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4
I woke up to the sound of a siren in the distance, the warmth of the sun on my bare back, and the smell of frying batter.
With a stretch, I sat up in Pierre’s bed to find him standing a few yards away at the short kitchen countertop. The apartment was small enough that nothing was separated except for the bathroom, which was consisted of half a shower, a low-seated toilet and a tiny sink that was stuffed into the corner of the walls. It was charming.
“You’re up early,” Pierre said without turning around. I could hear the lightness in his voice, the glee. Reaching for my phone, I saw that it was almost 12 PM.
I let out a snort. “Early?”
“Cut yourself some slack,” Pierre replied, flipping a spatula through the air and catching it in his hand. “It’s probably the jetlag.”
Rubbing my head, I shifted my legs over the edge of the bed. “Yeah, but I feel bad. The day’s almost over.” I squinted at him, watching as he poured some sort of batter into a frying pan and gave it a little swirl. “What’re you …”
“Crêpes,” he exclaimed, turning around to face me for the first time. His smile was bright, eyes brighter. “I got inspired from our dinner.”
After pulling on a hoodie, I got up from the bed and wandered over to him, taking my time to run my hands along the minute details engraved into the woodwork of the cabinetry, and the ridges of the lightly-tearing wallpaper. The place was homey, tender and full of pleasant surprises—just like Pierre.
“Didn’t you used to have a crush on Julia Child when you were a kid?” I asked, draping my arm over his shoulder as I looked down to inspect his work.
“Technically, yes,” Pierre replied a little defensively, casting me a grin. “But that’s only because my crazy French parents were obsessed with her. Hearing her name twice a day for my whole life wasn’t by choice.”
I laughed and left his side to go check my phone. We didn’t have to talk about it, but we both knew that last night was … something else. It must’ve lived up to his fantasies, because Pierre started humming as he transferred the cooked crêpe to a plate and poured some more batter into the pan.
“Sugar on yours or chocolate?” he asked.
“Chocolate.”
Sitting down on the bed, I smiled at him like a mother marveling over its newborn baby, as if everything he did was perfect and glorious—the way he wiped his hands on the dishtowel and swirled the saucepan in order to melt the bar of chocolate. Up until yesterday I had always seen Pierre in one way, as the kid I became friends with in school. Two loners that were desperate for a gram of company. We had found that in each other, and now, we were finding so much more. He was older now, more mature. Just like I was.
“It must feel good to be here on your own,” I said, looking out the window. “Without your parents.”
“Yeah, it is,” Pierre replied faintly. I waited a moment and then he continued, “I try not to think about them too much.”
“You’ll have to see them eventually,” I pointed out. “Are you going back for the fall break?”
Pierre paused spreading the chocolate as if to consider the idea, but then shook his head. “Maybe I don’t have to see them. Maybe … I can just stay here.”
Pulling my gaze away from the view of the street below, I narrowed my eyes at him. “But your scholarship covers your housing. How would you—”
“I’d figure something out,” he replied, waving it off. “I made a few friends who said they’d be willing the take me in whenever school’s out. Plus, I could work to pay them rent.”
It sounded legit, but I knew that Pierre had this tendency to fall in with people who showed him an ounce of kindness—they could run off and drop him whenever they wanted, and Pierre would remain attached and stuck. Growing up, it was the opposite for me. I had deliberately avoided people. Maybe I thought I was just too good for them. At any rate, our social misfortunes kept us glued to one another.
My point? He couldn’t rely on these “friends,” whoever they were.
But I couldn’t just rain on his parade.
“Okay,” I said carefully, nodding as if I agreed with him, and was just considering the logistics. “How did your parents take it when you told them you were coming to England for school?”
“My dad hated the idea. My mom, as usual, didn’t give a fuck.” Pierre brought two plates over to the little round dining table in the center of the room. “But when I mentioned they wouldn’t be paying for any of it, he kinda lightened up. Well, as much as he could.”
I got up from the bed and went to take my seat across from Pierre at the table. My stomach let out a little grumble as I looked down at my plate. The crêpe was cooked to a light, golden-brown and dripping with rich dark chocolate. I dug in right away, half-forgetting our conversation until Pierre let out a small chuckle. I looked up from the food to find him smirking at me.
“You’re already done?”
I looked back down at my plate to find that I was at my last two bites. “Fuck,” I said, astonished at myself. “It was good, I guess.”
Pierre smiled and started on his. “Anyway. You think they’ll throw a fit if I don’t come back for a year?”