Page 50 of Spark
RUBY
“ I ’m so excited you’re doing this,” Laila gushes into my earbuds.
I’m on the phone with her, while I frantically move around Kendrick’s kitchen, trying to follow Martha Stewart’s insane recipe for chicken fettuccine with pesto cream sauce. To put it mildly, I’m way, way out of my depth here.
I thought the recipe looked simple when I first read it, even for a woefully inept chef like me.
That’s what the top reviewer said, after all: “Simple and good.” So, I figured the recipe would be right up my alley.
But no. Now that I’m in the thick of it, it’s clear Martha Stewart is a maniac.
The woman wants me to toast the pine nuts for the pesto cream sauce before mixing up the ingredients?
What? At this point, this supposedly “simple” recipe feels like I’m trying to perform Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier Sonata” at my fourth-grade piano recital.
“I wouldn’t get too excited,” I say as I spread my measured pine nuts onto a sheet pan. “It remains to be seen if this will even be remotely edible.”
“The meal itself isn’t the point of this grand gesture,” Laila says.
“The point is that you tried. That you wanted to cook him something wonderful and homemade, because you love him. Also, that you specifically picked something you knew he’d love to eat, and you went shopping for all the ingredients yourself.
That’s a lot of time and effort, Ruby. That’s the point.
” Laila makes an excited squeal. “He’s going to be so surprised—and so touched. ”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure if this romantic grand gesture will have quite the effect I’m going for if the chicken is rubbery, the pasta is over- or under-cooked, and the basil cream sauce tastes funny because I screwed up toasting the freaking pine nuts.”
Laila snorts with laughter. “Honey, he’ll love it, no matter what. I promise, he’s going to swoon and spill his guts to you after one bite. No. Even before then. When he sees the candlelit table and smells the food cooking.”
“If you’re right about that, then let’s hope his guts are filled with nothing but ‘I love you, Ruby,’ and not ‘Sorry, Ruby, I meant it when I said I can only offer you a fling.’ Or else, I’m fucked.”
Laila scoffs. “Oh, Ruby. Of course he loves you.”
“Tracy fell in love with him, too. Remember? And she was stupid enough to tell him so when they got back home and look what happened to her.”
“You’re not Tracy, Ruby. And more importantly, Tracy isn’t you. Not even close.”
I open the oven to slide the sheet pan in.
“He doesn’t even need to say he loves me, honestly.
I’d be happy if he says he wants to continue the relationship, as it is, after I leave his place.
” That’s the point of this grand gesture, after all: setting the stage for Kendrick to realize I’ve caught feelings for him, without me needing to say that out loud.
Hopefully, this romantic, candlelit, homemade dinner, two nights before my scheduled departure from his place, will inspire him to at least admit he wants that—to continue our fling.
Even better, if he says he’s fallen in love with me.
Unfortunately, I can’t say what I’m feeling first. Not when I promised Kendrick I wouldn’t turn into Tracy on him.
So now, I’m determined to coerce him into saying whatever he might be feeling, without him realizing I’ve cleverly lured him, the horse, to water and, hopefully, dunked his head into the trough and forcefully made him drink.
I press a button for the oven timer and report to Laila, “Okay, the timer’s set for the pine nuts. Now what?”
“Set water to boil for the pasta.”
“It’s already going.”
“Perfect.”
“I guess it’s time to cook the chicken breasts, huh?”
“Did you pound them already?”
“Almost as hard as Kendrick pounds me.”
We both snicker.
Thank goodness for our conversation yesterday in her dressing room.
When she told me what I’d described about my feelings for Kendrick were the same as hers for Savage—her husband, her life partner, her ride or die—a lightbulb went off in my head.
I consider Savage and Laila couple goals, so when I suddenly realized what they have is what I feel with Kendrick, I felt something crack wide open inside me.
And then, when Cooper came in and we had that conversation that ended in me realizing I didn’t care about the past anymore, only my future—with Kendrick—that was it.
I realized in that moment, without a doubt, I’m desperately in love with Kendrick Cook.
Nobody and nothing else matters to me. I love him, and I have to make him love me back. Through any means necessary.
And so, after Laila and I were done shooting our scenes with her team, I pulled her aside and poured my heart out to her without holding back.
At which point, Laila helped me concoct the plan for me to cook Kendrick a romantic meal while he’s at C-Bomb’s for a poker party and make him spill his guts to me first.
“Oh! Savage just texted he’s leaving poker night,” Laila reports. “Did Kendrick text you, too?”
I check my phone. “Fuck. Yes. So soon? He told me he’d be home around nine.” I glance at the clock on the oven. 8:35. And since it takes at least a half-hour to get from C-Bomb’s house to here, depending on traffic, he’s right on time.
Before I have a chance to say another word to Laila, another text arrives from Kendrick:
KC: I’ll pick up food for us on my way home, cutie. Tacos sound good?
I scream.
“What?” Laila gasps out. “Did you cut your finger off? Burn yourself?”
“Kendrick texted he’s picking up tacos on his way home.”
“Jesus, Ruby. I thought you’d maimed yourself.”
“Sorry. No, I’ve still got all my fingers and toes, and I’ve somehow managed to get my chicken pieces into a hot skillet without incident.”
“Never scream like that again. At least, not while you’re cooking. You gave me a heart attack.”
“Hang on. I need to text him back.”
Me: No need to stop for food, hot stuff. I went to the store and got some awesome sandwich fixings. I’ll make us Ruby Deluxes!
KC: HUZZAH! You’re a goddess! See you soon, baby!
I gasp at the ending to Kendrick’s text, but somehow, I gather myself enough to tap out a calm, normal reply.
Me: Can’t wait.
To Laila, I gasp out, “Kendrick just called me baby. He’s never done that before.”
Laila squeals. “Did you call him baby back?”
“No! I freaked out. Fuck!”
“Text him something else and call him baby right freaking now, Ruby. Hurry.”
“Hang on.”
Me: Turkey or roast beef, baby?
KC: Roast beef, baby!
Me: You’ve got it, baby!
KC: You’re a gem, baby.
“Gah! We double-triple babied each other!”
“It’s in the bag, Ruby. He loves you.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. He might not be feeling what I am. That could have been a bit for him. A joke.”
“ Ruby .”
“Laila, I have to brace myself for heartbreak here.”
She scoffs. “You’re not going to get your heart broken. He’s feeling exactly what you are.”
She sounds so confident, I’m suddenly deeply suspicious—and cautiously optimistic. “Do you know that for a fact, or is that merely your opinion, based on observation?”
Laila pauses.
“ Laila .”
“It’s my opinion. I don’t know anything for a fact. But it’s so obvious to me, I don’t know why you can’t see it, too.”
I exhale with disappointment. “Listen, I say this with love: keep your opinions to yourself, please. I really don’t want to set myself up for—Fuck! I forgot to set a timer for the chicken! I have no idea how long it’s been cooking. Sorry, sautéing. ”
“Have you turned it over yet?”
“No.”
“Do it now. It’ll be fine.”
I look at the clock and murmur. “This is so stressful.” Breathing hard, I turn the chicken. “It’s burned, Laila. Shit.”
“Charred?”
“I don’t think so. But way too dark.”
“It’s fine. That’s called blackened chicken. It’s a delicacy. Are you dressed up, nice and pretty for him?”
“No! Fuck! I was going to change, but then I ran out of time. I’m wearing sweats, and I don’t have time to?—”
“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have said anything. Is the table set?”
I exhale. “Yes. That’s one thing I did right. All I have to do is light the candles.”
“Perfect. Sounds like the meal will be ready at the right time. You’ve got this, Ruby Duby. Take a deep breath.”
“The pine nuts! The timer is at zero, but I didn’t hear a beep. When did it go off?”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re fine.”
I open the oven and a plume of smoke greets me, but luckily, the pine nuts look dark brown but not burned. “They look okay. Catastrophe averted.”
“Breathe, babe.”
I pull the pine nuts out, finish up the chicken, and throw the pasta into my boiling water, and Laila talks me off the ledge the whole time.
“Okay, time to make the pesto,” I murmur.
“Home stretch,” Laila says. “You’ve got this.”
I swipe into my recipe for guidance again and my heart sinks.
“Shit, Laila. It says I need a ‘food processor’ for this next part, whatever that is. What does a food processor look like? What does it do?” I frantically scan Kendrick’s granite kitchen counter.
“I wouldn’t even know one if it bit me in the ass. Does Kendrick even have one?”
“Probably not. But if he does, it’s probably not out on the counter. My mother doesn’t keep hers out. She just grabs it whenever she needs it. Check his cupboards.”
“For what, though? What am I even looking for? Can you text me a photo of one?”
“You can use a blender, instead, for a job this small. You know what a blender looks like, right?”
“Yes! And I know for a fact Kendrick has one to make his protein shakes.” I start frantically opening cabinets, but no dice. So, I drag a chair into the kitchen to check the highest shelves. “I found the blender!” I shout excitedly. “It’s on a top shelf, way, way in the back, but I see it!”
“Yay!”
I get onto my tippy toes and reach as far back as I can. “What the heck?” I mutter. “How on earth is this the most convenient place to put something he uses all the time?”