I stare at the screen at a red light. Quiet. That's all she's giving me. No warmth.
I text again.What did you end up doing?
Jasmine: Ate dinner. Watched a movie. I’m off to bed. Goodnight.
15
Jasmine
The chicken has been marinating for six hours, and the kitchen smells like tomato, scotch bonnet peppers, and thyme. I'm at the counter chopping onions when my phone buzzes.
Logan: Something came up with family. Dom has an announcement and wants everyone there tonight. I'm really sorry. Can we do tomorrow instead?
I put the knife down and read the text with onion juice stinging my fingers. The table behind me is set for two. I bought a bottle of red wine that the woman at the wine shop said pairs well with spiced food.
I stare at the text for a long time. Then I type back.
No worries. Have fun with your family.
I press send, put the phone on the counter, and go back to chopping onions. My eyes are burning, and it’s not from the onions. I reach for my phone again and call Harper.
“What's wrong?” she says when she answers.
“Logan canceled tonight. His brother has some family announcement, and his dad wants everyone there.”
“Okay. That sounds legitimate.”
“I know it's legitimate.”
“So what's the problem?”
I press the heel of my hand against my eye. “His father called and told him to cancel his plans and come to Long Island, and he did. That's the problem.”
Harper is quiet for a second. “Jasmine, people cancel dinners. It happens. His brother needs the family together. It doesn't mean what you think it means.”
“Yes. I know. It's just one dinner. I'm being irrational.”
“You're not being irrational. You're being scared.”
I lean against the counter and close my eyes. She's right. I'm not angry that Logan is having dinner with his family. I'm scared because I've seen this before. I know how it starts.
“He's not eighteen anymore,” Harper says. “Give him a chance. “And you’ve cooked dinner, so at least you'll eat well tonight.”
I laugh, but it comes out thin. “Thanks, Harper.”
“Call me later if you need to. Love you.”
She hangs up. I put my phone down and finish the onions.
I cook the jollof rice alone, following Mom’s recipe to the letter. Blend the tomatoes and peppers. Fry the onions until they're golden. Add the tomato base and let it cook down until the oil rises to the surface. Toast the rice. Layer it in the pot with the chicken stock.
Seal the lid and let it steam on low heat for forty-five minutes.
The apartment fills with the smell of my mother's kitchen. It's the smell of Long Island, of Saturday afternoons at the stove, of Mom humming along to the radio while I sat at the table doing homework. Tonight, this dish makes me feel emotional and homesick.
The timer goes off. I open the lid and the rice is perfect, each grain separate, the color a deep orange-red. I serve myself a plate and sit at the counter.
The table is still set for two. I don't clear it. I eat at the counter instead, standing up. I don't sit in either of the chairs because sitting in one means looking at the empty one across from me.
