Ski pointed at him. “Don’t start.”
“My nutritionist in Orlando would’ve called the police.”
“Your nutritionist in Orlando never had Riggs’s wife’s hotdish,” Ski said. “Different rules up here.”
Leo set the pan on the counter next to Ford’s cast iron. He’d been skating with Riggs for two weeks and couldn’t have told you the guy’s first name without checking the roster sheet.
“You eat it with ketchup,” Charlotte said from the couch.
“You do not,” Ford said.
“I do.”
“She does,” Ford admitted. He closed the cabinet and leaned against the counter. “It’s a whole thing.”
The woman had wandered to the table and was frowning at it. She grabbed one end and dragged it away from the window, repositioning it against the opposite wall.
“It gets better light here,” she said, pulling out a chair and sitting to test the angle. “You’ll thank me when you’re eating breakfast and not staring at the parking lot.”
“I put it by the window,” Ski said from across the room.
“I know you did.”
Ski opened his mouth, closed it, and went back to the barstools.
Leo watched her stand. “I’m Leo, by the way.”
“Monica.” She shook his hand with a grip that matched the flannel. “I’m with Sully.”
“Keep telling you you could do better,” Ford quipped without looking up.
Monica pointed at him. “Watch it, Callahan.”
Ski was adjusting the barstools at the counter while telling Novo a story about the last time they’d helped a rookie move in. Apparently, someone had dropped a dresser down a stairwell. Novo said, “That was Jonesy,” without inflection, and Ski said, “Exactly my point.” Monica had moved to the bookshelf and was straightening it with one hand, texting with the other.
“You going to stare at that pan or eat it?” Ski asked, turning to Leo. “She sent enough for everybody.”
“Then why the reheating instructions?”
“In case you get three of them,” Ford said. “It happens.”
“Three casseroles.”
“Hotdishes,” Ski corrected. “And yeah. When Novo moved in last year, he got five. Froze half of them, ate for a month.”
Leo peeled back the foil. The hotdish was still warm, golden-brown tots crusted over the top. Ski grabbed a plate from the cabinet Ford had just stocked and served himself without waiting for an invitation. Novo grabbed a plate and helped himself. Ford scooped some out for Charlotte and set it on the counter to cool, then took a plate of his own. Monica leaned against the wall and ate hers standing up.
By the time Leo got to the pan, half of it was gone. He scooped a small portion onto a plate and tried it standing at the counter, still not sold on tater tots as a structural element of a meal.
“All right, what else?” Ski said through a mouthful. “You need hangers? Shower curtain? Novo, does he have a shower curtain?”
“I have a shower curtain,” Leo said.
“You have the one that came with the apartment. It’s white. It’s sad. You need a real one.”
“It’s a shower curtain.”
“It’s a cry for help, Vargas.”
