Page 58 of With a Cherry On Top

She’s stillher.

Needing a distraction, I stride to the fridge and pull it open. My gaze sweeps across the contents—or lack thereof—and a hard knot of frustration forms in my gut.

A pear. Two eggs. A single Tupperware filled with plain boiled rice.

That’s it.

I shut the fridge with a little too much force.

“Beatrice makes sure I’m not tempted while she’s away,” she says behind me.

Tempted.Like food is something to resist. Like hunger is a flaw. Like the simple act of eating—of enjoying something indulgent—is a crime.

“Well, what would you like to eat?”

She looses a cackle. “Let’s see. A bacon cheeseburger. No, wait, fries. No, mozzarella sticks. Actually...scratch that. I’d like a corn dog with a ton of ketchup. No, wait...” Her eyes light up like she can already taste whatever she’s thinking about. “I want a sundae. A big one. With warm, gooey chocolate sauce dripping down the sides, rainbow sprinkles—like, atonof them—so every bite is crunchy and sweet. And nuts. Oh, and whipped cream piled so high it almost topples over.” She presses her hands together, practically bouncing on her toes. “And you know what goes on top, obviously.” Her playful gaze flicks up to mine. “How does that sound?”

Like the stuff you eat when you’re drunk or aren’t familiar with mid-thirties heartburn.

Before I can say anything, her expression shifts. “But ice cream is a curse word in this house,” she says. “I can’t eat fried food. Or mozzarella. Or bacon. Or salt.” She shrugs, forcing another smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I definitely can’t have sugar. Or chocolate. Or whipped cream.”

It’s a joke—she makes itsoundlike a joke. But there’s an ache beneath the words, something resigned and weary, as if she’s spent years making herself smaller and learning to quiet her wants until they become nothing more than idle fantasies.

“So how about you make that, um”—she waves a hand vaguely in the air—“whatever fancy thing you were about to suggest, and I’ll moderately enjoy it because you are, despite this ridiculous diet, a great cook?”

She waits for my nod, then disappears down the hall.

And I stand there, wondering how to give her everything she’s not allowed to want.

I abandonmy tuna roll to cut up the salmon sashimi. I had to drive across town—past three other supermarkets—just to find sashimi-grade fish, wasting nearly an hour in the process.

She looks up from her phone, the glow throwing soft shadows across her cheekbones. After a long look at me, she focuses on the screen again.

I’d pay money I don’t have to know what she’s thinking.

I press my lips together and refocus on my rolls. The scent of fresh seaweed and sticky rice fills the kitchen, but my mind drifts anyway—back to the first time Amelie and I made sushi together. I couldn’t believe she’d never done it. Josie is a big fan, so it was one of my staples at home.

When Amelie found out I was an expert, she made me drop everything and teach her on the spot. After she’d spent months nitpicking every single dish I made, watching her become annoyed over not getting it right the first time was quite the show.

“What is it?” Charlotte asks from the couch.

“Hm?” I blink, realizing I’m smiling. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about...I taught my mentor how to make sushi.”

Her eyes narrow. “Yourmentor? Like in a cult?”

“No, like in cooking. My boss’s other half is a chef. When I tried out for the job, words like ‘incredible raw talent’ were thrown around. Apparently, it’s ‘unfair’ and ‘basically cheating.’” I swallow against the dryness in my throat, still not sure ifAmelie’s a visionary or a lunatic. “And a lot of nonsense like that.”

“Andyoutaughtyour mentorhow to make sushi?”

“Yeah.” I flip the knife in my palm. “French-training—not a lot of raw fish in those kitchens.”

Charlotte makes a thoughtful noise. “How did you learn?”

“I...” I wipe my hands on a towel before picking up the bamboo mat again. “I spent a year in Italy in my twenties.”

“Ah, yes. The famous Sicilian salmon roll.”

I snort, and her smirk widens.

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