Page 40 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
Do better.
I’d respond telling her she should try putting her neck on the line next time, but I can’t because she already did. There’s a better chance of her getting mauled by a possum than the Seo-Cookes trapping me in the basement and turning me into a meat pie. Fair is fair.
That’s enough sneaking around for one afternoon. I’m not sure what Maya’s expecting, but I’m not going to crack this case in twenty minutes. The Seo-Cookes are cunning, and I don’t have enough brain cells to Sherlock Holmes my way into an answer today.
My phone buzzes with one last message from Maya.
And don’t forget about the salami!!!
How could I forget about the pound of deli meat in my bag?
Tucking my phone back into my pocket, I kneel down and pull out the carefully wrapped baggie. Unrolling a handfulof salami, I lean up on the windowsill until I’m high enough to tuck the cold cuts into the curtain rod. It takes some finagling to get it out of view, and you can still spot it at some angles, but it’ll do. It’s not like anyone’s going to walk in here expecting to find lunch meat. It’ll be a nice surprise when the stench matures two weeks from now. A niggle of guilt tugs at my empathetic side, but I quickly squash it down.
We had to get back at them for the soda prank somehow.
With the meat in place, I pack up my bag and head for the door, stalling when another abandoned box catches my eye. A familiar, clunky contraption sitting on top of a stack of bedsheets. I lift it up carefully, a knot forming in my stomach as I run my hand along a weathered googly eye.
Suck-o. Abandoned and collecting dust in a storage room.
My gut tells me to tuck it under my shirt or find a way to sneak it into my bag downstairs. To smuggle it out of here so I can take it home, to where it rightfully belongs. They wouldn’t notice anyway, not when it’s clearly been sitting up here for years. Studying it, all of the dents and scrapes and dust, feels like they’re twisting the knife they plunged into our backs years ago. First our cabin, and now this. Pieces of our lives that meant so much to us, treated like trash. Bruised or bulldozed so they can make it into something better.
“Devin?”
Immediately I throw Suck-o back into the box and race out of the room to the staircase. Julian’s waiting for me at the bottom of the landing. He blushes at the sight of me. “Sorry, didn’t mean to rush you.”
I shrug, my heart hammering too fast and too hard for me to come up with a reply.
“Food’s ready. And not to be a snob, but serving a dish lukewarm goes against my code of ethics.”
Rich of someone from a family like his to talk about a code of ethics.
“Right, yeah. Be down in a second.”
Julian nods and heads back toward the kitchen. I sag against the railing once he’s out of view, sucking in a deep breath before following his lead. All I need to do is stay calm. They’re not on to me. Not yet at least.
Julian gestures for me to take a seat once I step back into the kitchen. With a flourish, he puts the finishing touches—ahealthy sprinkling of green onions—on his culinary masterpiece.
I sit down at one of the counter stools, instantly falling for the intoxicating scent of melted cheese and deep-fried potatoes. “Cheese fries?”
“Kimchicheese fries,” he corrects me. “The best kind of cheese fries.”
He eagerly hands me a fork, waiting with his chin propped up on his fist for me to take my first bite. Having an audience while you eat is nerve-racking, especially when your first bite can only be described as euphoric. Sharp, sweet heat and spice meet the cool, savory crunch of the pickled cabbage and onions. “Oh my God.”
I moan around my fork without an ounce of shame. Reservations be damned. Everything about it is so good that I can’t help licking the cheese clinging to my fork to make sure I got it all. “Is there bacon in this too?” How did he manage to fry bacon in under ten minutes without setting off the smoke alarm? He really is a culinary wizard.
Julian nods, nudging a small bowl toward me. “Try dipping it in this.”
Stars bloom behind my eyes as the creamy sriracha and mayo combo takes the already complexly perfect flavors to new heights. It’s the most satisfying version of comfort food I’ve ever experienced, so rich in taste and design, yet still so purely indulgent.
“I hate you,” I mumble between bites. “You’re too nice to be a dick, and your cooking could resurrect the dead. It’s not fair.”
Julian holds back a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he pulls a loaded fry from the center of the plate for himself. “I really wasn’t kidding when I said I wasn’t good at everything.”
He’s full of shit. Julian Seo-Cooke, a boy without a favorite color or movie, is the type of artist I’ve always wished I could be. Someone who can create things so wonderful they make you see stars. It makes me want to hunch over my sketchbook again, to draw until it’s too dark to see, working until I find a way to create something that makes me feel half as intensely as that single cheesy French fry did.
“Name one thing you’re bad at,” I taunt, holding up a finger. “And don’t say drawing.”
He hums in thought before shrugging. “I’m allergic to poison ivy? Well, all three of us are. Makes us break out into major hives in, like, seconds.”
