“Yeah, this is one of my favourite meals to fill the fridge. There’s always plenty of leftovers.”
Everett beams at me, and my throat aches with suppressed tears and the intensity of missing him in a way I never could’ve prepared myself for.
“What now, chef?”
I paste a smile back on my face.
“Now, we prep the veggies!” I hold up a floret of broccoli and grin into the lens. Everett slides a loaded chopping board across the counter towards himself, and I talk him through preparing the spring onions, tomatoes, and broccoli, and grating the garlic cloves, before we toss it all into a frying pan. By the time it’s all cooked, the pasta is just about ready.
“Are you adding any sausage to yours?” I ask as I drain the pasta and direct Everett to do the same. I included it as an optional extra when I sent the ingredient list. He shakes his head.
“Nah, maybe next time. Figured I’d stick to your recipe. I eat meat with almost every meal, it won’t kill me to skip it every now and then.”
“I promise, it’s worth it. Pour the pasta in with the veggies.”
Everett does as I instruct, leaning in to his phone.
“I know it is. It’s always worth it for you.”
I can’t even begin to hide the wide grin that splits my face at his words. In just a couple of months since meeting him in an airport lounge, this cowboy—this sweet, generous, loving man—has come to mean just about everything to me.
“It’s time for the cheese,” I say. It comes out closer to a whisper, my throat clogged with unexpected emotion.
“Are you calling me cheesy?” Everett winks into the camera, and I think my ovaries combust.
“If the cowboy hat fits.” I wrinkle my nose as I smile, using a silicone spatula to scrape the cream cheese from its tub and stir it through the pasta and vegetables. It melts immediately, taking on more of a sauce-like consistency, and I can see Everett’s pan looking much the same as mine. I add a little more salt and plenty of black pepper.
“Is that it? That was so easy,” Everett exclaims with a disbelieving laugh. “I know you said it was simple, but…”
“It’s so easy. And you can make as much or as little as you want. You can add to it—you’d cook your chicken or sausage and add it to the pan when you add the pasta. I’ve made enough here to feed me for at least three more days.”
“And it just goes straight in the fridge?”
“Yeah. Hope you’ve got plenty of Tupperware.”
“Honey, my mom’s kitchen ismadeof Tupperware. There is no one on God’s green earth with more Tupperware than Edie Tanner.”
“You’re not at your Mum’s house, though,” I argue gently.
“Who do you think filled all my kitchen cupboards when I moved out here?” Everett rebuts. He grins, a small scrunch of his nose, before ducking out of view for a second and returning triumphantly with a stack of empty Tupperware pots in his hands.
“Do we load these and then eat, or do we eat first?”
“I usually load and then eat. Eating is the reward for cooking.”
“I like that.” Everett smiles. He snaps the lids off his empty tubs and lines them up, before grabbing a large serving spoon from somewhere out of the frame. I do the same, quickly pulling storage pots from a cupboard and spooning creamy pasta into each one, before putting the last portion into a bowl.
“So, you gonna stay at the main house next week, or you wanna stay with me instead?” I look up from my pasta with my lips parted, fork halfway to my mouth. Now seems as good a time as any to discuss the logistics of my next visit, I guess, and Everett isn’t one to beat around the bush. I don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer to his question, and I’m pretty sure I know which answer he’s hoping for. The one I’m hoping for, too.
The one I’m most afraid of.
“You have a guest room, right?” I ask. My fork, still loaded with pasta, returns to the bowl. I’d much rather stay with him—withhim—but the anxiety begins to rise in my throat just thinking about it. How much I want him, but how I’m afraid. Afraid my inexperience will hold me back, put him off.
His grin shines through the screen like a beacon.
“I have a guest room, baby girl. You can stay anywhere you want. You can even have your own bathroom.”
“Then it’s settled,” I say, smiling. I push the anxiety back into its box. “I’ll stay with you.”
