Julien’s building was directly across the street from the subway station, on the corner of Fifty-Ninth and Broadway. She took in the sight of the statuesque fountain and sculptures at the entrance to Central Park, and her gaze lingered there until he gently led her to his building.
He pressed a button on the elevator, and she watched him curiously as he followed the ascent of the elevator on the dashboard. With a ding, the elevator stopped on the nineteenth floor. She inhaled sharply as he unlocked the brushed chrome door and an immense white panorama revealed itself before her eyes. Almost everything in the apartment was white, except for the silver and brushed metal accents.
She let out a low whistle. “Um, this is no normal New York apartment. This place is amazing . . . Understatement of the year award goes to Mr. Julien Dax.”
His eyes darted to the floor. “It is just a place. I . . .” Julien glanced up, beaming at her. “What can I get you, Lu?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t mind a good cup of coffee if you’ve got one,” she replied.
“Right! Right. Coffee. Why didn’t I think of that?” he said, eyeing the futuristic-looking silver wall clock in the kitchen. He stuck his tongue out at her from the corner of his mouth. “We can also get sushi if you like. I know you’re not into the idea of me cooking. Although . . . now that I mentioned it, I sent the pastries to the lab last week, to see what could have harmed you, Lumi. And I just got the report back today.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped through emails. “See?” he said, holding it out. “They couldn’t find anything.”
Lumi shook her head, her expression sorrowful. “It wouldn’t show up there.”
He cocked his head to the side and inched closer to her. “What do you mean?”
She heaved a long sigh. “There’s something you don’t know about me, Julien. You couldn’t have known, really. I’ve never told anyone before.”
He inclined his ear toward her.
“You’ll probably think I’m crazy,” she said, biting her lip.
He grinned at her and drew her closer, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Whatever it is, you can tell me, Lu. There’s nothing you could say that would change the way I feel about you.”
“It’s pretty . . . different, though, and I’m not quite sure how to explain it in a way that makes sense. Like I said, I’ve never done it before.”
He angled himself toward her and said, “Just say it however it comes out.”
She studied the pattern of the shiny silver buttons nailed into the arm of the couch. “Have you ever heard of people who can pick up an object and know who it belongs to or what they did that day, things like that?”
He shook his head. “I mean, I’ve heard of psychics before, reading tarot cards and the like, but that specifically? No.”
“Right. You know what, let’s just have the coffee. We can talk about this some other time.”
“No, no! I’d really like to know. Take your time,” he said.
Among the thoughts swirling around her mind was the realization that she didn’t have to tell him, she didn’t have to do this. Even so, she turned to face him. “Well, I’ve had this ability . . . since I was a child. To know what someone was feeling by tasting their cooking,” she said.
Julien’s eyes grew wide, but the rest of his face remained unchanged. “Go on.”
“No, that’s it. I taste someone’s food, and I instantly know whatever that person was feeling when they cooked it, you know. Whether people are aware of it or not, they actually transfer that energy into the food. And by eating it, I transfer that energy into me. With just one bite, I’ll know if they were happy, sad, angry, disappointed, any emotion really.”
“Wow,” he said.
“Do you think that’s crazy?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“No. I mean, I believe you, although at the same time I just . . . don’t understand how that’s possible. I mean, where does that information come from?”
Lumi shrugged. “It has its source, you know? It comes from the same place as sunlight, or strangers who show up to help just as your tire went flat.”
“You mean, like . . . God?” he asked, a slightly horrified look on his face.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what to call it. For most of us who went to Catholic school, God was the old man with the beard hoarding lightning bolts to strike down masturbators. That doesn’t work for me. That, to me, is not God.”
Julien rolled his eyes. “Yep. I got enough of that in Catholic school to last me the rest of my life. I’m good in the God department.”
They fell into silence for a moment.
“So . . . how does it work?” Julien asked.
She thought for a minute. “Do you have anything here that was cooked by someone else?” she asked.
Julien thought over the contents of his refrigerator. “Mm-hmm.” He went to the fridge, pulled out a plate, and came back with a slice of pear tarte tatin. He gave her a fork and she cut off a piece of the front. She tasted the tiny tip using the unburned corner of her mouth.
She paused a moment as she evaluated her bite. “This person was in a hurry. Possibly wanted to get home . . . end of the day, perhaps? There’s also a motherly kind of affection and concern here . . . Was this made by your mother?” she asked.
He shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh, my God, that’s incredible! It was made by my housekeeper, Berta. She is a motherly sort, and she made that before she left today, so yes, she would have been in a hurry to get home to her family.”
She gave him a small smile.
“Is there any time this ability comes in handy? I’m sure there are a lot of instances, but I imagine, something like saving someone’s life or—some other important thing must have come into play at one time or another?” he asked.
Colton was the first person to come to mind. She thought of what to say and decided to leave out the time she felt a rush of pride, cheering Colton on at one of his poetry slams. She would also leave out the gold ring he had proposed to her with. And the angle of the ballerina’s legs around Colton’s waist when she walked in on them.
She cleared her throat. “Well, it did help me catch my ex-fiancé cheating.”
“What?” he asked in a whisper, though they were sitting close in a quiet room.
Lumi took a deep breath and nodded. “He would cook dinner for me nightly, and about two weeks after we got engaged, every single thing he prepared made me nauseated. It didn’t make any sense because it was all fresh, high-quality food. But it dawned on me that it could be something emotional. One day I came home early on purpose and found him in bed with someone else.” It was interesting to her how she could fit the end of a two-year relationship and engagement into a neat little package.
Julien reached for her hand and squeezed her brown one in his freckled pink one. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” he said.
She squeezed back and they sat in silence for a long while.
“I have to tell you, I think if I had that ability, the last thing I would ever do is become a chef.”
She sighed ruefully. “It’s exhausting sometimes. But it helps me feel connected to other people. I’m not naturally social and it’s easy for me to feel like I’m all alone in my little bubble. And other times . . . like with you . . . it gives me a glimpse of another side of the person that perhaps I would never have seen.”