“You’re making toxic waste.”
“That’s a little harsh.”
My hands find my hips and prop there, the same stance I’ve seen my mom do countless times. “Do you want me to make dinner or not?”
He lifts his hands in supplication, moving back from the stove. “By all means.”
He watches me as I cook, and it’s a little unnerving, but I quickly tune him out. Cooking is my happy place. It started as a hobby years ago, back when I was still in high school, and this town started to feel claustrophobic and my skin started to feel too tight for my body. I had pictures of faraway places, dream travel destinations, taped to the walls of my small bedroom. Magazines and travel guides stacked on my nightstand and desk. And one day, I opened one of the magazines to a spread about Italy. There was a picture of a pasta dish that looked so mouthwateringly good I knew I had to have it. So I got on the family computer in the home office and searched for a recipe.
My first attempt was terrible, but I kept trying, tweaking certain recipes until I made something that turned out delicious. And it wasfun. So I tried again with a cardamom bun I found in an article about Copenhagen. And then fish and chips from Ireland. A lobster roll from Maine and carne asada fries from California. Eventually, I was making dishes from all the places taped to my walls. All the places I wanted to visit when I could finally leave Fontana Ridge.
I never left but I always kept cooking.
“How’d you learn to cook like that?” Jack asks as I search the cabinets for spices I remember insisting Wren stock when we were shopping for the place. There’s not much, just some garlic powder, onion powder, salt and pepper, but I sprinkle them in anyway.
I shrug, not wanting to get into it, and say, "Taught myself.”
When I turn to look at him, I catch his impressed expression. “How come you don’t know how to cook?”
He leans against the counter, long legs stretching out in front of him. “My brother and I mostly existed on TV dinners and Hamburger Helper.”
I must make a face because he laughs.
“It’s not so bad. My mom was a single mom and worked two jobs, so we had to fend for ourselves most nights.” His mouth quirks in a one-sided grin. “Not to brag, but I can make a mean grilled cheese.”
Well, I feel like shit.
“I’m sorry,” I say and he shrugs, waves me off.
“Nothing to be sorry for.” One ankle crosses over the other as he watches my hands, intent as I rip into soy sauce packets and pour them into a sauce pot. “I never really felt the need to learn past the basics.”
My eyes flick up to his. “Chicken breasts and rice kind of guy?”
His nose wrinkles, an endearing gesture that makes his glasses slide down. “I am, unfortunately, a stereotype.” He watches me for a long moment. “So what are you doing?”
“Making a broth,” I reply, and pour the carton of bone broth into the pot with the soy sauce and seasonings. “It’s not exactly an ideal recipe, but it will do. We need to soft boil some eggs and make the chicken.”
“I can do the eggs.”
I raise a brow at him and a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I can boil eggs, Stevie.”
“If you say so, Jimmy.”
This time, he doesn’t bother to correct me. We work in a companionable silence, broken only by him asking me questions about what I’m doing and me explaining the steps. I’m typically pretty introverted, but I’m good at small talk—I have to be when I’m stranded on a mountain with strangers for days at a time. Still, he’s surprisingly easy to talk to. He asks a lot of questions. Laughs easily at my dry sarcasm. I’ve never had a roommate before, but surprisingly, I think living with him won’t be as bad as I was expecting.
When we finally finish, the storm is still raging, and I’m already dreading what the Airstream is going to look like whenthe clouds finally break. We ladle the steaming soup into bowls and top it with soft boiled eggs and chopped peanuts I found in the cupboard. We could sit at the table, but we end up standing at opposite ends of the island, grasping noodles with cheap chopsticks that came with the takeout he ordered last week.
When Jack takes the first bite, his eyes snap up to mine, impressed. “This is good.”
I have to bite back a smile. I know I’m good at cooking, even with less than ideal ingredients, but the flattery never ceases to make me blush. “Thanks, I’m glad you like it.”
“If that’s what you can do with a fridge full of random ingredients, I can’t imagine what you’d come up with if I let you loose in a grocery store.”
“Beef Wellington, probably.”
He raises a brow.
“I haven’t tried making it, but I’ve always wanted to,” I say with a shrug.
