Concerned, I turned away from checking the oven’s temperature and asked, “So everything okay in Ginny-land?”
“Boys are stupidheads,” she said flatly, dropping a ball of half-frozen dough so hard, it almost bounced. “And I’m not sure I want to even try understanding them anymore.”
“I totally get that.”
“Okay, so you know Josh?”
“Chef Boy?” From her scowl, I had guessed correctly. “What’s going on there?”
“Nothing, that’s the problem. He’s all simmer, no boil.”
I laughed. Ginny did not. Still, a hint of a smile softened her expression as she slid the cookie sheet into the oven. She said, “I’m serious. He’s all, ‘Hey, I love your crust. Can you teach me how to make it for finals?’”
“Wow, great pickup line.”
“I know, right?” She nodded, missing my sarcasm, as she peered at a tray of miniature pies, then frowned critically at one that was nicked. “So I go over to his apartment, right? And all we did was cook.”
“Horrors!”
She placed the tray near the oven, turning the light on to check on the cookies. It was like watching a ballet, the way she flitted gracefully from one workstation to another in the kitchen. “So then I’m all, ‘If you like mine, there’s this new restaurant in town with supposedly crazy good pie. I’ve wanted to visit it.’”
I guessed, “And he didn’t pick up that totally obvious cue for him to ask you out to taste-test the pie?”
“No! I mean, all those land-a-man books say that means he’s blowing me off. But is he just clueless? I mean, for one of the top chefs who knows his way around a kitchen, he seems a little lost around women,” Ginny said, glowering at me. “So come on. What do you think? You’re the idiot savant of boys.”
“Apparently, just an idiot.” I hobbled behind her to grab a stack of paper plates from the pantry. “Trust me, I’m the last one you should ask for boy advice.” So finally, I told her about Dom without concealing anything. It was like conducting a grand tour of my private diary: Here’s where my heart was dinged; here’s where my soul was damaged. “And that last time we saw each other, he yelled at me. Like top-of-his-lungs yelled. His veins were popping out, and I swear, the whole street shook.”
Ginny’s eyes were on me the entire time; she was no longer readying new trays or primping the cookies on platters. I reached out for a broken cookie, but she pushed a whole one onto me instead. “Whoa. You know, it sounds like you totally dodged the bullet with him. I mean, what if he ended up being like the Yeller who was with his sister?”
“I never thought of that. Oh, my gosh, he sounded just like the Yeller.”
“Who knows what was going on in Dom’s family? Maybe his dad’s a yeller. But whatever. Mom would say you’re so blessed.”
So blessed. “That’s true.”
“You don’t need that in your life.”
“I don’t!” I nibbled the cookie, letting the sweetness spread in my mouth. “Ginny… maybe you don’t want Mr. Top Chef if it means you have to be his sous-chef. I mean, what was with him asking you for your secret recipe?”
“That’s so true!”
“And who wants to be with the kind of guys where we have to convince them we’re good enough? I mean, Ginny! He should be so lucky to be with you. You’re…” I grasped for a way to tell Ginny how precious she was, and my eyes dropped to a plate of gold-dusted truffles. “You’re gold leaf!”
“I am! Whoa, I actually feel better now.”
“Me, too.” This time, I took a big bite and tasted the hint of smoked sea salt that I had missed before. “But then again, it could be the magical healing properties of your cookies.”
She shoved her hand into an oven mitt to check her babies. “Probably.”
“Shana! Where’s my girl?” Dad bellowed before he was drowned out with a resounding cheer from thirty of our closest friends, my brothers, and the rest of our family, who had crammed into our home: “Surprise!”
They were so loud, Auggie cowered behind me. Mom pushed her way around Dad and bustled through the crowd. Nothing—not even a surprise party—was going to interrupt her single-minded mission to love on me. Her hug was choking, not that I minded. I dropped my crutches and hugged her even tighter. Over her shoulder, I grinned at Dad. Just as I had hoped, his attention was caught on the TV screen frozen on the first still of his video: Fifty by Fifty Wilde Adventures.
“What’s that?” Dad asked, stepping closer.
Premiering this video to a roomful of friends and family was even more frightening than releasing one on the Web. There was a real risk that someone I loved could diminish my work with a condescending Good effort. And that would be so much more hurtful than criticism from a random hater.
But I hadn’t created this homage to Dad for my private viewing any more than I photographed street fashion for myself. With no spoken word, just love screaming in my heart, I pressed Play and let this slide-show love note speak for itself.