Page 2 of Cross the Line
Can’t argue with that.
‘This is the fourth batch I’ve ruined today,’ I lament as I shuffle over to her. Seeking comfort, I rest my temple against her upper arm. It’s not quite her shoulder, since I’m five-foot-nothing and she’s a six-foot-one angel. ‘The first ones weren’t sweet enough. The second ones were flat as crepes. The third were under baked, and these are—’
‘On fire.’
‘Singed,’ I correct, pulling back and giving her a warning look. I can’t be too mad, though, because theywerekind of on fire at one point. ‘I can’t get it right and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.’
‘Take a break,’ Chantal instructs. Her tone is firm, but there’s a tenderness in it. ‘You can try again tomorrow.’
She’s right, and I’ll absolutely pick myself up and dust myself off for yet another attempt, just like I always do. But she knows my frustration isn’t just about macarons. She knows how badly I want my life to be perfect and how upset it makes me that I’m struggling to pull it off. As my roommate since our freshman year, she’s witnessed plenty of my highs and lows, and is well-versed in all my hopes and dreams. I’m lucky that her own dream job as a financial analyst – go figure – is keeping her in New York, because I don’t know what I’d do without her.
‘I’ll order takeout so no one has to enter this disaster zone,’ she says, pulling her phone out of the back pocket of her denim shorts that showcase her long, deep-brown legs. ‘And check your phone, would you? It keeps buzzing in your room, and it’s driving me nuts.’
I flash her a bashful smile. ‘Sorry. I didn’t want to get distracted, so I left it in there.’
She cocks a brow playfully. ‘You mean you didn’t want to risk dropping it in the batter again.’
My face flames at the mention of that specific baking attempt. ‘It only happened one time!’
She flips her braids over one shoulder as she strolls out of the kitchen, the delicate beads at the ends clicking together as she goes. I helped her pick them out last week, the gold and deep azure perfect for the warming temperatures, and one last hurrah before she starts her new job and has to have a ‘professional’ hairstyle. It’d be great if the world could stop telling Black girls what’s appropriate when it comes to our hair, but today is not that day.
Sighing, I undo my apron and hang it on the hook by the window. The pastel-pink cotton flutters in the warm breeze, silently mocking me and my failure. I don’t even bother looking at the charbroiled macarons as I leave the kitchen and pad down the narrow hallway to my bedroom.
I pass Grace’s open door along the way, catching a snippet of the conversation she’s having on the phone. Judging from the occasional groan and the (very few) words in Cantonese I understand thanks to the lessons she’s given me over the years, she’s talking to her mother. She’s probably assuring her that she won’t miss her flight to Hong Kong tomorrow, which she’s done twice before.
She gives me a finger wave as I walk by, and I blow her a kiss in return before slipping into my room next door. The sun streams in through my gauzy curtains, casting short shadows across my desk. My phone sits on the surface, wedged between a few skincare products and a mug full of glitter gel pens. The screen is dark, but when I scoop it up, a litany of texts and missed calls, all from my brother, greets me.
Most people would assume there’d been some kind of emergency, but this is just how Oakley operates. If he can’t get ahold of me – or anyone, for that matter – on his first attempt, he’ll keep calling and texting until they pick up. There’s no subtlety with him.
I don’t bother looking at any of the twenty texts. They’re probably just emojis and the sentencepick up!!!!over and over again. Instead, I tap his name and put the phone to my ear, flopping onto my ruffled duvet to stare out the window at the brick apartment building across the street.
‘Took you long enough,’ Oakley grumbles when he answers.
‘I was busy,’ I say vaguely. If I confess my baking catastrophe to him, he’ll never let me live it down. ‘What’s up?’
‘Do you want to go to Monaco?’
Another thing about my brother – he doesn’t beat around the bush.
I’m used to it, but the question still throws me. ‘Monaco?’ I repeat. ‘Like, the country?’
‘Yes, Willow, the country,’ he mocks. ‘Keep up.’
I roll my eyes, mentally flipping him a middle finger. ‘God, I was just checking.’
‘So?’ I can imagine him prompting me by circling his hand in the air, ever impatient. ‘You interested or not?’
‘I mean, yeah,’ I reply, even though I’m suspicious of the offer. ‘Who wouldn’t be? But why are you even asking?’
‘Because I’m going next week and thought you might want to tag along. Plus, it’s a race weekend, and—’
My snort interrupts him. ‘I should have known this was a motorsport thing.’
As a teenager, my brother’s life revolved around kart racing, which led to a successful but short-lived career in Formula 3. In the end, he gave it up to have a ‘normal’ life and went off to college. Personally, I wouldn’t have given up the opportunity to be a professional athlete for anything. But that’s the difference between Oakley and me – he had options in life. I didn’t.
‘And,’ Oakley barges on, ‘my company is hosting a huge event. I figured you might want to schmooze with athletes, then watch the race from the paddock. I’ve got passes, courtesy of SecDark.’
Part of that ‘normal’ college experience for Oakley involved studying cybersecurity. He was recruited during the fall semester of his senior year by one of the leading companies in the industry, SecDark Solutions, and has worked for them ever since.
