Page 20 of Happy Endings

After many late-night conversations with Zoe about their very different Vietnamese upbringing, Trixie realized that she’d already made up her mind deep down. But he’d pushed her to tell her parents before she was ready.

Past Trixie had learned her lesson. She would never again let someone else push her to make life-changing decisions. Present Trixie knew what she wanted and had a time line to achieve it. Lust would not derail her tonight.

Andre flew through the swinging kitchen door, expertly juggling several plates. One was piled high with cornbread. Another held a bowl of collard greens. The third was a large soup bowl, steam still rising from it. With practiced hands, he slid them in front of her and pulled a set of silverware out of his pocket.

“Eat,” he commanded. “I’ll get you some water. And a Diet Coke with lime. Keisha will be out in a bit.”

“Thanks,” Trixie said weakly. He still remembered her favorite drink.

She surveyed the food while he walked to the bar. Trixie closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. A deep nutty and savory scent filled her nose. Her stomach twisted. Not just from hunger but homesickness. The deep-brown stew reminded her of New Orleans almost as much as her mother’s pork egg rolls. Flunking out of school. The rift with her parents. The good times she and Andre had.

Coming home to that final note.

“I lied,” said Andre as he slid into the chair next to her. “I poured a glass of orange juice instead. You need the sugar right now.”

She opened her mouth, but he interrupted.

“Don’t argue with me.” His tone was warm. Worried even. It was the opposite of when she first walked in. He pushed the glass closer. “Drink.”

Trixie nodded. She gulped the cold juice, ignoring the straw he set next to it. She was grateful as the sweet tang of citrus slid down her throat and cooled off her body.

“Easy now! There’s more where that came from.” Andre eased the glass from her hands. “Sugar works faster, but you still need real food.”

Trixie unwrapped the thin paper napkin from the utensils. Grabbing the spoon, she dipped it into the gumbo and stirred the rice into the thick, brown stew. Outside a big bowl of ph?, gumbo was one of her favorite comfort foods. This version had chicken, sausage, and okra. The scent was intoxicating. Or maybe it was Andre’s nearness.

“This smells”—Trixie leaned over the bowl and breathed deeply—“like home.”

“Because it is. Mama is from New Orleans. Her recipe calls for hand-stirred roux in a cast-iron skillet. After the roux is the color of dark chocolate, we caramelize the onions in it.” Andre’s eyes got a faraway look and his shoulders relaxed.

“Sorry,” she whispered to her stomach. “I’ll feed you right now.”

He chuckled.

“Do you have any—”

“Louisiana hot sauce, your favorite.” He handed her a tall, narrow bottle, its red-orange cap already unscrewed.

Where had he been hiding that bottle? There were no pockets on his snug shirt. The jeans pocket he fished the silverware out of barely had room for a bottle of hot sauce.

Was he fucking with her on purpose? Remembering all her favorite drinks and brand of hot sauce? Acting like he still cared about her when he made it seem last time that he never wanted to see her again? Whatever he was up to—this super-nice-guy act—she wasn’t going to fall for it.

“You happened to have this around?” She grabbed the bottle from him and shook the hot sauce over her gumbo, which had a generous sprinkle of filé powder on it. No gumbo was complete without a dash or two of dried ground sassafras leaves. “This brand isn’t a common staple around here. There’s only one store in my neighborhood that sells it.”

“It grew on me during my time in New Orleans. Probably because you left a bottle at my apartment to put it on everything. Now stop talking and eat.” He pushed the plate of cornbread and greens closer to her. “Let me clean up those broken plates before someone steps on them.” He didn’t have to tell her again. The gumbo was an explosion of spices and flavor in her mouth.

ANDRE WALKED TOthe wait station and grabbed a broom and dustpan. Seeing Trixie in his restaurant again stirred up too many conflicting feelings. It was his decision to walk out on her. Even if his intentions had been good, he’d broken up with her in the most cowardly way. He’d convinced himself that he was over her. But watching her walk through that door again had made his heart leap.

When she almost passed out, what else could he do but rush over and help her? He was falling back into his old role. Trixie, sodriven and focused on her to-do list that she forgot to eat or brush her teeth. She was always doing things for others, putting their happiness before hers. So he made sure she ate, brushed her teeth, and went after the career she wanted.

What if he wasn’t over Trixie?

No. He couldn’t entertain that thought. Andre had the restaurant to worry about. He walked over to the broken plates and began sweeping them onto the dustpan. Normally, each month he’d order another set to replace the ones that broke, but that wasn’t an option right now. All funds leftover after payroll, food, and operations went into replacing the fryer. It wasn’t as if there were lines out the door these days. They had more dishware than they could use at one dinner service.

Behind him, he heard metal scraping against ceramic.

“Oh my God,” Trixie moaned. She set down the spoon with a soft clatter. “I haven’t had gumbo this good since I moved to DC.”

“Mama’s gumbo is the best in the DMV.” Andre’s chest puffed with pride. Some restaurants in New Orleans had come close, but never as good as his mother’s. Mama drew on her roots for this recipe. Andre was grateful that Keisha had written down as many of Mama’s recipes as she could before—

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