Tease Me Read online

  “I may not be the greatest in the kitchen, but I can draw,” I said.

  “That you can. So why don’t you focus on doing that, and leave the cooking to me,” Kristian said.

  “Fine, be that way,” I said, though my argument was not very serious. We all had our roles, and though mine wasn’t conventional, nor was his, it was what worked.

  And besides, I called myself an artist, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that Kristian was the same.

  “It’s true, you know,” I said.

  Kristian had moved on to chopping an onion, and kept his focus on that as he called over his shoulder, “What’s true?”

  I paused, realizing only when he spoke that I had said the words out loud, but then also impressed by the fact that he had even questioned what I’d said. By now, he knew me well enough to know that it wasn’t uncommon for me to express an unfinished thought, say half of what I was thinking, but not the rest.

  “You’re an artist,” I said.

  He paused, then slid the now chopped onion into the sauté pan with the garlic.

  He looked at me quizzically. “You think?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I responded, nodding emphatically.

  It was surprising that we hadn’t had this conversation before, but it was true.

  “I look at that stuff,” I said, nodding toward the tomato on the cutting board, the broccoli, the chicken I could see through the glass door of the oven. “And I see groceries that don’t deserve the fate they would find in my hands.”

  “Yeah, you’d wreck them all,” he said with a laugh before he took a sip of his water.

  “Right. But you look at them and you can make them into something they weren’t before, take what is as mundane as food and make it an experience. If that’s not art, I don’t know what is,” I said.

  “Thanks, Dallas,” he said.

  He began to stir the onion and garlic mixture, his attention clearly focused, but his thanks sincere.

  “I just speak the truth,” I said.

  “Yeah, but I can’t help but wonder…” he said.

  He trailed off and then began to chop the broccoli before moving on to the tomato.

  I watched him, allowing him to concentrate, but when he didn’t pick up the topic again, I couldn’t keep myself from asking.

  “Wonder what?” I said.

  My voice had a sound to it, one that I didn’t necessarily understand or like. I sounded almost—needy, a sound, a feeling that I hated. I also felt the beginning of trepidation start to creep up on me.

  Almost instantly, my mind went back to the night before, the question I had been so hasty in asking him. It wasn’t like Kristian to beat around the bush, but he also wasn’t being direct.

  “Later,” he said.

  I frowned, prepared to protest, but then decided the better of it.

  That couldn’t be good.

  Kristian and I had had some of our deepest and most meaningful conversations in the kitchen. And, the one time when our friendship had been so close to the brink that we’d had what could only qualify as a knock-down, drag-out, while he had prepared a perfect beef Wellington.

  For him to want to have a conversation while he wasn’t distracted meant that it was going to be something deep, and I wasn’t sure I was ready.

  The next half an hour passed in excruciating silence, and not even the wonderful smells that Kristian was creating, the meal that was coming together before my very eyes, could distract me.

  Still, I dug deep, found a well of reserve that I tapped to its fullest to hold my tongue.

  “We’re about five minutes out. You want to pick a table?” he said.

  I nodded, then turned to leave without speaking.

  The reprieve was welcome, and though I knew there was little I could do to gather myself, at least I would have these few moments.

  I chose my favorite table, the one my eyes had been immediately drawn to back when Kristian had just been considering renting it.

  He had taken me here before any of the renovations, asked me what I thought.

  I loved the location, and one spot in particular that got wonderful light in the afternoon and a great view of the city at night.

  I chose that table today, and quickly set a simple place setting. Then I got us more water and returned to the kitchen and washed my hands.

  When I came out, Kristian had plated two meals and was sitting there waiting.

  “I did a little something extra with the sauce, so let me know if you like it,” he said.

  “I’m sure I’ll love it,” I said sincerely.

  And I would, assuming that the knots twisting in my stomach didn’t make it impossible for me to even taste the food, let alone evaluate it.

  I took the seat across from him, and said a quick grace before digging in.

  The explosion of flavor on my tongue was something I anticipated, but even with anticipation it was better than I had imagined.

  “Yum,” I said around a mouthful of pasta.

  Kristian, who hadn’t taken his first bite, looked at me expectantly. “You like it?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, once I had swallowed. I usually didn’t mind talking while I chewed but had a brief moment of manners.

  “It’s delicious. You added a little spice to it, something to kick it up, give the chicken a little more vibrancy,” I said.

  He smiled, nodded. “Yes, I added a little bit of my own spice blend to liven it up. And your description was perfect. Keep that up and I’m going to think you’ve picked up a thing or two from me,” he said.

  He smiled, and then began to eat his own food. I still felt nervous, but couldn’t help but point out what he had done.

  “You always do that, you know?” I asked after my next bite.

  “Do what?” he responded as he consumed his meal.

  Nothing about Kristian was dainty, not in the slightest, but his table manners were impeccable. I often felt like a boor or a lowly commoner when I sat across from him.

  His posture was perfect, the way he held his utensil speaking of years of training. It was such a contrast, this man in heavy boots, black jeans, a tight T-shirt, while at the same time exuding an almost painfully regal bearing.

  But such was the contradiction that was Kristian, and for not the first time, not even the first time this very day, I marveled at the fact that the two of us, people who couldn’t have been more different, had managed to forge such a close friendship.

  One that I had put in danger.

  But rather than think of that, I turned myself back to what I had said before.

  “You always do that. Wait until I have eaten and get my opinion before you start. Why?” I asked.

  I was surprised I hadn’t asked the question before, but perhaps I hadn’t noticed as much as I did now. Still, it was an interesting quirk, one that I wondered at the source of.

  “It’s only polite. And besides, I cook to feed my diners, so it’s only fair that I make sure they are enjoying their meals before I do.”

  “You consider me that still? One of your diners?”

  Kristian laughed, took another bite. “You’re more than that. You’re my most important diner,” he said, gesturing toward me for emphasis.

  Of its own volition, my heart softened, and I could feel my stomach begin to warm. Something about the way he said that, like I was silly for not knowing it, something about the sincerity in his eyes set me off, but I couldn’t allow that feeling to take root.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means that you give it to me straight. I don’t have to worry that you’re going to pretend that something is good when it’s not, or that you’ll say nothing to spare my feelings. So yeah. If you like it, I know it must be good,” he said.

  Those words created two reactions, which somehow managed to be both equal and opposite. First I felt incredibly flattered, almost honored, that he viewed me in such a way. It wasn’t as though I didn’t value myself
, didn’t think that I was worth that kind of respect, but to hear him say it, and say it so nonchalantly, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world was a welcome and needed ego boost.

  But with that boost also came the downside.

  I appreciated being respected for my efficiency, but noted how that seemed somewhat hollow. Not his words, and certainly not his intention, but how they reflected on me. Wondered if perhaps that was part of the source of my current predicament. After all, I knew my heart, knew that I created from my soul, but there was also the fact that he viewed me as reliable.

  I tried to put my finger on why I found that so problematic, and realized the reason why almost instantly.

  Wrenches were reliable.

  Sedans were reliable.

  A great set of kitchen knives was reliable.

  I wanted to be more than that.

  I hadn’t considered it before, but as I thought of it now, I realized how much that didn’t matter. I liked that he respected my opinion, liked that he relied on it, but couldn’t shake the feeling that he relied on it the same way he relied on his meat supplier or his maître d’.

  I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t being fair, that I was reading into it where I had no reason to, but I still couldn’t shake that feeling.

  I also knew I couldn’t resolve it now, so instead I took another bite of pasta and then looked at Kristian.

  “It’s so weird. You’re so freaking good, but sometimes I think you lose sight of that,” I said.

  Kristian had finished his plate and was now sipping his water, looking at me, his face curious.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean it’s self-evident to anyone who’s ever been to one of your restaurants, who has ever had one of your meals, that you are freaking phenomenal at your job. But sometimes you act like you don’t know it,” I said.

  “Are we having a pot-kettle moment here?” he asked.

  “Whatever do you mean?” I said, rolling my eyes as I finished the last of my pasta.

  “I mean, not two weeks ago you and I had the same conversation about your art. I seem to recall telling you that you way undersell yourself, and coincidentally you are telling me the same thing,” he said.

  I didn’t answer immediately, mostly because Kristian was right and I didn’t want to acknowledge that or the way I’d felt when he’d given me his pep talk, how invincible, how special. No, thinking about that wouldn’t be wise, so I stayed silent for a moment longer.

  The sun had started to dip below the horizon, making the restaurant dim, and we had only turned on half the lights, so Kristian’s face was a mix of shadows and light, and I could see how a few of those rays lit his brown eyes.

  “While I would ordinarily protest because we’re not talking about me right now, we’re talking about you, I think that’s a totally different thing,” I said, completely evading his words.

  “Totally different, huh?” he said, his teasing clear.

  I smiled. “Yes. I’m an artist. I’m sensitive, but I know my stuff is good. I’m just trying to be cautious, and I want to make sure that if I branch out into a new medium it’s something worthwhile,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Kristian responded, his total lack of belief in what I had said apparent.

  We’d had this conversation before, and I knew he thought I sold myself short. I didn’t. I was confident in my work, knew that the things I created were worthwhile, but he wanted me to move faster, branch out and do a full show of sculpture, and I wasn’t ready for that.

  “You told me I was an artist, so maybe my sensitivity is to be understood,” he said.

  I appreciated him bringing the conversation from me back to himself. It was a small thing, but one that I wasn’t surprised by. Kristian was as honest with me as I was with him, but he was never cruel, and he never pushed.

  “You are an artist, and unlike most of us, you’ve gotten nothing but positive feedback. You should be more confident in it,” I said.

  His face, which had been a bit amused, darkened, the change in his expression reflecting the change in the air in the room.

  “Yeah, I’ve gotten nothing but positive feedback,” he said.

  His voice sounded not exactly whimsical, but not entirely happy either.

  “I hear an undertone there. Sounds like you think positive feedback is problematic,” I said.

  “It’s not problematic, but if it’s all you get—”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  He lifted his eyes to lock with mine, and when I looked at them I saw a vulnerability that I knew was something he didn’t share freely.

  And, as close as he was to his brothers, I knew that even with them he felt compelled to put up the strongest possible front. And I was again struck by how much it meant to me that he trusted me enough to show me this, all of him.

  “Why are we talking about this?” he asked.

  I laughed, the irony of me not more than a second ago thinking of how kind it was of Kristian to be so open and then him immediately trying to shut that vulnerability down wasn’t lost on me.

  “Because there’s obviously something on your mind, so spill it,” I said.

  I grabbed the plates and Kristian grabbed the glasses as we wordlessly walked back into the kitchen. I was a terrible cook, but I didn’t mind cleaning, so that was the way things usually broke down. Kristian made these amazing meals, and I helped to clean up. Today would be no different, and I suspected that the distraction would be helpful. I hadn’t forgotten that whatever it was he wanted to talk to me about while he was cooking hadn’t come up yet. But I figured we’d get to that soon enough, and I wasn’t too anxious to have that conversation, not until he was ready.

  As I began to spray the dishes, I said, “So you get positive feedback. And the problem with that is—”

  “Can’t trust that shit,” he grunted.

  “Wow, Kristian. That was super poetic. You want to break it down for me?” I asked.

  “Positive feedback is great, but when that’s all you get, you have to question the motives behind it,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said, nodding.

  “If all these people rave about the restaurant, and no one really has anything bad to say, what am I supposed to do with that?” he asked.

  “Celebrate?” I said.

  I turned to look at him and he snorted, shrugged his broad shoulders. “Or get paranoid, and wonder if people are just there to gawk or say that they were there for other reasons,” he said.

  I finished the two plates and put them in the dish dryer and then reached for the glasses.

  “I understand what you’re getting at. Positive feedback is great and validating, but it’s not the way we grow,” I said.

  “Exactly!” he responded.

  “But by that same token,” I said, continuing as though he hadn’t spoken, “you sometimes have to trust what’s in front of your face. You’ve done all that you can to make sure that you know exactly what is and is not working in your restaurant. It’s not like you’re simply letting the accolades fall in and just taking them for gospel truth. I see you. You’re constantly refining, improving, trying to find a way to make everything just a little bit better. At some point that’s all you can do.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “It just means that as artists, which is what I consider you, we do the best we can, but we have to let it go. At some point, you just have to trust that what you did is enough. For you, that means trusting that when people compliment your restaurant it’s not because you’re rich, or because you are a prince. It’s because they actually enjoyed your food,” I said.

  I added the glasses and utensils to the dish dryer and then turned to look at Kristian with one hip propped against the sink. I crossed my arms under my breasts and watched him as he processed what I’d said.

  “But you know I hate it when people give me a pass, Dallas,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know you hate it, and I
also know you have about as much chance of stopping it as I have of winning a cooking competition. Which, in case you missed it, there is absolutely no chance of that. You can’t control what people say, Kristian, or why they say it. All you can do is put your best foot forward, produce the best possible product, and hope that everything else falls into place. You’re doing that. And when you open this restaurant you’re going to do it again,” I said.

  He said nothing, but after a moment, he nodded slowly.

  “You mean you just accepted what I said without trying to push back?” I asked, partially dismayed, but mostly wanting to alleviate any discomfort Kristian might be feeling. I knew how hard it was for him to express these doubts and emotions, and I wouldn’t belabor the point.

  “I didn’t say I agreed. I’m processing,” he said.

  I smiled, then looked at him and after a moment sighed.

  “So you’re really not going to bring it up?” I finally asked.

  I had waited as long as I could, but couldn’t keep my words to myself any longer.

  “Yeah, I was going to,” he said.

  I appreciated the shorthand that allowed us to both address the topic without actually saying it out loud. For the first time I was feeling mortified, grateful for the dark skin that wouldn’t allow the blush that was breaking out all over my body to show.

  “I’ll go first,” I said.

  “Dallas, there’s—”

  “No,” I said, cutting him off. “Let me just say this.”

  For a moment he looked like he wanted to protest, but then he nodded curtly and I went on. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “What for?” he asked.

  I knew he wasn’t being disingenuous. It wasn’t Kristian’s style, but him asking the question made me want to hide.

  Much of this embarrassment was self-imposed. In fact all of it was self-imposed, but I still felt the sting of it now, couldn’t stop myself from wondering what the hell I had been thinking when I had even dared to consider asking him such a thing.

  “I might have been a bit hasty when I spoke to you yesterday,” I said.

  Kristian lifted the corner of his lips, but had the good sense not to say anything. Which was fortunate for him, because I didn’t think I could take it. I knew that I could sometimes charge full speed ahead, but today was definitely not the day for him to remind me of that.