Page 85 of From Paris, with Butter
This was it. This was the moment Laurent and I laid down our cards and learned if we had enough to make a go of things.
But maybe not. Maybe he was still a workaholic. Maybe he’d decided what we had wasn’t that special. Maybe he’d decided to dedicate his life to making quiches, and the only reason he’d shown up to the gala was to get my opinion on his newest attempt.
Probably not that last one,I told myself.That would be strange.
The pressure was enough to make me consider chasing Madame Blanchet down and taking another spin on the Vespa. But I’d been so brave these last few weeks. I wasn’t going to shy away now. Digging deep for one last bit of courage, I followed Laurent to his car and opened the passenger door.
At first all I saw were glass food containers. They were stacked half a dozen high, completely filling the backseat.
“Oh. Wow.”
I’d promised myself that I’d be brave, not that I’d be articulate.
“I made you some food,” Laurent said solemnly.
“I’m very pleased to hear that!” called Madame Blanchet from behind us as she jammed her helmet on and struggled with the Vespa’s kickstand.
That seemed to be an excellent sign to get in the car. Once inside, with seat belts fastened, Laurent and I stared at each other in silence. How did I always forget just how handsome he was? Even looking as grave and nervous as he didnow, he still made my breath come faster.
“I wanted to bring you some food,” Laurent said, still sounding deadly serious. “I couldn’t decide what to cook, and I wanted to make sure I made something you liked. So I made a lot of things.”
He and I both glanced at the backseat. The amount of food he’d brought could probably keep a small village nicely fed for a week.
“That was very thoughtful of you,” I told him.
“There’s the beef stew you mentioned liking a few months ago.” Laurent reached back to adjust the container so it was perfectly lined up with the others.
“Oh, right. Beef stew. Thanks.”
Wow, we were really bringing the passion today.
Someone behind us blared their horn. We both jumped, looked guiltily at each other as though we’d been doing something illegal, then Laurent started the car.
We didn’t speak on the ride to my apartment. Once Laurent parked, we both took a mountain of food containers inside and arrayed them on my countertop. We stared at each other from across the sea of food.
“Margot,” Laurent began, and the sound of my name on his lips thawed things a little.
I spoke up. “How did you get the time off?”
“Well,” Laurent said slowly. “They had to give me the time off because I quit.”
He grinned, looking so happy that, despite all the remaining unknowns, I found myself grinning back.
“You quit?”
“I absolutely quit.”
“Why?”
Laurent grimaced. “Because that job was terrible, and it turned me into a horrible person. I was terrible to you, back in Berlin. Everything you said to me—about falling back into bad habits, about not making you a priority—it was true. I was an idiot. Hurting the people most important to me for a job that made me miserable. Again. Margot, I’m so sorry.”
His words hung heavily between us.
“I’m applying to pastry school.” It was the only thing I could think to say. I could barely take in what Laurent was telling me or what it might mean for us.
Laurent laughed in delight. “Of course you are. You’ll blow them away.”
“I’m only applying to programs that are a good fit for me. Not the one my mother graduated from.”
