I huddle on the steps listening through the phone to the rhythmic beat of his feet on the pavement, and in less than five minutes, I hear them in person, running down the block toward me.
“Sadie?” Jacob skids to a stop and kneels down in front of me. “What happened?” He’s panting so hard he can barely get the words out. Taking me by the shoulders, he looks me over like a child who fell off the swing set. “Do I need to take you to a hospital? Or call an ambulance?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing like that.”
Jacob leans back to meet my eyes. “Do I need to beat someone up for you?”
At the image of shy, reserved Jacob giving Xavier the smackdown, I manage a watery smile. “Thanks. But no.”
His gaze roams over me. “Tell me what you need.”
At the gentleness in his voice, I’m crying again. Because I didn’t know it until this exact second, but what I needed was him.
Jacob slides his palm to my cheek. “Let me take you home.”
I nod, and he holds out a hand to help me up off the step. Back on Bedford Avenue, Jacob flags down a cab, which is probably overkill considering I live less than half a mile away, but I’m grateful for the warmth of the backseat and the darkness where I can close my eyes and lean into him.
When we arrive at my apartment, I flip on a lamp in the corner. Jacob must think I’m either the world’s worst drug mule or I’ve lost a fight with a powdered doughnut, because every inch of me is covered in the flour Xavier spilled all over the pantry. I’m reminded of the fortune teller’s red potion raining down as I asked for a second chance, for a do-over of my Very Bad Year. I hold back a bitter laugh. What’s that saying about being careful what you wish for?
I take a quick shower and put on a pair of drawstring pajama pants and a T-shirt. When I come back out into the main room, Jacob hands me a steaming mug. “I looked for tea, but all I could find was cocoa powder and sugar. So, this is my attempt at hot chocolate.”
I take the mug and inhale the scent. “I’m a pastry chef. Cocoa powder and sugar are my love language.” And then I blush. “I mean. I didn’t mean that you made me hot chocolate because you’re, because we’re—Oh God. Never mind. Thank you for the hot chocolate, Jacob.”
Jacob’s mouth slants into a smile that’s almost sad. “I know what you meant.”
I wrap my hands around the warm mug and sink down on one end of the bed.
He hesitates for a moment, and then sits on the opposite end. “You want to talk about what happened tonight?”
I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it. I want to open the trash can and toss the whole episode in. When I close my eyes, I’m back in that pantry with Xavier leaning closer. And when I open my eyes, I’m crying again.
Jacob takes the hot chocolate out of my hand and sets it on the side table. And then he grabs a blanket from the bottom of the bed and wraps it around me. With him leaning in close like this, my old blanket smells just like the plaid throw on his couch, the one I practically lived in during my Very Bad Year. I never thought I’d feel nostalgic for a blanket, but The Golden Girls and a jar of Nutella are looking pretty good right now.
I never thought I’d wish to have that year back, instead of this one.
Jacob settles me against his chest, and I close my eyes, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breath. I reach for his hand. “Thank you for being here, Jacob.”
“You don’t need to thank me.” He weaves his fingers through mine. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
And in that moment, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, either.
Chapter 32
I wake up alone. The sun is slanting in through the window, and Gio is crawling all over me, meowing to be fed. At some point last night, I fell asleep with Jacob leaning back against the headboard of my bed, and me leaning against Jacob. But now the space beside me is empty, which feels like a pretty good metaphor for my state of mind.
Body aching, I climb out of bed. As much as I’d like to lay here all day, avoiding my life, I’m supposed to be at work in a couple of hours. Xavier has planned a special prix fixe dinner, and I’ve got four dozen mini b?che de N?el cakes to ice and decorate. I don’t know how I’m going to face him, but I don’t feel like I have much choice. I still need this job to pay my bills. And thanks to my big mouth on Thanksgiving, I still need this promotion, too. How would I explain to my parents that I blew it?
I get dressed, gulp down some coffee, and shuffle the eight blocks to Xavier’s. The kitchen is buzzing with sous chefs and servers prepping food and tableware for today’s dinner service, so I manage to slip in the back door without any dramatic confrontations or ingredients flying through the air. Right now, that’s all I can ask for.
Grabbing my apron, I tiptoe into the pantry, half expecting to find a pile of white powder and toppled containers strewn across the floor like an arctic crime scene. But the room is sparkling, the floor mopped, and the shelves wiped down. Maybe Xavier cleaned it up last night in an effort to pretend nothing happened today. Burying my head in the sanding sugar seems like an excellent coping strategy, so my plan is to get my work done and avoid any more scenes.
I grab the ingredients for a batch of chocolate icing and carry it to the prep table. Xavier flits in and out, barking orders, but I keep my head bent over my cakes. He doesn’t acknowledge me, and I don’t make eye contact.
About half an hour before the first reservations of the night, Xavier calls the staff into the kitchen for a meeting. The prix fixe menu is a departure from our usual service, so he probably wants to go over the details. He gathers everyone around, clapping his hands and speaking in a booming, overly jolly voice, as if Santa popped in to wish us a Merry Christmas. It’s so weirdly unlike him that I look up from my cakes and, from across the room, his gaze locks on mine. His eyes narrow for just a second, and despite the heat from the ovens, a shiver runs up my spine.
Xavier slowly turns back to the staff, clapping his hands. “Everyone, I have an announcement to make. As you know, Dennis will be leaving us soon, and I’m sure that you’ve all been eagerly waiting for me to name the new executive pastry chef.”
A murmur runs through the staff, and I wipe my sweaty hands on my chef’s coat.
“Well.” He pauses for effect, as if this is the Oscars and we’re waiting to hear who won the award for Best Pastry Chef. “I’m happy to announce that Charles Pascale will be coming to us from The May Fair in London, starting on January first.”