But Jacob and Owen actually know what’s going on in each other’s lives, and they talk about it as if it’s not just an opportunity for a punch line, but something that really matters. Sure, they make jokes at each other’s expense too, but the ribbing doesn’t dominate the conversation. I’m suddenly really glad that my brother has had this enduring friendship for the past two and a half decades.
“So, how are things going with Olivia Rodrigo?” Owen asks Jacob when we’ve exhausted the video game conversation.
Jacob leans on the table and puts his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth.
“Olivia Rodrigo?” I look from my brother to Jacob and back. “The pop singer?” I’m very familiar with Olivia Rodrigo. The songs “traitor” and “good 4 u” got me through the worst of my Very Bad Year. “Are you doing a music project with Olivia Rodrigo?”
“I wish,” Jacob mutters, and it’s muffled since his face is still buried in his palms. He finally lifts his head. “The woman in the apartment next door is going through a bad breakup. She and this jerk have been on and off for months. When they’re on, I hear them fighting, and when they’re off, she plays Olivia Rodrigo on repeat until they get back together.”
“It’s very loud,” Owen adds.
“I obviously hate the fighting,” Jacob says. “But the constant Olivia Rodrigo tunes are messing with my own music.” He drops his head back in his hands and sings a couple of lines from “drivers license.” “Over and over and over,” he laments.
A shiver goes up my spine because not only did Jacob just sing, totally off the cuff, which I now know is not something he’d do in front of just anyone, but his voice is beautiful. Warm and deep and almost haunting, just like that song he played on the piano. It’s perfectly on pitch, even though he’s slumped over the table, with a little rasp at the end. The constellation of feelings this revelation evokes must be playing across my face, because Owen is giving me the side-eye.
I look away and rearrange my silverware. “So, I guess that must be annoying.”
Jacob lifts his head again. “I mean, it’s kind of a catchy song. Great bridge. It might not be a problem if her apartment didn’t share a wall with my music studio. It’s impossible to get any work done.”
For about the hundredth time since I started this second chance year, a vague memory from my Very Bad Year begins to take shape. Paige. The next-door neighbor. When I’d moved into Jacob’s guest room, Olivia Rodrigo was also playing on repeat. I guess I’d caught Paige on an off period of her relationship, too. I hadn’t really minded the music because who was I to judge someone for their reaction to a bad breakup? But I’d felt bad for her.
“Wine and chocolate,” I blurt out. I’d ordered it from a local shop and had it sent to her apartment. She’d fallen for the long-haired bike messenger who’d delivered it to her door, and that was the end of the on-and-off jerk for good.
“Wine and chocolate?” Jacob repeats.
“Go online to the Goat and Grape’s website and have some wine and chocolate delivered. It will cheer her up.”
Jacob looks skeptical, but he pulls out his phone.
“Trust me.”
While Jacob spends a few minutes typing in his phone, another realization from my Very Bad Year works its way into my consciousness. Jacob said his studio butted up against Paige’s apartment. But the room that shared a wall with Paige was the second bedroom. It was the guest room where I’d stayed. Jacob had his studio equipment in his own bedroom. Did he move it out of the guest room so I could have that space?
When I’d arrived to stay with Jacob, there was furniture in the guest room—a bed, side table, dresser. He even had a couple of succulents on the windowsill, and I remember the screen prints on the walls were from a Brooklyn artist that I admire. Had Jacob furnished that room for me?
I shrug off this ridiculous train of thought. Jacob obviously moved his studio out of the guest room because of the noise from Paige’s. He didn’t rearrange his entire apartment so his best friend’s sister could spend months sitting on his couch eating Nutella from the jar and watching eighties sitcoms.
“Done.” Jacob looks up from his phone. “You really think this will help her to feel better?”
I nod, remembering Paige and Brandon making out in the hallway. “I’m sure of it.”
Chapter 14
Smile, Sadie!” Kasumi flops down on the bed next to me, phone in her outstretched hand, and presses her cheek to mine. I look up from my copy of Baker’s Monthly magazine, flash a smile at the camera, and then go back to flipping pages.
I’m used to Kasumi Instagramming her every move, and mine along with it.
“Look,” she says, cuddling up next to me. “Your almond raspberry torte with the edible flowers has over twenty thousand likes.”
“Really?” I lean over to look. “Wow, that’s amazing.” Kasumi took a gorgeous photo of my cake, and it honestly looks more professional than anything in this magazine I’m reading. I can’t believe she managed that with an iPhone in Xavier’s ugly kitchen, especially given the horrible fluorescent lighting. “You’re really good at this.”
“Why thank you.” Kasumi grins. “When you open your bakery, I’ll do your social media.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford you.” I take the phone and scroll back through her Instagram feed. Of course I follow her, and I’ve seen these photos before. There are dozens of images of my cakes and tarts, all expertly photographed and edited to look like she’d spent days on styling and lighting. And then scattered among my baked goods are other food shots—dishes she and the other sous chefs made at Xavier’s, but also casual photos of ingredients, too. A toppling pile of carrots, deliciously fresh and vibrant, showcased on a simple white plate. Three perfectly fat cherries lined up across a metal prep table.
Plus, there are dozens of pictures of Kasumi and her friends looking youthful and vibrant, but still natural at the same time. A group of Xavier’s kitchen staff makes faces at the camera. One of the prep cooks scatters fresh herbs on a plate. Looking at these photos, I realize that Kasumi is a talented chef, but she’s never really been passionate about cooking. Even back in culinary school, she was always more interested in styling and presentation.
“You should do social media professionally,” I tell her, handing back the phone.
“That would be amazing,” Kasumi says, her voice wistful.
I sit up. “Seriously, Kasumi. Why don’t you?” In just the minute I was watching, my cake racked up another hundred likes. “You’re easily as good at this as your friend, what’s his name… Devon?” Devon, the social media influencer who hosted the carnival-themed New Year’s party. But I can’t mention that, of course. Because that party won’t happen for about seven more months. “You’re basically doing it professionally anyway,” I point out. “You’re just not getting paid for it. And you’re handing Xavier all that free promotion.”
She bites her lip. “I do think about it sometimes. I just can’t imagine putting up with Xavier’s bullshit forever, you know?” She hops off the bed and crosses the room to open the fridge. “Or the sexism of restaurant work in general.”