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Kia Jackson sat on the stage of the Jean Paul Molineux School of Culinary Arts in a white, double-breasted chef’s coat.

She was waiting to receive her diploma and, much more importantly, to find out whether she’d beaten her culinary arts school rival, Alice Sullivan, to the designation of highest ranked student in the class and the winner of the Prix du Patrimoine Culinaire award.

The seed money from the award would help her start her career as a food truck influencer, something she’d been working toward for years.

She knew you didn’t just fall into being an influencer because you looked sexy in an apron.

It was a career, and she was ready for it.

She’d be even more ready if she won the money, but that benefit was a stale mini marshmallow compared to the luscious, gooey, gourmet Rice Krispies treat that would be beating Sullivan.

The president of the school stood at a podium in the center of the stage, flanked by ostentatious arrangements of peonies. He raised his hand to the ceiling.

“As graduates of the Jean Paul Molineux School of Culinary Arts, you stand as a bastion of high culture in a world degraded by the banality of modern society…”

Beside Kia, Sullivan, the only other woman in the graduating class, whispered, “Starting a food truck? Really, Jackson?”

“I’m not going to spend the rest of my life dusting fern fronds with organic bee pollen.”

Kia didn’t move her lips as she spoke. Four years in school with Alice Sullivan, and they could smack talk in their sleep.

Kia did talk to Sullivan, in her mind, before snatching a few hours of sleep between finishing in the practice kitchen and morning classes, never quite remembering the conversations.

The president went on. “… upholding the integrity of…”

“Tursnicken,” Sullivan whispered.

The tursnicken was Kia’s one culinary fail (well…

one of a very small number of fails). Really she just had to perfect it.

The tursnicken wasn’t even for class, just a genius inspiration.

A chicken stuffed with Snickers bars, stuffed inside a turkey, and deep-fried in a fryer outside in the parking lot on a freezing January day.

Sullivan had strolled out in her men’s wool peacoat, turned off the propane, wrapped her Burberry scarf around Kia’s neck, and said, Go home, kid, before that thing blows up .

“And now it is my pleasure to introduce the student speaker for tonight. He will be announcing the students with the three highest scores in the class and giving the award.”

Kia glanced at Sullivan and tapped one finger on her breastbone to say, Highest .

Sullivan mouthed, Second place .

That mouth. Those sculpted lips, coral pink although Sullivan never wore makeup.

And those chestnut curls falling over her eyes.

The way Sullivan rolled up the cuffs of her sport coats.

The way she tucked her tan button-downs into her tan slacks, looking like a naturalist from the 1920s.

The way Sullivan flirted with the men in the program and occasionally their sisters when families visited for banquets.

How many times had Kia watched Brad or John or Chad stammer, confused by their sudden attraction to this masc woman who charmed them with a smile and a strut?

Probably every time, because Kia had been watching Sullivan since the first day of class.

“In competition for the prestigious Prix du Patrimoine Culinaire and the accompanying twenty thousand start-up… Would our three top candidates stand.” The student speaker read Kia’s name.

Stage lights eclipsed the audience, but Kia thought she heard her father whistle and her aunt shush him.

The student speaker followed with Sullivan’s name and the name of a quiet Midwestern man she’d never talked to.

“In third place…”

The shy Midwesterner.

“In second place…”

Kia held her breath.

“Chef Alice Sullivan.”

Kia had done it! All those late nights, exhausted mornings, parties she didn’t go to, friends she didn’t make… It was absolutely, unequivocally worth it. She’d beat Alice Sullivan.

“Coming in point six percent higher, making her the seventy-eighth winner of the Prix du Patrimoine Culinaire, Kia Jackson.”

She was also the second Black woman to win, the fifth youngest student, and the student with the highest overall score. None of that mattered. She’d beaten Sullivan!

“You little brat,” Sullivan said with so much affection Kia felt a lump in her throat.

I love you. Kia didn’t really, but her body could not hold a higher volume of adrenaline than at that moment. She loved everyone and everything. She beamed into the spotlight shining from the theater’s light booth, but inside she was beaming at Sullivan.

While the speaker adjusted his microphone, the president walked over and shook hands with Kia, Sullivan, and the Midwesterner. Then he sat back down.

At the podium, the speaker cleared his throat. “If Jean Paul Molineux was here, I think he’d agree, we’ve never seen a fiercer competition.”

The crowd laughed. The graduating class knew all about Kia and Sullivan’s rivalry.

“Losing to your most hated rival, Chef Sullivan? Is Kia going to make it out alive?”

Sullivan looked shocked.

“I don’t hate Kia.”

The microphone didn’t catch her voice, and the speaker continued.

“For those of you who don’t know these two,” the speaker went on, “Chef Jackson and Chef Sullivan have been trying to destroy each other since day one. Don’t worry. There are enough kitchens for the two of you. I understand Chef Sullivan got a job in Japan at Nishi Rashu.”

The other graduates oohed. You didn’t get more prestigious than Nishi Rashu.

“It’s probably a good thing one of you leaves the country though. We don’t want you fighting at the alumni dinners.”

More laughter.

Was that the only way this bastion of borderline-toxic masculinity could understand what she and Sullivan were to each other?

Sullivan was her muse. She’d learned more trying to best Sullivan than in half her classes.

The speaker went on. The graduates kept laughing.

Kia tried to cut in. Sullivan looked at her, confusion turning down the corners of her perfect lips.

Kia couldn’t walk off the stage with everyone thinking she hated Sullivan.

“But, in fact, we’ve all been competing,” the student speaker went on, “with ourselves, and I would say that we are the best competition.”

At the end of the student speaker’s speech, the president returned to the podium. Along with two professors, he began handing out diplomas. The students were organized alphabetically except for Kia, Sullivan, and the Midwesterner.

“First in class.” The president handed Kia her diploma. “Chef Kiana Jackson.

“Coming in point six percent behind Chef Jackson, Chef Alice Sullivan. You two stay out of each other’s hair, okay?

” The president spoke affectionately enough, but this couldn’t be how it went down.

Kia couldn’t walk off the stage with don’t-you-hate-Sullivan?

seared onto the moment by a roomful of men who didn’t understand the difference between fierce dislike and fierce admiration, so she turned to Sullivan, her diploma slipping from her fingers, rose up on her toes, and kissed her, tangling her fingers in Sullivan’s curls the way she’d longed to every time Sullivan pulled off her hairnet.

She realized how massively inappropriate it was a split second after her lips touched Sullivan’s.

But before she could pull away, she felt Sullivan’s hand on her waist. Their lips melted together.

In that moment, every car and pedestrian and pigeon and gritty breeze in New York froze, because this was too important.

Nothing else could happen in this moment except this kiss.

When Sullivan pulled away, she was obviously trying to suppress a smile. She brushed her thumb across Kia’s cheek, half caress, half like she were brushing away a crumb.

“Point six percent.” Sullivan shook her head. “Well played, Jackson.”

Their classmates cheered. Deep in their hearts, they didn’t want the story to be about hate.

This was graduation. They wanted a happy ending.

Applause rang in her ears, and the lights dazzled her eyes as Kia picked up her diploma and made her way off the stage.

The other graduates received their diplomas in the alphabetical order of the bottom ninety-seven percent of the class.

After the ceremony, friends and family pressed into the banquet hall.

Kia introduced Sullivan to her father, aunt, uncle, and cousin.

Sullivan introduced Kia’s family to hers, including her grandfather, who wore the same dapper vest and tie that Sullivan wore when she wasn’t in her chef’s whites, and a woman introduced only as Miss Brenda.

The woman glanced knowingly between Kia and Sullivan and smiled.

Music played. Hors d’oeuvres circulated.

She lost track of Sullivan for several hours, but when the graduation party was over and Kia was just about to admit that she’d seen the last of Sullivan, Sullivan appeared beside her where Kia leaned against the wall by the door.

“You blew their minds,” Sullivan said.

“Did I blow your mind?”

Flirting was not Kia’s forte. Cooking was.

Charming people into letting her use their fancy restaurants’ kitchens.

She also had a few impressive, if less-than-useful, superpowers.

She could sail a yacht and train a dog to use a composting toilet thanks to a father who thought a yacht full of spaniels was a good place to raise a child.

(He was right.) But her flirting always landed at the extreme ends of the spectrum that started with so-subtle-no-one-would-notice and ended with cheugy-enough-to-be-creepy.

But Sullivan’s appreciative grin told her tonight’s flirtation hadn’t failed.

“You want to go back to the practice kitchen and finally show me how you make those pear Rice Krispies treats?”

Kia was also the only person to ever make Rice Krispies treats at the Jean Paul Molineux School of Culinary Arts. Some of the professors had refused to taste them. Everyone else agreed they’d beaten all the other desserts combined.

“If you tell me the secret ingredient in your gazpacho.”

Sullivan nodded. “You’re on.”

Sullivan met her in the kitchen twenty minutes later.

They hadn’t turned their keys in yet. The kitchen rested in after-school silence, lit by the security lights.

All the stations immaculately clean. Everything put away.

Kia reached for the lights, but Sullivan stopped her, gently placing her hand over Kia’s.

Kia’s whole essence—mind, body, and soul—sparkled like the bubbles in a fine Veuve Clicquot.

And Sullivan kissed her again. Sullivan pressed her up against the wall with a quick, “Is this okay?” It was more than okay.

It was everything Kia had wanted since she’d walked into class on the first day.

Sullivan didn’t take their kiss further. Maybe she knew that Kia would be so overwhelmed with fangirl delight, she’d pass out. Still, Kia was breathless when Sullivan drew back and said, “Well? Your secret technique, Chef?”

They’d cooked all night. First Kia showed Sullivan the secret to her Rice Krispies treats (brown butter) and a pear reduction sauce.

Sullivan had produced a packet of heirloom tomato seeds and explained that growing the tomatoes from seed was her secret technique.

Kia swatted her gently and Sullivan pulled her into a casual kiss, then released her and said, “Do you ever notice, you never get to eat anything at these social gatherings. You have to shake people’s hands and hold your wine.

Where do you hold the yellowfin hand rolls?

You don’t have any hands. I’m starving.”

So they whipped up a plate of soup dumplings and goong hom pha.

The dumplings led to debate about vol-au-vent.

Could you really make a good vol-au-vent with ham and cheese?

Kia said yes. Sullivan said no. Or foie gras?

Kia said no, Sullivan said yes. So they had to make both types and taste test. They agreed the foie gras was superior.

“No one can make foie gras like you,” Kia said.

“Thank you, Jackson,” Sullivan said. “You’re not bad in the kitchen yourself.”

Eventually, they’d ended up sitting on the floor with a bottle of wine, legs stretched out.

And Kia thought it was the beginning of something.

They’d kiss again. Maybe they’d sleep together.

And they’d figure out a way to be together.

True, Sullivan was moving to Japan. True, Kia planned to park her food truck in all forty-eight contiguous states in two years.

But there had to be a way… But when they’d finished the wine and the vol-au-vents, Sullivan had said, “I’m going to miss you, Jackson. Stay in touch,” and that was it.