Rally Cookies - Part 2 ( 3rd book in series)

Her voice was close and I wasn’t going to find it sitting down. It was coming from behind this wall with a rosewood door that had no handle. So I guess I should fill you in...

Simone was from my hometown. She was always so different and earth-shattering, even when we were kids. She would draw all over herself, all of her fake tattoos. Until she got a shit ton of her own. She has one of a lion because I’ve called her Simba since we were thirteen. We even got one together. We went to the same college for the first year together. She transferred to culinary school and I went with her. I knew her pretty much my entire life. But we haven’t spoken or seen each other in over a year. I don’t know why, towards the end of our friendship, it just seemed like she was always mad at me. 

We heard it from everyone that we were perfect for each other. And I was always curious; I was always deeply attracted to her. I knew there was something there. But I just never trusted my gut feeling. So I never said anything to her. Even when I left and I could see longing in her eyes, I never said anything. 

So this voice thing could be fake, just a replaying of my past life. Or, when I turn this doorknob, she would be behind it. And wouldn’t you know it? Today wouldn’t be so dull after all.

Simba looked like she saw a deer on a highway late at night. And I just looked like I saw my childhood friend in a chef's uniform. “You work here?” I said with a shrivel in my voice and my eyes shook with disbelief.

She was looking at me without moving her entire body. That question came out rusty and

uncontrolled, like I’ve never raised my voice in glee before. It was noticeable and gained a lot of attention. She was in front of a large group of people explaining a recipe. There were cameras and people with important faces. She was a professional giving a demonstration. Her eyes were locked with mine until she broke free. She chuckled my disbelief off to the crowd and continued with her thing…I wasn’t too sure what to call it. She motioned me to a corner of the stage that led to a lounge of some sort. I waited there for 32 minutes before she came out with two whiskey oranges.

I heard her slowly gasp before I actually saw her face, but when I did I could tell she was happy to see me. She looked at me in my round, streetlight-illuminated eyes and asked…if I was hungry.

Simba was the executive chef here at this place called Farm Seven. It was insanely littered with awards and plaques all screaming with stars and notoriety. Simba was a successful chef, which wasn’t too surprising. We were both in culinary school until I dropped out.

There was a tremendous amount of desirable food on the table we were sitting at. Her staff had shifted into action, preparing me a huge meal. Some of the flavors were too much for me to handle, and I started slurping and moaning. I was definitely eating more to avoid talking, but I was just nervous. 

She was staring at me. “Why are you here?” she said while holding her chin in hand like a cake on a dish. “What could possibly drive you to this moment right now where I’m looking at your face?” She said all this while being very close and in my personal space.

“Well, I’m here because of my job. I was watching a few people…”

She replied, “Oh your job, that’s right! The one where you uncover other people's secrets for money. You mean that job?”

I felt the hatred in that sentence and her state turned from cordial to icy. “Yes!” I said, proud and a little pissed off. Thirty minutes into this pop-up reunion and I’m already being rude in Simba's restaurant.

This food was absolutely delicious. I changed the subject by expressing my intense obsession with this meal, which was completely true. So it was like serving two things at once, escape and gratitude. 

She wouldn’t let this stand, though. I could remember her fiery personality and why I fell so hard for her. My confession might have come super early in this origin story monologue. But her face and those eyes will always turn my barbed wire to vapors. Since we were kids, her eyes almost looked like marbles in a glass bowl. Most of her genetic makeup was at a grandmaster level. I say ‘most’ because I’ve never seen her in a barenaked state. So it’s barreling out now but, uhh, yeah I fell in love with Simba in college. We both went to culinary school together on purpose. It was our plan since middle school to always go to college together. She was studying French-adaptive cuisine and I was a food photographer. We were always near each other, if not directly touching. I just never knew if she felt the same way for me, and I was definitely too frightened to find out back then. So, when the opportunity came about for me to change jobs, I used it as an excuse to run from what I never faced. Me shunning the fact that I had feelings for Simba just came across that I was abandoning her. I heard gross stories of her being embarrassed the next day in class not knowing I left the night before, right after we hung out.

This energy I was receiving from her was dampened with tears and warm with anger.

My steak, the steak that was ordered for me, was rare and draped over a rosewood branch that was hollowed out and filled with bordelaise sauce. Bean sprouts were sprinkled everywhere with spring onions and spotted mushrooms. My tongue almost shut down due to the familiar but lost intake of this bed of perfection. I forgot what this was like, maybe I stuffed myself with trash on purpose for the guilt of leaving my culinary queen of a friend, and my gem of a crush.

Simba always knew this was one of my favorite dishes.

I was doing it again. I wanted to run away, my body felt the pull in the other direction, and Simba must have sensed it because she took this opportunity to let loose on me.

Her palms opened, and she pushed her chair back from the table. Her knees never touched mine. I suppose she and I weren’t ready for contact. That was seconds ago. 

Now, though, Simba was mashing her forehead into mine with a few warm tears on the edges of her cheeks. She said something, just loud enough so I could hear her but heavy enough so the room could feel it. She said to me, “The day you left was the day I killed you off in my life. This meal was like leaving a flower on a hedgestone. I’m respecting you only as a human, not as my friend because you're not anymore.”

My entire fake, built-up persona dropped and crumbled when I heard that. I know I shouldn’t have just left her like that. There’s a reason I did. I just couldn’t say it yet. Simba's arms raised and, just when she went to give me what I deserved, someone called her name–

Simone. They wanted her for a quick tasting. I forgot what it was like to hear her real name again. She quickly pulled her emotions back, turned around, and walked towards the voice. 

I haven’t called her Simone since middle school. I said it as a joke once and it just stuck. Hearing her name made her a real woman. She wasn’t my best friend that I used to throw French fries at. She was the woman I left behind and alone.

This day was turning sour, leaving a bad taste in my mouth after the magnificent meal I just had. And all of it could be traced back to her. My next reaction wasn’t based on instinct or foresight–I think I just finally snapped out of it. I trotted after her lightly and cautiously due to the tip of the iceberg I got for a flash second. Even running after her I felt lighter, more exposed for sure, but I wasn’t bogged down by this long-distance shield anymore. I haven’t seen my real self in a year, and the moment I do it’s in the swelling eyes of my first example of love. Is that why I left in the first place? This whole time I was under the excuse of her impending rejection. 

But it was a lie. I left because it was a real bite of fondness. I ran from my passion...and then exploited others. While my pyramid of thoughts were concaving, back in the reality where my body was, I used my mouth to ask Simone to meet me at my car when she was done. There was a blank expression in her eyes. So I just walked outside hoping I would see her in a few minutes.

I took one step outside and my body was very close to giving out and displaying me on the floor. What the hell was going on? My legs began to shake and stiffen up again. It’s like I walked out of an airplane. I suddenly felt better, and then I realized I was tasting fresh air for the first time in a long while. Hearing the world as it was for the first time in a long while. I was stuck in this very sick and nasty portrait of how I viewed the world. And with one deep-seated conversation with the love of my life, I was up and out of it.

But I was just going to lose her again if I didn’t do something. That’s why I went to my car. I sat in the passenger seat and reached into my glove compartment and grabbed something that’s been there for a while. A thing I had stored for the right time and significant moment. 

Simone arrived at my car so fast it startled me, and I looked foolish sitting in the wrong seat. My thoughts were those of indie music videos, where I would have time to sit and act out my feelings like a script, with nerves and flair. Not the case at all in real life. I looked silly as hell, and Simone made that evident as she sat in my driver's seat. She pushed the seat back and put her feet up on the steering wheel. She used to do that a lot when we hung out.

Simone began speaking:

“When you left me back home, that night before, I knew something was wrong. I was standing outside Leigh’s garage. Laura always overstimulated me by knocking my elbow every time someone said anything remotely interesting. So naturally, I went outside to smoke and take a break from that. The air smelled like someone was burning leaves, breezy and crisp. You aren’t graceful, so I knew that it was you who was sneaking up on me. And even if your clumsy

stepping didn’t alert me, your energy will forever give you away. It’s nice and I’ve learned to like

It.

You went to grab me to scare me and your right hand landed low on my pelvis. More of the upper part going towards my belly. Your fingers pinched down right on my newly acquired

tattoo. You had no knowledge of this and so, when I flinched, you instantly softened your hand and touched me like you were putting that part of my body to sleep. Like you sensed I was in pain and your instinct was to gently press it out of me. Once you realized you were touching me there, you jumped back. You said a bunch of stuff, you nervously apologized, your breathing was erratic, and it all made me laugh.

I calmed you down when I said it was fine, but I knew three things at that moment. One, that you loved me. Two, that I was in love with you. And three, you were going to leave.

It all hit me at once, so I ran to the bathroom. I slipped and fell on the way and lost my belly ring, hah. I felt so dumb. I just pretended I was drunk, and you drove me to my apartment. 

The next day I woke up and heard from Leigh that you left. And now today, a year later, I see you randomly. So I’m going to give you about 15 seconds to talk to me before I go back to a life that doesn't involve you anymore, happily.”

And with that, she stopped making eye contact and faced forward looking out the window. It was hard to touch my own body, I felt so ashamed because I knew it was all true. I ran away from her because of fear. We gave each other so much and it was at a rich value and a low effort rate. It’s the type of love you wait for during this life. I constantly see people through my camera lens, hoping for some sort of radiant story with their name at the top. This affection and attraction that can drive them into a new level of sobriety. For the drunk dudes they let inside of them or for the drunk girls they let throw up on them. We buy things, send posts, hold hands near a server that has a short attention span and in a restaurant that has so much customer turnover the bill doesn't come with a smiley face. All for the hope of what I was seeing through my eyes this entire time.

And now it’s at its expiration date. It’s not young and thriving. It’s because I abandoned it. And even so, I still feel this new gasp of life and magnetism with this artistic energy bean who was now a professional chef.

It was our dream. I would take pictures of beautiful food while she made it. Eating and traveling, surviving off what we loved, but we knew what we really meant.

“And one more thing,” she said while whipping her head around, “When you used to take pictures of the things your friends made or the things we ate or, especially, the things I made.

You did it with such kindness and with care. It was almost like you were shaping the image as

you shot it. That’s why you were so good, but now…I absolutely hate what you do for work now.”

For a moment, I almost didn’t move my hand towards my glove box. The ugly truth of what I put her through was making my car dirty again. For a moment, I hesitated. That moment passed.

In my glove compartment was a white envelope that I had for over a year now. She looked at me with curiosity and surprise. Inside of it was a letter I wrote when I came back a few days later.

Simone’s pupils shook in the reaction of knowing I came back. She gave me her full attention and her body language changed. It wasn’t necessarily good; it just changed.

“Two days after I left I wrote you this letter, and I came back to give it to you. But when I saw you I... just couldn’t give it to you, so I am now,” I said. Simone lowkey snatched the envelope out of my hand, took the letter out, and began to read it. 

Side note: If you're cheering for me right now, don’t. I understand that I made no initial plans to see Simone and make this gold-trimmed case of why I left and what I left from. This was a coincidence that I was not going to let sink away. So although I was covered in shit, it didn’t mean I had to bathe in it–you can always attempt to get clean.

This is what the letter said:

Dear Simba.

End of Part 2