Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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My apartment has never been such a welcome sight: a shower, food and a comfy couch are waiting for me. I slam the door and throw my keys on the counter. Angie emerges from her bedroom, stretching and yawning like a cat, sleeping mask on her forehead. Not giving her any chance to wake up, I come over and steal the hug I've been craving all week. Angela is the second-best hugger I've ever known, with Dad holding the first place.
We stand perfectly still, arms wrapped around our familiar shapes, breathing in tandem. My exhale serves as a pressure valve releasing the abundance of air from my lungs. The feelings that have threatened to overpower me seep out with it. I don't let go of Angie. No matter how crappy my mood is, those long tight hugs that rid me of oxygen also make me instantly feel better.
I release her, and a closer look at my friend tells me she needed that hug as much as I did. She looks drained. The grey-blue circles under her eyes compete for brightness with the deep aqua of her irises. A whole week of uninterrupted sleep might be the only way to erase the signs of fatigue from her face.
"Up so early? It's not even noon. When did you get back last night?"
"Oh, around five a.m.," Angie says and yawns. "I've slept for almost six hours, but feel like I've barely closed my eyes. At least I'm not working this weekend. Tonight may be the night I go to bed early. I'm that tired."
Angie wanders over to the kitchen and busies herself with making coffee. I flip through the mail, most of which is junk, but for one electrical bill. The coffee is brewing, and Angie opens the fridge looking for any leftovers or potential breakfast food. "Don't forget I got you the weird cheese you asked for. What are you making with it? And when are you making it?"
Even before the coffee, Angie sounds like she is pumped to do anything and everything. Prior to meeting her, I thought people like her didn't exist. She's a cheerful, upbeat, happy-go-lucky ball of energy ninety percent of the time. Listening and looking at her, bouncing around the apartment gets tiring fast. Almost every sentence from her mouth could be written down with an exclamation point at the end.
It's never 'What are you making with it?' but 'WHAT ARE YOU M-A-AKING with it?!?!' I still mostly love it. And I tend to need her extra energy. Not today though. The walk woke me up, but I'm starving.
"A Tartiflette."
"Ooh lala, sounds so French. Can it be our brunch?"
"Why not? Shower first. I don't want to contaminate the food with my sweat."The water cascades down my face and body. My muscles relax under the prickly spray of the shower. One advantage of apartment-living is that the hot water doesn't run out. But I can't stay here forever. Angie and my stomach have expectations.
"Do you have a concealer I can borrow? I've got to hide these bags under my eyes, and I can't find mine," Angie shouts from behind the closed door.
"Let me grab a towel, and you can come in, it's in the top drawer."
She flings the door open and moves around the underwhelming array of cosmetics I own.
"I was grateful the redeye to Boston last Thursday got me in time for the Bat Mitzvah on Friday." Angie finishes inspecting her made-up face in the bathroom mirror. "Then I played a two-hundred-people wedding on Saturday and a festival in upstate New York on Sunday. But you know what?"
"What?" I spit the toothpaste into the sink and zero in on a new pimple on my chin. Was it there during my walk with Ben? I take my concealer from Angie and dab a bit of it over the spot. Should've done that before I left this morning.
"The band after me didn't get there in time, and the organizers asked me to fill in for them because the audience loved me. There must've been five thousand people there: screaming, flashes exploding across the crowd in waves of arms. It was blinding, deafening, and exhilarating—the highest high." Angie's gestures, large and expressive, compliment the energy of a bursting sun shining through her eyes.
"Seventeen gigs in eight days must be some kind of a record even for you."
How what she goes through most weeks can count as fun for anyone is beyond me. Her schedule is brutal, and it's hard to imagine a sane person taking on as many appearances as she does and churn out new songs in the midst of it.
"But I have a free weekend, so let's focus on that." She air-kisses her own reflection in the mirror.
The original raw cow milk-based Reblochon cheese Mom used in Tartiflette is illegal to sell in the US, but last week-end Angie found a version that's allowed for import, so I have every ingredient I need: boiled potatoes, melty French cheese, onions, garlic, lardons and a splash or two of white wine.
Angie sits opposite me at the high counter and watches me unwrap the cheese and inhale the aroma.
"Can I have a whiff too?"
I move it toward her face.
"Yikes, that smells."
"It's rather mild, and after I remove most of the rind, you'll not notice the smell, but how delicious and silky it is."
"Here's to a successful Tartiflette." Angie raises her mug with cold coffee in a salute. "I like this new cooking-up-a-storm Amélie. It suits you."
"Thanks. I hope I don't mess it up. It's not going to be the best. Probably not as good as my childhood memories of it. Mom made the Tartiflette the summers I lived with her." The anticipation of eating the cheesy potato and bacon casserole brings back the memories of the days when Mom cared about me and loved me enough to want me around and to pass down small tricks her Mom taught her. 'Point the knife toward the root of the onion, don't slice all the way through,' she said. I wipe a tear, but it's because of the onions.
The smell of the ladrons and onions browning in a tablespoon of butter fills the kitchen. I immerse myself in the satisfying thud of the knife on the cutting board slicing through the potatoes I boiled yesterday. For a bit it's as if I'm back in France. I assemble all the ingredients together and put the casserole in the oven.
"Forty minutes until we can eat."
"I guess it's laundry time." She jumps off the barstool. "We should hurry up though. I don't want the food to burn."
"Laundry, it is." Half-groaning and half-smiling I fill my basket with sheets, towels, and clothes, and we head to the elevator.
Laundry and I aren't enemies exactly, but it was one of my least favorite chores. Another good part about living in our apartment building is the set of giant washers and dryers in the basement. I sometimes long for the stacked washer and dryer in the privacy of the apartment I shared with Dad, but those things were tiny, forcing me to do laundry every other day to keep up.
Angie's straight light brown hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she sports a cute pair of pink lounging shorts, a pink long-sleeve T-shirt with her name across the chest, and a couple of those fuzzy slippers with big eyes I would expect kids to wear. Hers is a rainbow cat. Waiting for the elevator to arrive, Angie sticks the tip of her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, makes sad eyes at the camera, takes several photos with the laundry basket, and posts them for her followers while we ride the ten floors down to the basement. She captions it 'Laundry day :('
