Page 3 of Delicious
“I know.” I gulped. “I’m Ben.”
“I know.”
Wait. Mason knew my name?
The bell rang before we could say anything else, and he apologetically gestured to his shirt, which was crumpled on the bench. “Gotta go. I’m going to be late. Or later.” He put his shirt on and grabbed his backpack but gave me a devastating smile over his shoulder when he went through the door. I stared after him.
That night, alone at home, I had a big case of, “What does it all mean?”
Tossing and turning, unable to sleep, I figured out that I was attracted to Mason. So did that mean I was bi? Or pan? I’d only been attracted to girls before, so this felt like it came out of nowhere. At any rate, Mason starred in many solo seshes from that day forward.
After that, we’d say hi, but we never really talked. There wasn’t enough time between classes, and he was always with his friend Alden or someone else.
I saw Mason kissing a girl in the hall, and I thought that was the end of it. But then two weeks later, I saw him making out with a guy, so I thought he was maybe one of those people for whom gender didn’t matter. Or something. I didn’t know. I couldn’t see inside his head.
All I knew was that I wanted to be kissing him, and I didn’t know how to ask.
In October, a popular and very rich girl, Kayla, invited the entire freshman class to a party. I knew that we’d be moving the following week. But I thought it might be fun to go to the party anyway. Being alone in my room didn’t hold a lot of appeal.
When I got to the crowded party, I didn’t see Mason, so I hung out with a few other kids I kinda knew. Then Kayla started a game of spin the bottle, and I figured, what the hell? I’d kissed a few girls before, and the school was pretty accepting of non-het couples, perhaps because of all the Hollywood connections. I was willing to play. Mason ended up being the first kid kissed, getting a fast peck from Kayla. Like a hummingbird, there and gone.
But I’ll never forget the way Mason spun that bottle and time. Slowed. Down. When the bottle eked out its last turn, it was pointing to me. My jaw dropped, and other parts of me woke up.
Oh God. I was going to kiss Mason Gray. I was going to find out what dreams felt like.
With an audience, sure, but I’d never see these kids again after we moved.
He gave me a huge smile, and his eyes lit up. Like this kiss was as big a deal for him as it was for me.
We stepped toward each other amid hoots and hollers, and I don’t know who leaned in first, but it was a real kiss. With tongue. A kiss that made my nerve endings spark and my knees go weak. One that made me sure that, while I didn’t know if I was into guys in general, I was into Mason. Our kiss lasted a long time and yet not long enough.
When it was over, Mason whispered in my ear, “Give me your number before you leave.”
I nodded, hoping we could talk more during the party. Hoping that even after my family moved, we could keep in touch.
But a few turns later, he ended up leaving abruptly, after his friend had an unfortunate incident involving the swimming pool, and we never got each other’s numbers. And I never saw him again, because the next week, Mom and Dad and I were off to Chicago. Or was it Memphis? Who knows?
Only now he’s here in Paris, and all these memories are flooding back. I’m supposed to be paying attention to the types of flour we should be using, but I’m not.
I wonder what’s happened to him since I saw him last. Did he marry Alden? Or does he have a boyfriend or girlfriend? Is he single?
While I’ve had a few girlfriends over the years—one for a longer while in college—since I never tended to stay anywhere very long, I never tended to keep them.
And I’ve never kissed another boy.
I keep sneaking peeks at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks even better now than in high school. His hair mussed. Eyes bright. Still enthusiastic, even at this early hour.
If I had the chance, I’d kiss him again. And do more.
CHAPTER3
Mason
All morning, I feel like we’re back in French class ten years ago. I’m barely able to pay attention to the laminating technique M. St. Pierre is showing us because I’m so distracted by Ben.
Even fresh and flaky pastry out of the school’s test ovens is not as yummy as watching Ben roll out the dough, his toned arms flexing under his chef’s jacket. While I know the devil’s in the details, the only detail I care about is the adorable smudge of flour on Ben’s nose. Between the lecture and the distance between our workstations, we can’t really talk, but I keep sneaking glances at Ben, who’s also watching me. Every time our eyes meet, the hairs on my arms stand up.
But somehow I make it through, and after class, I beeline to Ben’s table. He gets up from the stool to greet me.
