Taste
Kahlil did not sound very convinced. “So you read her the part in your journal and she knew the answer?”
“Not yet. I will, when I can find the thing. I lost it and you know I can't keep it clear in my mind unless I'm reading off my notes. But I'm sure it's her. And I just dreamed about her, but not that recurring dream with the crying girl. This one is new. I was asking her to marry me and she was telling me to look at something.”
“Asking her to marry you? Were there stars in the dream?”
Kestrin grinned. Starlight proved his real dreams legitimate. “A whole damn meteor shower. Destiny is improvising. Since I lost the journal, I guess I'm supposed to use signs other than the riddle to find my way. It must be fate. It's testing my faith to see if I'll move forward even without my crutch to test her.”
“You think everything's fate.”
“Everything is.”
Kahlil sighed noisily.
“I trust myself on this,” Kestrin whispered. “I'm going to propose.”
“And you know she'll just say yes?”
“I'll plan it today at work and then I'll propose as soon as I can see her again.”
“I'll be praying that this girl isn't another Hei—”
“Don't jinx it.”
Kahlil laughed. “I don't believe in luck. I can't.”
“One more thing. Swear you won't tell my mom.”
“Are you going to eat that?” Lorona pointed at the decorative orange wedge on Yuki's salad plate. Yuki handed it to her. As Lorona savored the fruit, Yuki cleared her throat. She wanted to talk about the party and had even bribed Lorona by treating her to lunch, but Yuki had not received one scrap of juicy gossip in return.
Lorona had woken that morning with more than a craving for orange juice. She'd wanted vodka and another kiss. She hoped Yuki hadn't noticed the empty juice carton in the recycle bin.
You're being stupid, Lorona told herself as the silence dragged on. She wasn't interested in a man like Kestrin. Not one bit. At all. Nothing. One memorable talk followed by a dance and an argument, and finished off with a kiss. It was over. Lorona felt a sinking dread. She was trying too hard to convince herself.
A glint of realization flickered over Yuki's round face. Lorona had unveiled her mental tornado. Yuki chortled, “You know, it's practically written in Webster's Dictionary—Kestrin Feather's Kiss: Noun. Definition: See Love Potion Number Nine.”
“Not interested.”
Yuki bounced in her seat. “Not even the littlest bit? Even if—”
“I don't care if he's the sexiest guy in the world. If he isn't interested in long-term stuff, why in the world do you want to set me up with him?”
“To start, it'll be good for you. You've turned down enough men with your high standards. For two, I think you want this. I've never seen you put on this much make-up for work or,” Yuki sniffed the air, “wear your gardenia perfume just to sit with a bunch of dusty books all day. There's something different about you. I can smell it.” Yuki laughed at her own joke. “You like him and I think he got pricked with his own arrow. That kiss dare thing was his way of saving you, and I've never seen him do anything like that for a girl. He's acting noble and…” She leaned forward. “I think he might break his habit of flings for you.”
“You're asking me to believe that he thinks I'm special?”
Yuki's eyes danced. “I watched the way he carried you and I wasn't scared for you anymore.”
Yuki's voice echoed in Lorona's head. It'll be good for you. The “what if” questions wriggled to life. Lorona silenced them by speaking. “Then I'm your little experiment?”
“Damn, I'm late for work.” Yuki stood. “I need to get back. I'll pick you up for dinner.” She winked, dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table and sauntered out, swinging her faux alligator purse.
Lorona wished the purse would come alive and bite the smug grin right off of Yuki's face.
Amanda Feather ran her nail down the journal's smooth leather spine. She would not read it, as much as the idea excited her. “So much faith in such a silly dream,” she mused. “My sweet boy, do I have to save you from everything?”
She pushed the journal aside, opened her address book and flipped through the names, mostly men, of souls who adored her. There were tiny red marks beside those who owed favors. Amanda paused to relish a little thrill as she read the names of a politician and a chief of police under the R section.
She shut the book. She couldn't enlist help. This was her own son's love life and she needed to save him before he got enmeshed in obsession or even worse, a marriage he'd regret. This dream needed to die before another girl obscured his horizon.
Perhaps what she'd already done would be enough. Without its tangible reminder, Kestrin's dream mirage might run dry. Kestrin had said he needed to read it in order to remember it fully. Amanda slid the leather-bound journal beneath a thick stack of Glamour and Vogue magazines on her coffee table. She approached her wall of photographs and stared at one in particular which framed a mother and four-year-old son who sat in front of a miniature Christmas tree. A golden retriever puppy lay lazily on the boy's lap. The boy wore a red hat edged in white fur and his mother's hair coiled in perfect gold ringlets over a green velvet dress.
“Mother knows best. Better than that bad dream, doesn't she?” Amanda kissed the glass directly over the little boy's hat. “Trust me.”
“Did you do anything fun for Halloween this weekend?” Brandon asked.
Kestrin pushed the chunks of bell peppers off the cutting board and into the pot of soup. He wiped his forehead. The Mouth of the Border restaurant kitchen got hellishly hot, even this late in October, in spite of the ceiling fan. Brandon chopped carrots across the counter from him. The scent of grilling spices mixed with the aroma of the fresh fruit and vegetables that were waiting to be unloaded from their crates beside the sink.
Kestrin considered several answers, then settled on, “My friends from college always throw a huge costume shindig. Dressing up is mandatory, since a lot of the guys did theater and they like that sort of thing. I was there last night.”
Brandon yanked on the collar of his t-shirt for ventilation. “Is that the one where they elect a costume goddess or something?”
Kestrin nodded, but kept his eyes down. He wasn't ready to talk about it.
“My roommate was there! This girl they elect, she's like the prettiest chick there or something? My friend thought she was sweet looking and—”
“I didn't get a chance to see.” Kestrin needed to meditate on something boring, like chopping, if he was going to keep calm and not give himself away. In spite of this renewed determination, he almost cut the tip of his finger with the next stroke. Drop it. Just drop it, Brandon.
Brandon couldn't hear Kestrin's silent pleas. “You didn't even see her? Were you already busy with somebody in a coat closet?”
Kestrin glared.
Brandon set down his knife and made eye contact. “Jeez, next time put a ‘Warning: I'm Moody’ sticker on your forehead or something. I'm just trying to make conversation.”
Kestrin imagined them dueling with the long cutting knives. He blinked to wipe away the image.
Brandon slid the carrots into the soup. “I heard they make the winner do something crazy. I thought it could make for a good story to pass the time. Is there something wrong with this picture?”
“No,” Kestrin sighed.
“Then would you please stop looking at me like that? You're white-knuckling the knife and it's freaking me out.”
Kestrin wiped his sweating palm on his apron. “Sorry, man.”
“I'm sorry I asked. I'll just assume you had a bad night and—”
“I was the dare.” Kestrin didn't know why he said it, but it leapt out, almost triumphantly, and now Brandon was digesting what he'd just heard.
“What do you mean you were the dare?” Brandon rinsed his hands and flicked them so that droplets spattered Kestrin's face. “So you were lying when you said you didn't see her?”
Kestrin grabbed a spoon and churned the soup. He pulled down jars of spices and shook them in without measuring.
“Easy on the garlic powder, dude. Let's not kill the customers.” Brandon took the dispenser away. “Take a break. I'll cover. Go hose yourself down outside. You'll feel better.”
“I don't need—”
“Just take five minutes. The soup's in good hands.”
Brandon was perceptive. Kestrin yanked off his apron and draped it over the hooks beside the walk-in fridge. As an afterthought, he opened the fridge door and retrieved an orange from a crate on the floor. Lobbing it in his hand, he kicked the back door open and shuffled onto the porch as Brandon fed the Mexican guitar mix into the restaurant's sound system.
To Kestrin's left was the ice chest where they stored buckets of piña colada, coconut, and mango ice cream. Below that was the huge dumpster where day-old taco shells and guacamole nachos lay bunched together in shiny black bags. The real view was Lake Union, unfurling a sheet of sparkling cerulean with ribbons of light rippling across the water. It was flecked with white sails and the hum of small outboard motors. The entire city was on the water today, one of Seattle's last warm Saturdays.
Kestrin wasn't supposed to take hose showers at work, which was exactly why he liked them. He tore a shred of the rind off the orange with his teeth and sucked till he tasted juice. He was reaching for the faucet with his free hand when the thought hit him. What if Lorona just thinks I'm crazy?
A young boy appeared kicking a ball down the sidewalk and for a moment Kestrin relived high school soccer: the taunts from other boys for his long hair, Kahlil Shehadi's dignified refusal to chime in with them, and then the game in which Kahlil had accidentally kicked the ball into the nose of Kestrin's bully. Even at fourteen, Kestrin had believed in fate.
He smiled, momentarily distracted, and turned on the water. The residue from spilled pico de gallo slid toward the sewer drain.
Mom will definitely think I'm crazy, even if Lorona doesn't. Mom will feel betrayed. Kestrin's parents had messily divorced only a few months after his birth, due mainly to his mother's brazen attraction to multiple men. Kestrin was raised, indoctrinated, and otherwise adored as Amanda's only child. She taught him to be generous and unrestricted when it came to romance, and he'd excelled under her tutelage. But it's time to change. Mom doesn't get to vote on this one.
He brought the hose over his head and let the water pour, opening his mouth into the stream and holding the orange safely out of the way. The water was warm, slow-baked from sitting in the hose all morning. He stayed beneath the jet until it turned icy, then shuddered and groped for the handle, shaking his hair and wiping his eyes clear with his fingers.
The thought came again. What if Lorona just thinks I'm crazy?
He bit into the orange again; this time juice smeared his face, chin, and cheeks.
A car with two female occupants swerved into the restaurant parking lot. The orange dropped from his hand and rolled toward the drain. Kestrin had memorized that license plate less than twenty-four hours ago as it pulled away from Ben's house. He returned to the kitchen where Brandon was warming tortillas on the griddle.
Brandon's eyebrows touched his hair line as Kestrin spat a string of cuss words. “I thought you were calming down out there. What did you see?”
Kestrin cleared his throat. “Red hair, gorgeous green eyes, great ass.”
“You saw that from the car?”
“No, I saw that last night.”
“Hey now…” Brandon paused. “This girl you just saw isn't the one from the party, is she?”
Kestrin shrugged. “I'll just stay in the kitchen.” He grabbed the spoon to stir the soup.
Brandon grimaced as he pulled out the bag of ground beef. “Actually, Callie went on vacation starting today and Trish isn't here to cover yet. So someone needs to seat the customers.” He shook spices over the meat and began to work it in with his hands.
“You do it,” Kestrin pleaded.
“I've got raw beef on my hands. Get out there.”
“I'm sopping wet!”
A dishrag hit Kestrin in the face. He dabbed his arms, neck, and hair, grabbed two green menus, and snatched a glance at his reflection in the plastic covers. Damp and very unprepared.
The front door swung open with the sound of wooden chimes, and there she was, silhouetted in the fading evening light. Truthfully, there were two of them, but the other one was diminished in her presence.
“Two for dinner?” he heard himself say.
Lorona blanched and looked away, darting an accusing glance at Yuki. She hadn't been expecting to see him.
“Oh, you work here, Kestrin? What a coincidence!” Yuki drawled. She waved an exuberant hello, which he returned weakly, trying to not trip on his words. Yuki steered Lorona to a small table overlooking the lake. By the time they took their seats she was nursing a few bruised ribs from Lorona's elbow jab.
The fiery redness of Lorona's hair almost blinded Kestrin as he filled their water glasses. He dove back into the kitchen, gasping for air. “I can't do this.”
Brandon turned and met Kestrin's gaze. The hand of power had changed and they both knew it. “You can't expect to keep getting answers until you tell me what's wrong with the girl who just walked in. Fair is fair. Answer mine, and maybe I'll answer yours. Who is she and why are you acting so weird?”
Kestrin explained as quickly as he could. He left out the part about his dreams and fate, but he explained about the party and the dare and how Lorona was different, which he hoped sounded convincing enough.
Brandon listened without comment. Finally, he said, “Maybe there's hope for you.” He chuckled. “It's kind of refreshing to see you squirm like this after all those calls I helped you dodge when the lady friends found your work number.”
Kestrin heard Yuki commenting in a sharp voice on the exemplary speed of the service. He ducked back outside.
Yuki was reclining with one elbow propped on the low back of her chair. Lorona sat as straight as if she were wearing a corset. Kestrin found himself blushing as he apologized. “Sorry about the delay. We're a little short-staffed right now. I'll be serving you and cooking your food.” He flashed what he hoped was his usual winning smile, but it felt fake. “Have you had a chance to decide what you'd like? Any questions about the menu?”
Up to this moment, Lorona had kept her eyes chained to her water glass, but now she raised them. She wore a deep blue blouse with a small gold chain around her neck. It deepened her eyes to a startling shade of emerald. She smelled incredible.
“I'll have your fish tacos and an order of guacamole,” Yuki chirped.
As he collected Yuki's menu, his hand accidentally brushed Lorona's shoulder. His fingers tingled and he found himself grasping for normal words. “And for you, Miss?” Had he actually just called her “Miss”? After the hundred times Kestrin had let her name roll over his tongue, now he called her something as anonymous as “Miss”? If Kestrin could have performed an uppercut on himself, he would have done it.
Back in the kitchen, he leaned over the counter for several minutes in silence as Brandon assembled the food, probably enjoying his front row seat to Kestrin's drama. Kestrin couldn't decipher Lorona's expression, but her eyes hadn't been entirely spiteful or resistant. They were beautiful and curious, but also afraid. An idea spurted. If Lorona believes in fate, that would make things a lot easier. There was one way to find out.
By the time she left, Lorona had given no sign that she'd seen anything other than her food. Kestrin worked his entire evening shift at the bar, wondering if she'd eaten the piece of paper without ever knowing it was there.
Lorona and Yuki returned home and watched one of Lorona's old Cary Grant movies without further discussion on dinner. Yuki was too depressed with her own failure to predict Kestrin's actions to notice Lorona's unusual silence. The next morning, Yuki appeared in the doorway to Lorona's room, a tray of fresh chocolate chip cookies in her mitt-covered hands. “What do you think Kestrin was getting at?” Yuki grumbled. “He gave you that free dessert, and then he didn't say anything. I feel like a total letdown for women's intuition. Did he at least slip you his phone number or anything?”
“No number.” Lorona grinned. In spite of her rational side, the curious and impulsive part of her felt stronger this morning and it made smiling irresistible. Secret messages in chocolate. Two points for creativity.
Yuki was frowning at her. “Then is he interested or not?”
“He is.” Lorona smiled wider.
“How do you know? If you've actually decided to follow your instincts instead of your mind, I'll have died and gone to Heaven.”
Lorona enjoyed having control of the conversation. “I just know.”
“Tell me how you know he's interested and this cookie's yours.” Yuki broke a large cookie and grinned as chocolate strings dripped between the two halves.
“He's still probably just interested in sleeping with me, but maybe you're right. Maybe you did see something at the party. What the heck, I'll tell you.” Lorona wrapped herself in her bathrobe and slid her hand under her pillow. She uncurled the paper and read it one more time, for courage, before she handed it to Yuki. She'd found the message under the slice of dark chocolate cake.
Do you have a craving for orange all the time? I'm wondering if it's just me.
-Kestrin
