Page 65 of The Pairing

“Don’ttease.” He’s aiming for firm, but his voice cracks on the second syllable. My hand is still in his hair, and I have the overwhelming urge to plant a kiss on his crown.

Instead, I lean close to his ear and whisper, “This is just likeRatatouille.”

“Good fucking God, Theo.”

He elbows me away, half laughing and half groaning as I yell,“What! We’re in France!” on the way back to my station. But I tuck the moment into my apron, the breath he held before he knew I was joking.

Kit cranks the butter-filled dough through the rolling press four times, folding and turning, letting me peek at the paper-thin layers of lamination before he cuts it to shape. He rolls triangles of dough into croissants and tucks bits of chocolate and raisins into pockets with nimble hands. Eight sheet pans of pastries settle into the proofing rack, and he switches seamlessly to the stove beside me to make choux dough. I babysit saucepans like my life depends on it.

Apolline returns as I’m pulling the éclair fillings out of cold storage and Kit is piping the last dollops of choux. She thanks us with a kiss on each cheek, then heads out front to reopen with the few pastries left in her cases. I notice the whisk tattooed on her ankle, a match to the one on Kit’s wrist and presumably somewhere on Maxine. I remind myself what happened the last time I got jealous of one of Kit’s classmates before I lose focus.

“That’s good,” Kit says, watching me roll out baguette dough. “Much better than last time.”

I feel useful and lit up inside. I dart from station to station, from cold storage to dry storage, to the front of the shop with chouquettes and cream puffs, to the back to tell Kit what’s needed. I’ve been spending so much time by myself in the wine cellar and the bus bar, I forgot how much I thrive in good, competent, back-of-house madness.

The shop fills with locals picking up afternoon snacks and tourists filling boxes to carry away to their beachfront hotels, and we make it work.

It helps that Kit is extremely good at this. He’s so deeply in his element, it’s like Swayze inRoad Housewhen he finally gets to bust out his tai chi. The pastry school training keeps his lines neat and his measurements accurate, but the rest is all him. The flick of his wrist, the clear, decisive tone of his voice as he thinksout loud, the way I know from a shift in his hips or shoulders exactly how to follow in harmony. I put out my hand, and Kit pushes a piping bag into it; Kit tilts his chin, and I pass the oven mitts. If I could see us from above, I’d see two bodies, two aprons with the same stardust patterns of flour and cinnamon, one set of choreographed steps.

Our friends used to say they could tell we’d grown up together because we have the same gestures and tics, like two branches of the same nervous system. Outside of sex, I don’t think I’ve ever felt that more than I do in this kitchen.

It makes me think of our old dream. Fairflower. The restaurant Kit believed we could open and that I thought of as an unattainable daydream. If I had let Kit convince me, would it feel like this? Would it be possible still, if I asked and he said yes? Maybe we could still open our own little shop somewhere, anywhere. Make up new menus every weekend, bike home from the market with baskets of fruit, stay up all night experimenting. Stay up all night doing all kinds of things.

Kit looks up at me over a steaming pan of croissants, a stray bit of hair falling across his brow. When he smiles, it’s the pleased smile of a job well done, and I’m struck by a memory of him smiling like that between my thighs.

“One more hour!” Apolline calls.

The final rush goes in a flurry of pastry flakes and sugar nibs, éclairs boxed as soon as they’re finished with pistachio dust. By seven o’clock, when Apolline turns over the sign in the front window, we’re all sweating through our shirts, but we’ve done it.

“Mes sauveurs!” Apolline cries, sweeping Kit up to kiss him ferociously on each cheek. She does the same to me, and I find that I like her, her fiery eyes and the vivid color in her round cheeks and the way she still smells like raspberries. I also find that I don’t really have any desire to try to sleep with her.

We gather around the central workstation and feast on leftover pastries, which is the first time I’ve actually gotten to tasteApolline’s recipes. They’re incredible, perfectly buttery and surprising and complex. I can’t believe Kit and I made these.

“Do you have anything to drink?” I ask Apolline.

“In the case by counter, anything you want.”

I leave the kitchen to fetch a Perrier for myself, then grab another for Apolline and a sparkling lemonade for Kit. Hands full, I have to shoulder the kitchen door, so I don’t see them at first. It’s not until I step inside that I realize what’s happening.

The small of Kit’s back is against the edge of his workstation. Apolline is pressed close to him from chest to hip. Her hand is in his hair, and they’re kissing.

I drop one of my bottles, catching it with my boot before it smashes on the floor. It bangs into a proofing rack.

Kit and Apolline spring apart.

“Sorry!” I say, my voice unnaturally high. I cough and overcompensate, unnaturally low. “Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

“Theo—” Kit starts.

“You guys clearly have some catching up to do,” I say. Fuck, is that why we came here? Does Kit have history with her?It was like a rite of passage in our year....“I’mgonna— I’llsee myself out.”

“Theo, you don’t—”

“No, no, it’s totally cool! Really great to meet you, Apolline.”

I leave the bottles and shove out of the kitchen, out of the boulangerie, and away from Apolline’s street.

Castle Hill is only open for another half hour by the time I reach it, so I climb the steps two at a time. For some reason, it feels right to get as much topographical distance as I can from this afternoon.

---