Vanilla

Fifty Three

I had, of course, intended to share my experience the next day since we had the entirety of it to spend alone, together (preferably in a museum) but as soon as we'd made plans for a quaint, peaceful walk along the Hudson river, I received a call from Chef Marseille who then requested to see me in school at once.

"Ah, I... yes, I understand. Should I be concerned? I am aware about the extent of my poor performance in the third round and I am deeply sorry if I disappointed you in any manner but... I'm certain I put my best foot forward and eventually got eliminated. Still, it's a two-day break we're allowed to enjoy, no?"

Chef Marseille had kindly reassured that this had nothing to do with the results of the third round and apologized for requesting my presence in school despite it technically being a holiday.

"I'll get dressed if you're going," said Leroy, sliding a mug of café au lait my way before taking a sip of his own and then adding an unworldly amount of sugar in it. I'd pointed that out and flagged the possibility of diabetes when he had the audacity to wink behind his mug and respond with a criminal "I like sweet things."

Brushing that aside after privately calming my malfunctioned brain, I assured him that we were going to take a proper day off. He then told me about Chen texting him minutes ago about an emergency strategy meeting in the student union room, which he'd apparently responded to by sending what appeared to be, at first glance, a picture of two coffee mugs, but upon closer inspection, included me in the background speaking to Chef Marseille on the phone. Chen's reply had been a dashing emoji of an indecent finger.

Eventually, however, since both Leroy and I had reason to be heading back to school, we did. And I ended up missing the opportunity to have a meaningful, detailed conversation about yesterday's events. He seemed to notice something off about my disposition while we were headed to the station, which I was thankful for, and offered to spend some time together after his closing shift in the evening. That, I had agreed to.

After parting ways on campus—him, making his way to the student union lounge and myself, to the staff room to see Chef Marseille at the arranged timing—I was oddly overcome by the urge to see him again seconds into the opposite direction and had, involuntarily, glanced over my shoulder in hopes of catching a glimpse of his back.

He was standing at the very end of the hallway, nearing the turn that would have otherwise removed him from my line of sight; he had been standing there, watching, waiting for me to turn. He flickered like a candle when I did. Though there was no telling the exact expression on his face, the passing moment felt very much intimate despite the complete lack of physical proximity.

Leroy raised a hand. I stopped, providing a small wave in response.

How odd. Had I brushed aside the urge to turn, I would have missed this entirely; had he not been staring at my back he would not have seen me turn and how odd—how odd it was to realize that he, too, watched people go.

I arrived outside the staff room in the strangest of thoughtful dispositions, as though my mind was housed in a basement without any indication of the weather outside and left wondering if the sounds coming from above were the result of a man-made commotion or thundering of an imminent storm.

"Come in," Chef Marseille was at the door as soon as I'd notified her by text, leading me past the reception, down rows of office cubicles to a private conference room filled with familiar faces.

"Mr. White," Chef Lindy acknowledged as soon as I entered the room and closed the door behind me. To her right was Violet and Si Yin. Seated across them with a deceptively positive smile on her face was Layla Tenner. "Have a seat. This will be long."