Page 38 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
“It’s really beautiful too,” he adds, pointing to the sketchbook. “Your artwork.”
My cheeks grow warm, not that I’m letting a compliment from Julian Seo-Cooke get to me, thank you very much. I’m just not used to people who aren’t my family or classmates admiring my work. Art school critique is brutal. My ego is in desperate need of stroking.
“You said you’re applying for an internship?” he asks as he settles back into his seat with a mug of coffee.
“It’s a mentorship.” The correction isn’t really necessary, but I’m still feeling jilted by Julian’s invasion of my artistic privacy. “With a professor.”
One of his eyebrows arches as he takes a sip. “Well, good luck with yourmentorship.” His eyes travel back to my sketchbook, and even though he can’t see the pages, it still feels invasive. “I’ve always wished I was better at art. I loved drawing as a kid but never got any better at it. Even my stick figures are terrible.”
“Blame the universe,” I reply. “You’re good at pretty much everything but the one thing you wanted to do.”
“I’m not good at everything,” he protests sheepishly.
“Uh, yeah. You are. You can’t be quadlingual, or whateverit’s called, an amazing cook, good at lacrosse, smart,andhot. It’s not fair.”
Julian’s eyes widen. He lets out a quiet chuckle. “I never told you about lacrosse.” Fuck. Shit. He didn’t, and now Idefinitelylook like a stalker. Before I can defend myself, he stares right at me with a cheeky smirk. “And you think I’m hot?”
Oh God, I didn’t actually say that, did I?
Okay, apparently I did. But I won’t let the sparkle in Julian’s eyes intimidate me. Or the fact that he knows I snooped through his social media. Plus, it’s not likeIthink he’s hot. He just is. Objectively speaking. He’s got the abs and the thick hair, and the thousand-kilowatt smile with the pretty, perfect teeth. It’s an objective fact.
“I never said that.”
Julian hums, his playfulness fading away as he turns his attention to a loose thread on his sleeve. “I’m really not,” he insists. “Good at everything, I mean. The jury’s still out on whether I’m hot.” Then he has the audacity to wink. And not the kind of wink that’s more like an eye twitch, but a good wink. The sexy, effortless kind of wink meant for slow-mo montages.
How dare he.
And no, I’m not flustered, not at all. Just caught off guard by the normalcy, by hownotweird it feels to have a regular conversation with Julian. I should reply with something cool, too, something witty.
“So…you got more snacks?”
Not exactly what I was going for, but it does the trick. It takes Julian a second to process the question. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
He beckons for me to follow him to the kitchen. I don’t spend as much time ogling as I want to, can’t let Julian know I’m impressed. The kitchen is as much a work of art as the rest of the house, pristine marble counters and glistening appliances so immaculate I can see my reflection in them. The type of kitchen Dad promised he’d give Mami one day. Looks like he could have, in another life where we play smarter. Meanwhile our kitchen hasn’t looked this clean since Abuela gifted us the home deep clean she won at church bingo.
“We don’t have much right now.” Julian reemerges from the pantry with an armful of snack foods. “Henry laid his claim.” He holds a bag of Doritos, Henry’s name scrawled all over it in bright gold Sharpie.
“That seems obnoxious.” How can someone at the big age of twenty, who grew up with two younger siblings, not have learned the importance of sharing?
“He’s an obnoxious guy.” Julian tosses the snacks back onto their shelf and walks over to the fridge. “Mind if I use you as a culinary guinea pig instead?”
My mouth waters at the memory of butter, rosemary, and whatever a currant is on my tongue. I’m not the most adventurous when it comes to trying new foods, but if Julian can make a parsnip taste like heaven, I’ll gladly have anything he’s willing to put together.
A shout makes both of us jump, my attention wandering to the kitchen window. Outside in the backyard, Stella shoves Henry’s shoulder before stomping out of view, their voices too muffled for me to make out what they’re saying.
“You can ignore them,” Julian says, and I keep my eyes to myself but my ears pricked.
“Are you a ‘leave me to my work in peace’ kind of chef, or a ‘doesn’t mind help with the chopping’ kind of chef?” I’m itching to get back to my sketchbook, but I can stall for ten minutes in the name of food.
Julian places some ingredients on the counter, followed by several mason jars. “Definitely the latter,” he replies while grabbing some potatoes out of a basket hanging from the ceiling. “Mind slicing these?” I narrowly catch the potato he tosses me.
I nod and follow his directions to find the cutting board and knives. After washing the potatoes, I scan the mason jars Julian set down, each growing steadily larger in size. The contents all appear to be the same, some jars deeper red than others. “Why do you have four separate jars of kimchi?”
“Because kimchi goes with everything,” he replies, stepping in front of them. He taps his fork against the largest of the four, labeledHalmeoniin bright purple. “My grandma’s recipe.” He taps the second and third jars, labeledUmmaandUmma w/extra garlicin neon green. “My mom’s recipe.” And finally, he taps the smallest jar. No label, just a smiley face sticker. “Andthisis my recipe.”
I lean in to inspect the largest jar, nearly four times bigger than the smallest. His grandma must be the expert. Julian’s handwriting is tough to make out at first, a strange combination of Victorian-era script and chicken scratch. At least that’s one thing he’s bad at. When I look up, a forkful of kimchi from Julian’s recipe jar is waiting forme.
“Try it.” He holds the fork closer to my mouth.
