?" Max called down the hall.

"Ready." Her mother answered back, sweet as pie. Clearly she didn't know about the secret paramour, French and skinny, or she'd not be answering Max at all. Or she'd be yelling at him with something satisfying like, not in this lifetime, you heartless cad. Yeah, that'd be good.

Max left to fetch her, no doubt to make one last fruitless effort to accrue suck-up points. Well, he could enjoy the moment because as soon as her mom hobbled into the kitchen on her crutches, clutching the traitor's arm for support, Gwen would tell her the truth. Max was in for a serious old-school mom-style ass-kicking.

But Max carried Ellen in like Tarzan taking Jane's damn mother and set her down at the head of the table

"Gwen, sweetie, I didn't know you were coming by for dinner. What a nice surprise."

"Yeah, there are more."

He sat down and motioned to the empty spot across from him, like she was going to fall for that.

She shook her head. He wasn’t setting her up again. She put her hands on the back of a chair and leaned closer to Ellen. "I have some disturbing information, mother. And then we're going to get your things together." She glared at Max. "I know you'll want to leave."

"My," Ellen took in a sharp breath.

Gwen smiled.

"Is that homemade Caesar dressing?" Ellen held her plate out to Max for salad.

"Yes it is."

"Well, aren't you a dear. And so talented in the kitchen." She smiled at the abundance of food on the table.

Gwen took a deep breath, but anger made it shaky. "That's because he's been living with a chef. Chef Gaspard." She waited for her mother to react, but Ellen dished up a chicken breast instead. She must still be on the pain meds and processing things slower than normal. "Nicola Gaspard? The head of the culinary program? They're a couple."

"You and Steve are too, sweetie, but I'm sure that Max doesn't hold that against you. Everyone makes mistakes." She stage whispered to Max. "He’s such a tool."

Max nodded in understanding.

"I signed my papers, and Max lied about his availability."

He held up his fork. "I never said I was not, not single."

Gwen turned to her mother, eyes wide in disbelief, looking for some response, but her mom reached across the table and patted his hand. If her mother was too drugged-up to call him on his weasel ways, she’d have to do it herself. She pointed at him. "What kind of lame-ass excuse is that? I didn't say I was not, not single?"

"Gwennie, honey, I think you should sit down and enjoy this lovely meal. And I really think you should avoid saying lame-ass at the dinner table."

"I'm not at the dinner table. And you shouldn't be either. I get you. I do. You can't side with him, with the liar, the leaver."

Max's head lifted, and he watched her for so long, she felt herself shift and tried to stay still. She wished she'd sat or better yet, left, and for a minute she didn't think he was going to say anything and then with quiet intensity he did. "I'm sorry."

She took a step back. Hearing it was far more emotional than seeing it spelled out in peppercinis. "We’re getting your things, Mom."

"But I need to convalesce," Ellen turned to Max for help.

"We've discussed her staying with you or trying to go home, but this is really the best place."

Gwen studied the two of them. "You've discussed it?"

How had a slam-dunk of a conversation that started with the bastard knows the head chef in a biblical sense, turn into her mother happily eating Caesar salad? Her mother wasn’t even a little bit shocked. She... "You knew."

She watched Ellen wear her calm look, the one Gwen had hated as a kid, the you'll understand when you’re older face. But she was older, a lot older, and she didn’t understand anything.

"Gwennie..."

"You knew before I did. When? When did he tell you?"

"We had a nice chat at the bowling alley. There's nothing to be upset about. He's made some mistakes, Gwennie. I think he just wasn't sure how to bring it up."

"How to tell me he was not, not single?"

"How to tell you he was sorry."

Taking a breath in, she felt a sharp pain. They weren’t talking about Chef Gaspard at all. They were talking about her. And they'd been talking about her in the middle of a bowling alley the night she’d rolled gutter balls with Hello Kitty! They’d hashed over her stupid eighteen-year-old self and her equally stupid present self. Even when the worst had happened at eighteen, and she’d called her mom to come get her, even then on the two hour car ride away from Belmar, they hadn’t talked about it.

"He was a boy."

She shook her head. Twenty years after the fact she certainly wasn’t going to talk about it with Ellen.

"You were a girl."

Gwen held up her hand, the two of them watching her. She sure as hell wasn’t going to talk about it with him.





She avoided Missy in the parking lot. She could see her in the car, playing guitar and singing in her own sound-proof booth. It was a tentative peace they had, the mother-daughter kind. She didn’t have it with Ellen anymore, and she wasn’t going to endanger it with Missy by encountering her when she felt so volatile.

When she hit the lobby doors, she could see Mranda in front of the elevators, berating some freshman who had maybe lost a key or violated a fashion tenant. Gwen darted for the stairs. Maybe by the time she’d completed six or seven or eight flights of them, she’d feel clear-headed and ready to go on.

She half-jogged, swinging around each switchback with labored breathing and even more skittering thoughts. None of it was her fault at all. She’d grown up with bad example Ellen, who had chosen a man, any man, anytime she could over her own daughter. And when Gwen had really, really needed support, couldn’t her own mother have taken her side?

Apparently life wasn’t kicking her around enough. She’d been left by Max, once when it ruined her good years, and later when it ruined her sad attempt to start over after her husband of twenty years left her. She was like the bus stop people only exited from. Nobody wanted to stick around for her bus, nobody waited for her, or saved their tokens for her, or wanted to ride her.

She stopped for a minute and tried to catch her breath. She wasn’t getting enough oxygen, and she might be a little hysterical. Although, just because you were paranoid didn’t mean people weren’t out to get you. It wouldn’t surprise her if all along Max was telling Chef Gaspard all about the ridiculous woman from his past who showed up again like a bad penny, like a man plague. Well, he was a man plague. He and Nicola were probably laughing while Nicola got ready to kick Gwen right out of the program.

And what had she done wrong? Nothing. She had a flash of Max using his teeth on her nightie bow. Well, she hadn't done much wrong. And she’d not even had that much fun doing it. Yeah, she could lie to herself. She was good at it.

She pushed open the heavy fire door to her floor, her breath coming in angry bursts. Heading for her room, she passed a line of doors, all closed. Guy’s door. Ty’s. She stopped. Ty’s door stood wide open, the room sparse and mostly picked up, just a couple of shoes and a towel lying around the edges. Not bad.

The door closed a couple of inches and then opened all the way as Ty emerged from the closet behind it. She saw his chest first and second. His chest was completely naked, mostly smooth, a little wet from the shower if the fine line of dark hair that disappeared into his jeans was any indication. And that line disappeared right into his denim like an invitation, like half of a treasure map, like… Her eyes didn’t make it above his waistband before he walked up to her, put his hand behind her head, and brought her in for a kiss.

She felt his lips move against hers, his other hand at her hip, and the cool sleekness of his chest under her hands where they’d stopped in the surprise of the kiss. Then she heard bells and panicked, heard them again, and sagged against Ty in relief. The elevator. She hadn’t totally lost her mind, but she was gripping a half-naked younger man who had his tongue in her mouth.

Stepping back, hands dropping to her sides, she tipped her head down the hall as if she had to answer the elevator, and Ty just nodded like it all made perfect sense.

She gave him a wave then knew that was wrong. Should she say thank you? Maybe she’d just leave before she said or did anything… anything more than she’d already done by copping a feel of his chest. She’d pretend it had all been in her imagination. She'd walked down the hall and spotted a bunch of empty rooms and conjured up the fantasy of catching Ty shirtless and kissing him back hard before...

Annie and Guy stepped out of the elevator and smiled, and she waved. That part was right. Your friends exit an elevator, you wave in greeting. She’d just walk towards them, Ty would close his door, and she’d act like nothing had ever happened.





It took some courage to walk back in the kitchen. Not that anyone knew about Max, Nicola, and her. Or Ty and her. She was sure even Ty had forgotten by now. The whole thing felt very French, although it was less French than it could have been.

She put on her white jacket and nodded to the students milling around before class started. It could be way more French...

She had a flash of Max lifting her onto the metal table and ripping off her chef’s coat, one breast exposed like an X-rated Betty Crocker. Chef Nicola, pausing at the door to reap adoration, would receive a nasty shock instead. Her thin cheeks would quiver in outrage like a ferret, an attractive ferret, but a ferret.

The angry Nicola would stride, no not in heels. She would mince across the kitchen and grab a handful of Max’s hair, pulling his head back and forcing him to stop his climb onto the table, onto the other woman. Wow, she was the other woman. And then, when Nicola distracted him with her outrage and International swearing, which would probably still sound really romantic and soothing, Gwen would take the opportunity to snatch the tongs and reach into the back of Max’s perfectly fitted jeans, grab his boxers and give him a culinary wedgie that would bring him to his knees, the two-timing cook-seducing bastard. On the sidelines, Ty would cheer her on with his good pecs and outstanding hollandaise sauce.

"Hey."

She jerked around and Ty, eyes wide, stepped back with his hands up. "No more coffee for you. You need food for those jitters."

He took her hand and led her around the wall of ovens to the baking room where a muffin tin held twenty-three chocolate chip and coconut delights. She pointed to the empty spot, and he shrugged. "I was a bit jittery myself." He didn’t say me-self, but there was a hint of that lovely drawl. Coming from him that accent probably brought even Australian women to their knees, and they were used to it. American women couldn’t be expected to not be thoroughly charmed.

She wanted to yell, I’m only human, but said, "Thanks," instead.

"Don’t mention it."

That was a good plan. Gwen reached for a muffin, hoping the chocolate and sugar and butter would do its mood lifting magic, so she could stop fantasizing about killing Max with a fatal wedgie.

"Beef!"

Gwen heard Deb holler from the other side of the wall and smiled at Ty. "Muffin and beef week. That’s already better than lamb and lamb week."





"Not better. Not better. Not." She sliced a flank steak on the diagonal, the thin strips fanned out on a cutting board already red from the juices. "I like beef as much as the next person, but dear God, I see blood in my sleep. When I close my eyes at night, it’s like the shower scene from Psycho. Two weeks of beef?"

Ty came up beside her, took a piece off the board, started to put it in his mouth, and stopped. "Sorry."

"Oh, I can’t eat it either. I know it'll be really good, but I’m so sick of cows. We would have cooked less beef if we were employed by Sizzler."

Ty leaned his head close to hers. "You know what we need?"

"To stop the flow of test recipes that only feature beef?"

"Chicken."

"Chicken? I don’t think I know that one."

"It’s white. Very little blood. None, if you buy the chicken already dead."

She sighed. "I would. I would buy it already dead."

"Dead it is. And I know just the place. We don’t even have to cook it."

She closed her eyes. "White and cooked sound like heaven."

"How about tonight? Six? I know where you live."

"Uh." She opened her eyes and translated the invitation. She and Ty were friends. They cooked well together. They never talked about the thing that had happened in his room that had probably been a figment of her imagination. And her evening was open.

She’d already seen Missy for a few minutes to get an update on Ellen without Ellen knowing about it. She’d avoided Max and tried not to feel horribly guilty about not taking care of her own mother, although maybe after thirty-nine years, she’d earned a break from the woman. It was Friday night, and it wasn’t like she had anything else to do. Plus, she was running out of rationalizations. "Sure."

Ty smiled, and she smiled back. She hadn’t appreciated how many new friends she’d made at the U. Thanksgiving was coming up and with nearly one semester done and one to go, she just might be on the right path for once.





The knock on her door didn’t even bother her anymore. She’d missed the ring of a doorbell for a while, she had to admit, and the fact that whoever came to a house wasn’t just a few feet from any place she stood. The early dorm knocks invariably scared her. She might be pulling something out of her miniscule closet when practically at her elbow, the door would vibrate from someone’s knuckles. But she could handle anything now.

She wrapped a scarf around her neck and reached for the knob and the promise of chicken. White meat and Ty, the other white meat. She felt her cheeks turn pink, laughed at herself, and opened the door to Max.

"Glad you’re in a good mood. It could help my cause."

He handed her a bar of chocolate wrapped in heavy cream paper, the inner wrap showing gold at the ends.

She felt the heft of it and considered giving it back. It was chocolate, but was it... "French?"

He looked ready to laugh but stopped himself and shook his head. "Belgium."

"Close enough."

He waited, but she’d keep it. She just wasn’t going to let him in. The conversation, the very short conversation, could take place with him in the hall where he belonged. "I appreciate your taking my mother in."

He shook his head. "That’s not about us. Your mother and I have worked it out. I’m giving her a room, and she’s teaching me how to play Bunco. It’s a fair trade."

"I do appreciate it. But, well, even before the whole," she swallowed, "French woman and you thing, this was not well thought out."

"This? What this would that be, Gwen?"

She waved the chocolate between them. "This this."

He pointed between them. "This this didn’t get anywhere. It was just starting. And well thought out isn’t always the best way to begin things anyway."

She snorted. So typical of him, just jump right in and then jump right out as if that was any way to conduct your life.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

She shook her head.

"Oh, do not give me the nothing shake. The nothing shake is never nothing with a woman."

Was he a man who knew that nothing wasn’t nothing? It took her a minute to gather herself. It was like spotting a unicorn. "I just think… Well, I just think."

"And I don’t think? Oh, cause I’m a man? I just want sex and burgers and televised sporting events and not necessarily in that order?"

"I didn’t say that. What is your problem? You came here to, what, apologize? You're sorry for not telling me that you’re in a relationship with the head of my program? Or that you were in my bed in a hotel room and also looked down my toga? Or are you sorry that when you cooked for me, mystery solved how come you can cook, you were all oh, I’m showing great restraint because I’m mature--"

"I never, ever used the word mature."

"No kidding. You’re getting older and clearly no wiser." She wasn’t going to put herself in that category, even if she should put herself in that category.

At the sound of someone clearing their throat, they both turned. Ty. She smiled as if everything was just swell. "Ty, this is Max. He was looking for the lost boys, but they’re playing pirate games on the floor below."

Ty put his hand out and shook Max’s. "You’re Max Gaspard."

Max’s head snapped back like Captain Hook had attacked. "Max Holter."

"Oh, sorry. I overheard down the hall. I thought you were Nicola’s husband."

Gwen smiled, her eyes still wearing their mean slits. "He is. And what a lovely pair. So, I don’t know, warm together. And can you believe he took her last name? That’s a man. A real man. Very comfortable in his skin. Well, Max Gaspard, tell Ellen hello for me."

Ty nodded goodbye to Max, and Gwen stepped aside for Ty to come into her room. She gave Max a little wave and closed the door. "Just need my coat."

Ty walked over to the window to look out over the city, and she reached into the closet for her wool peacoat, dropping it when knuckles rapped on the door. She smiled at Ty. "Just a second." That’s all it would take her to get rid of Mr. Gaspard.

She opened the door and didn’t have a second to register his grasp on her scarf. She was jerked into the hallway and only had time to make a yip of a noise before they were moving to the stairwell. He let go when she yanked her scarf out of his hand and the heavy metal door clamored closed behind them.

Standing on the landing, one flight of stairs to the roof, eight below, she put her hands on her hips. If the son of a bitch had something to say, he could damn well say it, and it better be good. She watched his eyes shift, his Adam’s apple bob. He didn’t have squat. "You got nothin’ past the caveman scarf pull, do you?"

She blew out an irritated breath. "Okay, here’s a thought. You go up," she pointed to the ceiling, "and jump off the roof. I’m going out to dinner. I won’t worry about bringing a doggie bag back for you."

He pointed to the door with a dramatic flourish then seemed to realize, again, he had nothing. "He’s a kid!"

"Who’s a kid?" She dipped her head and studied him. What was the man thinking?

"Crocodile Dundee."

Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t going to let him, of all people, malign her friend, a friend she’d made in a program run by Max’s amore, for Christ sake. "Ty’s not a kid, you pin head. He’s not even technically Australian. His parents lived there when he was in elementary school."

"Oh, he’s a kid alright. I know a boy when I see one, and frankly, Gwen, I expected more from you." He folded his arms across his chest and looked to the ceiling. "I did not see this coming."

An Australian friend? "What coming?"

"Your cougar years."

"Screw you!" She pointed her finger at him, wished, too late, she’d used the appropriate one. "We are fellow students in the culinary program, you know, Nicola’s program?"

He laughed, a kind of unhinged version of ha. "He’s not thinking fellow students. Fellow students." He rolled his eyes. "He’s thinking," Max made a claw motion with his hand, "rrrrowwww."

"You’re a complete and total idiot. How did I miss that? Really, nearly brainless."

"It doesn’t take a genius to see what anyone could see on that kid’s face."

"He’s not a kid. He’s probably close to thirty."

"Thirty? Crikey, he’s a senior citizen!"

She aimed for the door, but Max stopped her. Her lips thinned, and she channeled the spirit of a big, tough bouncer. "You’re not standing in my way."

"Ha!"

What did he think he’d caught her doing? "Ha what?"

"I knew it was a date. You’re going out with that, that Australian knock-off."

"I am. And then I'm bringing him back to the dorm, and I'm going to screw his brains out. The entire floor will hear his head pound against the headboard."

She watched his forehead wrinkle as he tried to picture it. "His head?"

She used the distraction to scoot past him and managed to get the door open before he followed. She heard his sharp intake of air as she took off down the hall.

"You're telling me you're on top? That's just cruel and--"

She slowed as she approached Ty, who waited in confusion at her door.

"Hey!" Max yelled from the stairwell.

She turned in instinct, but what could he possibly say after offering the worst apology in the history of apologies?

"That was with me."

It was her turn to study him in confusion. What was with him? And then she remembered Max's R.A. pounding on the door and telling them to for Christ sake, knock it off. Had that really been her, young and in lust, sending Max's head against the end of the bed, looking down at his beautiful face, at the boy she loved more than she knew she could?

"Gwen?" Max waited, a man's sad smile now.

She shook her head and left with Ty.