Childhood Sweethearts No More

I've used my status as Rachel Drew's childhood friend to cling to her world for twenty years. Everyone knows I'm the headache she can't shake, the one who's always finding some new way to make her life difficult. But the day she picked up her new car, I suddenly reined in every last one of my moods and turned as silent as a ghost. Even Rachel found the change unsettling. She drove back to our shared apartment late that night through the rain, and for the first time ever, softened her tone to explain herself to me. "I didn't let you ride with me tonight because Dennis has a thing about germs. He can't stand the smell of grease and smoke that clings to you from the stew house. "The rain wasn't bad, so I just dropped him off first. Can we please not do the silent treatment again?" So it was Dennis Collin's precious germ phobia again, the one that couldn't stand a whiff of anything that smelled like real cooking. I gave her a thin smile. "It's fine. I don't mind." Not that it mattered. In three days, I'd be leaving abroad for the Le Cordon Violet culinary school in Dufonce, and after that, neither of us would have to worry about who smelled like what. Chapter 1 Rachel Drew stood in the entryway, her brow faintly furrowed, as if she were waiting for me to blow up at her the way I always did. After all, for the past twenty years, any time so much as another man came near her, I'd made a scene about it. And today, of all days, was the day she'd picked up her new Porsche Panamera. I'd eaten simple bread alongside her for three straight months and helped her polish more proposals than I could count, all so she could land the deal that let her pay for that car in full. The first thing she did once she had the keys in hand was put Dennis Collin in the passenger seat and leave me standing alone outside the dealership. "You really don't mind?" Rachel had changed into her slippers and come to stand in front of me, studying my face. I kept my head down, folding clothes into my suitcase, and didn't bother looking up. "I don't mind. Dennis's delicate. It's only right you take extra care of him." Her frown deepened. She grabbed my hand mid-fold. "Adrian, don't you dare talk to me in that tone. "Dennis doesn't just have a thing about germs, he has severe asthma. Your stew house reeks, and you know it. If he breathes that in, it'll set him off. "If it's really bothering you, I'll take you to buy those limited-edition sneakers you've had your eye on. How about it?" Sneakers? I looked at her face, cold and pretty as ever but laced with impatience now, and almost laughed. I'd spotted those sneakers a month ago. I hadn't let myself buy them, saving up instead for her car present. And the welcome gift she'd given Dennis? A designer watch worth well over twenty thousand dollars. "Don't bother. I've got enough shoes." I slid my hand free and tucked the last sweater into the suitcase. Rachel finally noticed the suitcase on the floor, and her eyes went cold. "Adrian Dwayne, what kind of running-away act are you pulling now?" She used my full name. That was always the first sign her temper was about to snap. "Every single time I don't fall in line, you throw a fit and haul your things back to your old place like the world's ending. You're twenty-five now. A grown man. Could you try growing up a little?" I zipped the suitcase shut and stood, meeting her eyes straight on. "I'm not pulling anything. I'm just taking the winter clothes to the dry cleaner." Rachel blinked, caught off guard. She raked a hand through her hair, irritated, and her tone softened again. "Fine. I was wrong today, all right? I shouldn't have left you standing there in the rain. "My stomach's been aching all day. Go make some pasta, with two fried eggs." She rattled off the order like it was second nature, certain I'd feel sorry for her and go running to the kitchen. I looked at the hand she had pressed against her stomach, and what flashed through my mind instead was that afternoon. Chapter 2 Rachel had liked a photo Dennis had posted, one of him at some fancy fine-dining meal. "There's no more pasta in the kitchen. Order yourself something," I said, and kept dragging my suitcase toward the bedroom. Rachel grabbed my wrist hard enough to leave a red mark instantly. "Adrian, I've spent the last ten minutes swallowing my pride to talk you down. Are you seriously still going?" Pain shot up my wrist, and I flinched on instinct. Rachel's eyes caught on the ugly burn scar running up my right arm, flickering for a moment before she finally let go. That scar was from the night I was eighteen, when her family's house caught fire and I ran in to drag her out. Because of it, I'd given up my dream of testing into flight school. I'd picked up a spatula instead, and taken over the run-down stew house my mother had left me. Back then, Rachel had held me while I was covered in blood and sobbed that she'd take care of me for the rest of her life. Now, the smell of the stew house on my clothes was enough to disgust her precious golden boy. "I'm not throwing a fit. I'm just tired." I rubbed my wrist, my voice flat. Rachel stared at me for a moment, then let out a cold laugh. "Fine. Won't cook, huh? Then tomorrow, I'll have someone sell off that dump of yours. "Dennis has to cover his nose every time he walks past that street anyway. I've wanted you to shut the place down for a while now." I froze mid-step and turned back to face her, unable to believe what I'd just heard. "Rachel, that place is the only thing my mother left me. What right do you have to sell it?" Seeing that she'd finally gotten a rise out of me, a flicker of satisfaction crossed her eyes. "The right of owning the property, since it's under my name now. "Adrian, just be reasonable. Close the place, come work logistics at my company. Keep your hands clean for once. Isn't that better? "You spend all day steeped in that greasy hole, reeking like someone from the gutter. It embarrasses me just bringing you along to business dinners." Someone from the gutter. Those words hit me square in the chest. For twenty years, I'd stayed up nights simmering broth for her, kept that stew house running to earn her the first pot of money for her business. Now that she'd made it, she looked down on the very smell that had gotten her here. I took a breath and pushed the sourness building behind my eyes back down. "Do whatever you want." I turned and walked into the bedroom, locking the door behind me. Outside, I heard Rachel kick over the coffee table, followed by her voice rising out of control. "Adrian! Don't think I won't do it! If you dare open that place tomorrow, I'll have your sign smashed to pieces!" I leaned against the door and slid slowly down to the floor, pulling the plane ticket to the capital of Dufonce, Beleinse City, out of my pocket. 'Two more days. Rachel, you won't have to put up with the smell of someone like me much longer.' The next morning, I went to the notary's office downtown and signed away my fifty percent stake in the stew house, the half that actually belonged to me, to a buyer who'd been wanting to take the place over for a while. The ink had barely dried when my phone started buzzing like mad. It was Gary Owen, the floor manager at the stew house, and there was panic in his voice. "Adrian, get over here! Rachel brought a whole crew to tear the place apart! "They're saying they're renovating it into some fancy patisserie. They're throwing everything out onto the street right now!" My grip tightened around the phone. 'Rachel. You really don't do anything by halves,' I fumed inwardly. I flagged down a cab and told the driver to get to the stew house as fast as he could. Chapter 3 I could see the sign my mother had painted with her own two hands from a distance, tossed out onto the muddy street. Dennis Collin stood under Rachel's umbrella, covering his nose, watching with obvious disgust as pots and pans were carried out of the shop. "Rachel, this place is so dirty. Are you sure you can turn it into a dessert shop?" "Don't worry, Dennis. I'll have it sanitized. They're tearing out every last floor tile and relaying it, so there won't be a trace of that smoke smell left." Rachel's voice was gentle, nothing like the way she'd screamed at me the night before. I pushed through the crowd and my eyes landed immediately on the old wooden box sitting on top of a pile thrown out for the trash. That box was everything to me. Inside it wasn't just my mother's secret stew recipe, the one thing she'd never shared with anyone else, but also the wooden spatula Rachel had carved for me with her own hands when she was fifteen. She'd cut her fingers doing it, and laughed as she told me, "Adrian, once you're a big chef, I'll be your assistant." I didn't think. I just lunged for the box, trying to pull it free. "Adrian! What are you doing!" Rachel grabbed my arm and hauled me back. My feet slipped, and I fell straight into a puddle of greasy water. My knee slammed against a broken tile, and pain shot through it. Dennis let out a startled yelp and shrank back against Rachel. "Rachel, he's filthy. Don't let him touch me." Rachel immediately stepped in front of Dennis, shielding him, and looked down at me from above. "Adrian, have you lost your mind? I warned you last night. This place has to close. No exceptions." I ignored her and scrambled toward the box on my hands and knees. But it was already too late. A garbage truck was backing up right at that moment, and its massive mechanical arm closed around the pile without mercy. "No! Stop! My mother's things are in there!" I was screaming so hard my voice cracked, trying to push past and stop the arm. Rachel threw her arms around my waist and held me in place. "Enough, Adrian! It's a pile of junk. Is it really worth making a fool of yourself over?" There was a sharp crack. I watched, helpless, as the wooden box was crushed in the mechanical arm. The spatula that carried the memory of our childhood together snapped in two and dropped into the reeking garbage truck, along with my mother's yellowed recipe notebook, both pressed flat into scrap. For a moment, my whole world went quiet. No screaming, no struggling. I stood frozen, letting Rachel drag me to the side of the street. Even Rachel looked shaken by how lifeless I'd suddenly gone. She let go of me, and a note of unease crept into her voice. "Adrian, don't be like this. It was just a recipe notebook. If it matters that much, I'll find you a good chef to write you a new one. "And that broken piece of wood, I'll get you a solid gold one from the mall tomorrow, all right?" I slowly raised my head and looked at the woman I'd loved for twenty years. She had no idea that notebook had a letter tucked inside it, one her mother had written to her on her deathbed. I'd kept that letter safe for ten years, planning to give it to her next month on her thirtieth birthday, as a gift that would finally untangle the knot she'd been carrying for years. Now, none of it existed anymore. I started laughing. "Sure. Solid gold. Don't you forget." Rachel flinched at the sight of my smile, an inexplicable chill running through her. She reached out to touch my face, but I turned my head away before she could. Chapter 4 "Dennis's still waiting for you. Don't let him catch the smell of someone like me." I braced myself against the wall and pulled myself upright, limping. Dennis walked over and held out a tissue, but his eyes were full of a victor's mockery. "Don't be too hard on Rachel, Adrian. She's doing this for your own good. A grown man reeking of stew all day, how are you ever going to find a wife?" I didn't take the tissue. I just looked at him, cold. "Dennis, you'd better pray you never catch a whiff of real cooking for the rest of your life." I turned and walked off into the rain. Behind me, Rachel's voice rang out, unhinged. "Adrian! If you leave today, don't ever think about coming back through my door again!" I didn't look back, and I didn't slow down. Back at the apartment, I packed up everything that was mine, down to the last item. Aside from a few clothes I actually wore and my acceptance letter to Le Cordon Violet, I didn't take a thing. I looked around the empty room one last time, at the place I'd lived in for five years. By the entryway, I left behind the pair of slippers Rachel loved most. In the kitchen, I left a pot simmering, the yam and rib stew she liked best, the one that always settled her stomach. I walked over to the dining table, picked up a sticky note, and wrote a single message on it. [Stew's on the stove. Drink it while it's hot.] Once I'd written it, I set my apartment key down on top of the note, then dragged my suitcase out the door without looking back. … Two days later, it was time to fly to Dufonce. The weather was strangely perfect, the sun bright enough to bring tears to one's eyes. Sitting in the departure lounge, I stared at Rachel's photo on my phone screen. From yesterday until now, she hadn't sent a single message, hadn't made a single call. She probably still thought I was playing hard to get, waiting for her to come coax me back. Just as I was about to board, my phone rang. It was Rachel. I hesitated, then picked up. "Adrian, what exactly is going on with you? You didn't come home all day yesterday, and now you won't even answer your phone!" Her voice on the other end was impatient, demanding an explanation. In the background, I could hear Dennis's affected laughter and a crowd egging her on. "Rachel, come! We want to cut the cake! Everyone's waiting on you!" So today was Dennis's birthday too. She was off celebrating her golden boy while I sat alone at the airport, about to leave the country. "Nothing's going on." I watched the planes taking off and landing outside the window, my voice even. "Rachel, I just wanted to let you know the stew on the stove's probably gone bad by now. Don't drink it." Rachel went quiet for a second, then laughed coldly. "Adrian, don't try to guilt-trip me with that kind of talk. You think I'll come running after you just because you skipped town? "I'm telling you right now, if you dare hang up on me today, we're done for good." I let a faint smile touch my lips, even as tears fell without warning onto the back of my hand. "Okay." I said just that one word, then hung up without hesitating. I turned my phone off, pulled out the SIM card, and dropped it into the trash can beside me. 'Rachel, we'd been over for a while now. Ever since you had my mother's last keepsake crushed to pieces. Ever since you decided the smell of me disgusted you. There was no going back for us after that.' I dragged my suitcase and walked toward the gate. The moment the plane lifted off into the sky, back in the city, Rachel was pushing open the door to our old shared apartment.