Dinner for One (23 page)

“Well tell me and we’ll find out.”

“James has been saying he’s sorry. By leaving me French food.” He cracks his knuckles. “It’s… it’s really sweet. And I’m pretty sure, like 99 percent sure, he’s making the food himself. So. It’s thoughtful?” He smiles sheepishly. “It makes me feel good. I’m not really angry anymore.”

Beside him Jean is silent. Bastien waits, letting him work through whatever he’s thinking about saying. As the minutes tick by, he grows antsier, but he’s determined not to speak till Jean does.

Finally Jean turns to look at him, draping his arm over Bastien’s shoulders and hauling him in close. “If you’re happy, then I’m happy. If you bring him back around, he’s going to get a firm talking-to. But if you’re willing to give him a second chance, then I can make the attempt as well.”

Bastien knocks their foreheads together. “You’re not actually my big brother,” he says around a smile.

Jean ruffles his curls. “Nope. I’m way cooler than that.” He claps Bastien’s shoulder and stands. “Come on. We’ve got a service to run. We need to be wildly successful if you want to pour our money into a pet-treat business.”

By the time he leaves work that night, he’s got Jean’s promise he’ll seriously consider opening a side business. Bastien doesn’t tell him he made all those statistics up. He’s going to need to do real research now.

On his way home, he has to force himself not to rush. The anticipation of wondering what James has left him is like a humming in his head. He has to stop and slow down no less than three times, his zest to get home causing him to nearly bowl people over as they get in his way. When his building pops into view, his heart starts to beat double time.

He might be getting a little overexcited.

The normal container isn’t sitting on his doorstep when he gets there, but a large covered cake stand is. He’s careful when he picks it up, tries to peer through the plastic to see what’s inside. He feels a bit like it’s Christmas and he’s been opening presents for a week.

He sets it on his kitchen island before he opens it, careful not to jostle it too much when the lid catches. Under the cover is a collection of chocolate ganache religieuses, topped with crowns of strawberry slices. His mouth waters just looking at them. He takes one out, carefully placing it on a plate he retrieves, and spends the next minute licking his fingers clean. James used the good chocolate. It’s ridiculously rich. He stores the rest in the fridge to remove them from immediate temptation. It’s going to take a massive amount of self-control to not eat them all at once.

He moans around his first bite, flavor bursting on his tongue and chocolate filling his senses. James has really outdone himself, and it’s all the sweeter for how this is what brought them together. It’s like a bookend to the poulet basquaise. The two foods that featured so prominently in their relationship. The start of something great.

That night, when he texts James rather than leaving a note, he doesn’t leave a critique or a compliment. He takes the step that feels wonderfully right.

I don’t work tomorrow night. Knock when you come by.

Chapter Thirteen

HE ALMOST
doesn’t hear the pinging of his phone over the sound of everyone on
Parks and Recreation
yelling at Jerry. It’s more the light flashing as the notification appears, barely there at the corner of his eye, that alerts him. Absently he reaches for it, thinking it’ll be Laurence with a cat video or Georgina offering to come by with candy and a film.

It takes two reads before he can fully comprehend that Bastien has texted him asking him to come over the following night. Should he respond? What’s the etiquette here? Since they’re the geniuses who came up with this winning plan, he calls Dorian and Denver. They’ll know what to do. He’s definitely going to make one more meal and bring it with him. That feels right. Enough for two, so they can eat together this time.

He has to try and not be so eager. The urge to dance around his house is strong. The phone rings and rings. “Pick up,” he grumbles at it.

Two rings later Denver answers, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He rolls his eyes. “Bastien asked me to knock when I come by tomorrow.”

“I need to put you on speaker,” says Denver. There’s a click. “Okay, repeat that so Dorian can hear.”

He dutifully repeats it. Dorian cheers. “All right,” he says. “This is good. What are you going to wear? Are you going to bring any food? Have you planned out just what you’ll say?”

James freezes. He’d been worried about whether he should text back or not. He hadn’t even considered what he’d say once he was there. Or what he’d wear. He wouldn’t want to appear too formal. “Um.”

“We’re coming over,” says Denver. “Don’t go anywhere.” They hang up before he can agree.

He looks around his apartment, at the couch that has an indent perfectly fitted to his ass. He sits back down. While he waits he can come up with the next meal. He won’t be able to cook it till tomorrow, but it’ll be good to have it planned. He needs to know what he can control and what he can expect.

His stomach is a mix of nerves and pure joy.

Denver and Dorian don’t come alone. They bring everyone. James stares at Jackson. “I didn’t even know you were home,” he says blankly.

Jackson beams, pushing him out of the way to come in. “Got in this morning. Nice to see you too.”

Georgina goes up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’m so glad things are working out,” she says. “I knew you could fix it.”

Marcy hugs him tight, not saying anything. She pats his back. Sometimes, he thinks, Marcy reminds him of his mom. He squeezes her before she lets go with a giggle. Laurence follows her in, a broad smile on his face. James has a feeling that when this is all said and done, Laurence and Marcy are going to finagle some credit for the success out of it. They’ll have to share the rest with Dorian and Denver.

They all troop to his bedroom, arranging themselves on his bed like it’s theirs. “All right,” says Georgina, clapping her hands together. “First things first: outfit.”

He’s positive he could pick out his own clothes, but he’s not going to argue with them. More opinions can’t hurt. He opens his closet and moves out of the way. Georgina went through it not that long ago. He doesn’t know why she needs to study it so in-depth this time.

The review process starts with him pulling out what he thinks will work and it being roundly vetoed or loudly fought over in some cases. It ends with him on the bed and the contents of his closet scattered over every surface as they argue over who has the best taste. If they weren’t being so vocal about it, he could catch a nap while they ignored him.

What should only take ten minutes, maybe twenty tops, ends up taking an hour and a half. The outfit that wins is a charcoal Arbor Merino V-neck sweater and a pair of dark, boot-cut CK’s. Denver comes out the winner, and he’s smug about it. “You should do your hair to match,” he says. “Fluff the front some, a little product. And wear those Faystar boots I got you for your birthday.”

He’d like to argue—just because he’s not a Barbie doll—but the look he’s describing is a good one, and if he had to pick, he’d choose those boots as well.

With his clothes chosen, they ask him about his dinner plans, and he informs them he’s made some, no he doesn’t need help, that is the one thing he has a grasp on. Before they can move on to quizzing him about what he’s going to say, he asks the question that led to him seeking help. “Do I text him back?”

They all look like they’re thinking very hard about their answers. “Can we see the text message?” asks Georgina.

He hands over his phone. There’s nothing else on there, so if they get nosy it’s not a big deal.

Everyone crowds around her to read it. “Hmm,” says Jackson. “I wouldn’t respond.”

“I would,” says Laurence.

Dorian shakes his head. “No. I think you’re good with not responding. He’s giving you instructions. He’s not asking you.”

“I agree,” says Denver. “I don’t think he’s looking for a response.”

Marcy nods.

They’re just waiting for Georgina’s opinion now. “I’m going to say no,” she says, slowly, like she’s still thinking about it. “I think anything that needs to be said at this point needs to be said in person.”

She hands the phone back and beams. “Which is why we’re here to help you write the best ‘I’m-a-loser-I’m-so-sorry’ speech ever.”

This is another venture that involves very little of James’s own input, and a lot of everyone else’s shouted ideas. Georgina writes it all down, wasting far too much printer paper, and by around three in the morning they have a draft of what James should say. He doesn’t have the heart to tell them he won’t be saying any of it. He’s not going to memorize what he’s going to say to Bastien. He doesn’t think this is something he can prepare for. It needs to be done in the moment. He needs to go with what feels right at the time, for them. Not for his crazy siblings.

The whole thing has taken so long that no one goes home. Laurence and Marcy commandeer a guest room, Georgina claims the couch, Denver and Dorian call the remaining guest room, and Jackson ends up sharing James’s bed.

Needless to say, James doesn’t get much sleep. He pities the person who has to share a bed with Jackson for the rest of their lives. The words bed hog were created for him. He starfishes out, mutters in his sleep, hits James at least twice, and never stops moving. By seven in the morning, Jackson is wrapped up like a burrito in the comforter, and James is clinging to the edge of the bed completely uncovered.

Exhausted, his eyelids drooping, he grabs a blanket from his hall closet and takes his pillow—the one thing Jackson has left him. He falls asleep on the rug in front of the couch, listening to Georgina’s even breaths.

He sleeps until she steps on him trying to get up. He cracks an eye open crankily. “Sorry,” she says. “Why are you on the floor?”

“Jackson,” he mutters, and when she vacates the couch, he crawls into her spot.

The next time he wakes up, the sun is high in the sky, the clock says it’s afternoon, and the house is completely silent. They’ve left him to cook in peace. Thank God.

He’s decided on sole meunière, which luckily doesn’t take long to cook at all. That gives him plenty of time to clean up the disaster zone that is his bedroom, pile all his sheets in the laundry room for a wash, and take a shower that thoroughly wakes him up. He’s feeling a lot more human by the time he’s cleaning the fish fillets and preparing the pan.

It really is a simple dish, and he’s done in about fifteen minutes. He packs it away and paces, trying not to rehearse what he’s going to say. Everything’s going to be okay. He decides he needs to make one more change before he leaves.

He repeats that as he stands in front of Bastien’s door, shaking hand poised to knock. It’s all going to be great.

He knocks.

THE DAY
drags. Bastien can feel every second like it’s physically crawling across his skin. He wakes early and nearly crushes poor Chloe beneath him as he flops over in frustration. She ends up perched in the middle of his back, her way of holding him in place so she can finish getting her rest without being disturbed. He lies there for what feels like a year but is only an hour before he has to get up and do something, anything.

He eats one of the religieuses pastries for breakfast, even though he knows he really shouldn’t. He’s antsy enough. He really doesn’t need the added sugar. He stops himself from grabbing a second one, and instead opts to sit at his counter and scroll through his phone, looking for a distraction. Two games of solitaire and three BuzzFeed quizzes later, he still feels like he’s going to vibrate off his chair with pent-up energy.

He ends up at the gym. Bastien figures if he’s going to eat pastries for breakfast, the gym might be a needed pit stop. It serves the dual purpose of burning off the excess calories, and it somewhat distracts him. He puts his headphones in and blasts his music, hitting the treadmill to start. He works himself up to a run and doesn’t stop till his legs feel like jelly and he’s dripping sweat. He moves from there to the weights, and then the rowing machine. He ends the session with one of the gym’s yoga classes. It’s the least meditative yoga class he’s ever taken. All of that gets him to about eleven in the morning. He feels like banging his head against the locker as he changes.

He goes to see a movie. By himself. The lady behind the window gives him a pitying look, and Bastien tries to ignore it. If he’d asked someone to come with him, he wouldn’t have been alone. He’s got friends.

Maybe the stress is starting to get to him.

He should have called Fleur and seen if Avery wanted to see a movie. She’s probably bored senseless at home. He’ll take her to one tomorrow, he decides, feeling guilty for not thinking of her sooner.

He tries to focus on the film, succeeds only a little, but it kills a couple hours. If you asked him what he watched, he’d be able to tell you it had Bradley Cooper in it and that’s about it. He goes back to his place and proceeds to drive Chloe crazy with his pacing.

In the end he does what he does best in times of stress: he bakes.

He wants something simple and routine, but that is also time-consuming, so he makes bread.

By the time it’s seven in the evening and the knock comes on his door, the entire apartment smells heavenly, and Bastien is so in the zone that the knock jolts him and he almost drops a loaf on the floor. He sets it on the counter and takes several deep breaths before going to open the door. His stomach is twisting and turning, his hands growing clammy.

James is standing there, shifting nervously. His knuckles are white from the grip he has on the box in his hand. He holds it out when he sees Bastien. “I made sole meunière.” His voice cracks.

“Did you make enough for two?” asks Bastien, staring at him. He looks the same as he did before Bastien found out who he really was. His jeans are tight, snugging the length of his long, muscular legs. His hair is still neatly perfect, and his eyes still crinkle at the corners, and he’s wearing… he’s wearing one of Bastien’s shirts. It’s an old one of his, a once-black V-neck that has since become more gray than anything.