“Why are youhere?” Jacob demanded, unable to stop himself. “And whomadeall of this?”
He gestured at the table. There was a roast duck in the middle, steaming and golden. It was surrounded by several side plates: green beans, mashed potato swimming in butter, shiny peas. There was gravy in a giant measuring cup, presumably due to the lack of a gravy boat.
It smelled heavenly. It was miles beyond the takeout Jacob had been imagining on the way here.
“There’s also a carrot cake,” Shane mentioned, twisting to look at the kitchen door. “FELIX! Where’s that cake?”
There was a pause. Then Felix screamed back through the closed door, “It’s staying in here until dessert, you animal!”
Carrot cake, Jacob thought, an impossible suspicion brewing in the back of his head.I love carrot cake.
He took a step toward the kitchen.
The kitchen door swung open. Felix marched out, panting. His hair was a catastrophe, dots of flour and cream cheesesticking in his locks. Mashed potato was smeared into his jeans. He was carrying a tray of roast vegetables tossed with oil and herbs.
“Fucking animals,” Felix said. Then he spotted Jacob and stopped. “Hey! You’re early.”
Jacob nodded numbly. He wanted to tell Felix he didn’t sign the lease. But he couldn’t stop staring at the nonsensical sight in front of him as Felix placed the tray of roast vegetables next to the duck.
“Okey-dokes,” Felix said. “I’m gonna… go clean up.” He headed back to the kitchen.
Nate groaned, leaning back in his chair to watch him. “What? Cleaning is for later! Come sit down, we’re starving!”
“I’m eating,” Shane announced, grabbing the carving knife next to the duck. “Jacob, you sitting down or are you just gonna stand there and stare?”
Jacob stood and stared. The table looked like it had been freshly scrubbed before the plates were put down. Delicious scents wafted over him, making his suspicion grow.
“This looks great,” Jacob said. “Who made this?”
Just like before, nobody answered right away. The boys at the table traded looks, as if trying to decide who would talk first.
Jack took a long swallow of beer and burped. “Your buddy cooked it.”
“But… Felix can’t cook.”
“He learned.” Jack started peeling the label off his beer, looking utterly unconcerned by the realization that was shattering Jacob to pieces. “Came over to my place every week. Sometimes a few times. Forty bucks a session to teach him how to cook. He can even bake some stuff. Wouldn’t shut up about the carrot cake.Andhe paid this other guy to teach him how to clean.”
Jacob’s ears rang. He felt like he might pass out. “Why would he do that?” he managed.
Jack shrugged. He looked at the others, who avoided his gaze until Jack sighed. “Honestly? I think he just wanted to be a good roommate.”
The words radiated through Jacob’s skin and into his bones. He reached up to touch the hand cream in his shirt pocket, filled with so much emotion he couldn’t identify it if he was given a hundred years. But he could feel it, finally—because of Felix.
“Excuse me,” he said faintly.
He charged into the kitchen. Then he stopped.
Felix was standing with his back facing him, bending over a cake. He had rolled a slice of parchment paper into a rudimentary icing tube, which he was using to ice what had to be a carrot cake. The kitchen was shockingly less messy than Jacob had pictured—the countertop was dotted with icing, but the stove, the sinks, and the other countertops were clean. As if Felix had been cleaning as he went.
Jacob opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
He loved Felix when they were six years old and arguing over the best way to make a sandcastle. He loved him in middle school when Felix hit his growth spurt first and spent the whole year crowing over it, only to get disappointed—fake disappointed, Jacob realized now—when Jacob got so much taller than him. He loved Felix last year when he finally started wearing matching socks, which was achieved by buying identical black socks in bulk so it didn’t matter when he mixed up a pair. Jacob had known so many versions of Felix, and he loved him now: his hoodie damp with suds, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on neatly frosting the cake.’ Then for the following dialogue:
‘”Come on,” Felix muttered to himself. “Keep the pressure even, dipshit.”
“You can cook,” Jacob croaked.
Felix jumped, whirling around. A piece of icing-clad hair slapped into his forehead. It should have been gross. Felix made it look endearing.
