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Esther’s dad had watched a lot of tennis when she was little, and the sound of televised tennis always reminded her of lazy weekend afternoons when her dad was still living at home. When her family had still felt like a family.
The typing stopped, and she peered through the pass-through into the living room. Jonathan frowned at his screen, shoulders hunched, chewing on his bottom lip. He was working on his sci-fi script still, but he was close to being done. He’d showed her bits and pieces along the way. There were only a couple more scenes left, and then he’d let her read it all the way through.
As if he could feel her watching him, he looked up from his computer and broke into a smile when his eyes found hers.
“Whatever happened to your other screenplay?” Esther asked, turning back to the stove to dump a can of diced tomatoes into the pot. “The love story. You haven’t mentioned it in a while.”
“I’m still working on it.”
She poured a bottle of beer into the chili and stirred it together with the tomatoes, meat, and onions. “Are you going to let me read it?”
“When it’s done.”
She glanced back at him. “Not before?”
He looked down at his computer, shaking his head. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug without looking at her. “It’s not ready to share yet. I don’t want you to see version 2.0 before it’s fully taken shape.”
“Whatever, Picasso.” She opened the spice cabinet and got out the paprika, cumin, and cayenne.
“I’m focusing on this one first, since it’s the one I need your help with the most.” When she snuck a look over her shoulder at him, he was drumming his fingers on the side of his leg. He levered himself off the couch, patting the pocket where he kept his cigarettes and lighter. “I’ll be right back.”
She made a face. “I hate that you smoke.”
He halted his pilgrimage to the balcony, tilting his head to peer at her through the pass-through. “You do?”
“It stinks.”
“I always go outside.”
“It blows in through the windows. And you smell like an ashtray.” She wrinkled her nose. “I can smell it on you right now.”
“You can?” He sniffed his shirt.
“Yes.”
He went back to the couch and sat down. “Then I won’t smoke anymore.”
“You’re going to quit smoking? Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He shrugged. “Who wants to smell like an ashtray?”
Esther’s phone rang. It was on the coffee table by Jonathan, and he leaned over to read the screen. “It’s your mom.”
“Ignore it,” she said, turning back to the chili.
“Letting your mom go to voicemail. Cold.”
“You don’t know my mom. I’ll deal with it later.”
Her mother only called when she had a problem she wanted Esther to fix for her. Which would be fine, except her mother had a lot of problems, mostly of her own making. Esther had forcibly distanced herself from her mother’s constant drama for the sake of her own mental health. It was why she’d left Seattle after college and taken a job out of state.
Whatever her mom was calling about, it was better to wait and talk to her after she’d cooled off a little.
Esther went back to measuring out spices for the chili, and Jonathan went back to working on his script.
