“Avery! That’s fantastic!” He beamed with pride.
The waiter stopped by the table, delivering our first course, but I was so wrapped up in the conversation, I’d lost all focus on the hunger pangs I’d felt only moments before when my senses were inundated by the aromas of the fine cuisine.
I momentarily ignored the food and continued, “The final callback’s in a month, so I’m just . . . maybe I shouldn’t go to Paris right now. I mean, five days is a lot of time to lose. I’m not sure if I can afford to be away that long,” I said.
He was clearly hurt by my choice of phrasing. “Time to lose?” he repeated. “I thought this would be something you’d be so excited about. I mean, it’s Paris. We’ve been talking about this for . . . for forever. Our dream trip.” His eyes softened and he put his head in his hands. “Maybe I can change the dates? I used miles, so I don’t know?” He looked up. “Is nonrefundable like really nonrefundable? Maybe I can make up a dying uncle or something and try to move everything around?”
He looked so deflated and so utterly thrown. I guess five days away still left me with another twentysomething to get ready. Plenty of time. Right? Anyone else would be over-the-moon excited about this kind of fantasy trip with their boyfriend. What was I doing? It took us a decade to get here, where he was finally putting me first. What I’d always wanted.
He sat back against his chair, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and rested it back in his lap. “Listen, this isn’t quite how I saw this conversation going. And I’m sure this isn’t what you imagined either. Honestly, I was just trying to surprise you with something romantic and spontaneous. But I understand if the timing isn’t right. I’m okay to do whatever you want to do. I’ll figure it out.”
I thought more about the callback. I mean, what were the chances of me booking the role? I bet they’d called back at least a dozen actresses, and the likelihood of them casting some no-name in the part was only slightly better than slim to none. Five days. Chances are it wouldn’t make one damn bit of difference for the audition, but a world of difference for my future with Gabe.
“No, of course I want to go. A trip to Paris with you will be an experience of a lifetime. It just caught me off guard. But yes, we’ll figure it out . . . together.”
“Really?” he asked, perking up at my change of heart.
“Of course. I can’t wait. Paris, Texas . . . ,” I said with a cheeky smile. “I mean France, here we come!”
Chapter Thirty-One
After two full days of intense sightseeing around Paris, I was grateful for a chance to stand still for an afternoon at the cooking class Gabe arranged for us at Le Cordon Bleu. Though all of the sights and magic of the City of Lights were truly beyond words, I was still carrying around a small, niggling anxiety about the time I wasn’t spending preparing for my audition.
I knew it was all in my head. Realistically, I had plenty of time. Even still, I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling I wasn’t giving this opportunity the attention it deserved. I tried every mental pep talk I could think of, yet the feeling of being divided between two things I loved was unsettling and tricky territory to navigate . . . and worse than that, it all felt eerily familiar. But, with each incredibly thoughtful surprise Gabe planned, the scale tilted just a tiny bit more in his favor, and I could (almost) push the guilt of abandoning my audition prep for a few days entirely from my mind.
Our cooking class of about sixteen participants from all over the world packed into the spacious kitchen where each pair was set up at their own state-of-the-art station. Gabe and I were placed near the back of the room but could still see the instructor’s main workspace, and I was grateful to not be front and center. My culinary skills left much to be desired, especially after years of ordering takeout and fancy meals all over the city with Adam.
Gabe had registered us for a course entitled The Art of Cooking Like a Chef, a five-and-a-half-hour workshop that began with a demonstration followed by our attempt at recreating an impressive three-course menu. First, an appetizer of garden pineapple, tomato, and burrata with pomegranate and raspberry pesto, and smoked octopus; to be followed by the main, which was a roasted rack of lamb with a parsley crust, pearled jus, and courgette marmalade cooked with curry, garnished with fresh almonds and mint; and chocolate soufflé for dessert. It was a far departure from my usual—anything I could microwave or stick in the toaster—but it seemed too late to back out now.
I tied my apron around my waist and leaned into Gabe, who was washing his hands at the sink. “You didn’t want to start with like a beginner’s class, maybe?” I teased. “With my track record in the kitchen, I would hate for us to be deported because I happened to burn down the most famous cooking school in the world.”
“We got this,” he said confidently. “How hard can it really be?”
Just as Gabe finished his thought, the head chef stepped into the room and in a loud and boisterous voice said, “Bienvenue tout le monde! Sommes-nous tous prêts pour une journée pleine de saveurs exquises et d’aventures culinaires?” He gestured wildly to his station, which was covered in hand-tied bundles of fresh herbs and colorful vegetables.
Gabe quickly pulled up the Le Cordon Bleu course directory on his phone and scrolled frantically with wide, panicked eyes. “Did I screw up? Oh my God, is this class taught in only French? I don’t think my high school–level proficiency’s gonna cut it.”
The chef adjusted his apron and continued, “And for those of you who are joining us from abroad, welcome! Welcome to Le Cordon Bleu! I asked if you were all ready for your culinary adventure to begin?”
A few voices peppered the air with a “Oui!” or an “Oh yeah!” and our instructor gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up, while a look of relief washed over Gabe’s face. The class would be taught in a mixture of French and English. Still tough, but not entirely impossible.
“Je m’appelle Chef Audren Claude, and I will be teaching you the delicate art of French cooking over the next several hours. Let’s begin—on y va!”
A sous chef slapped a slimy dead octopus on our station, and I practically leaped into Gabe’s arms in horror. “What the hell is that?”
The sous chef gave me a dirty look, perhaps having been offended by my alarm. “C’est poulpe,” she said and kept moving along to deliver the rest of the octopus carcasses to the other students.
I leafed through the recipe pamphlet again and scanned what else we’d be making. “Gabe, I’m not going to lie, if they bring out a whole lamb for us to flambé, I think I’ll pass out right here.”
“One recipe at a time. Let’s deal with Ursula over here, and then we can worry about Lamb Chop.”