When he declares the foil packet done, he carefully unwraps it, balancing it on top of the cooler. The smell of salt and lemon hits me, pleasantly strong.
“We’re eating with our fingers?”
“It’s normal in many cultures.”
“No, I know.” I eye the packet. “I’ve just never done it.”
He picks off a bite of fish, grinning as he chews. “Try it.”
The poor dead fish eye staring into nothing makes my stomach squirm, but I gingerly pick out a bite. The moment it hits my tongue,my eyes slide shut. The succulent, almost sweet flesh of the fish, the bright hit of lemon, the tang of the ocean and smoke of the fire—it comes together into a beautiful bloom of flavors. I can’t help but wiggle with happiness, which inflates Jack’s ego to the point that he’s practically glowing. He looks exactly like Gator when I give him a dried sardine treat.
“Fuck me.” I shove another bite into my mouth. “I think I just came.”
Another peel of laughter. “You’re funny today, Winfield.”
“I’m always funny. You just pretend not to notice.”
“The pineapple thing doesn’t count.”
“Excuse you, that was some of my best work.”
“What’s your first food memory?” He nudges the foil packet over to me. “This was mine.”
“Fish on the beach?”
“Three ingredients, no utensils, no fucking around.”
“Who cooked it for you? Your dad?”
He shakes his head. “My parents never cooked for me.”
Seems like there’s a lot his parents didn’t do for him. I frown. “And what, the fish awoke something in you?”
I’m teasing, not wanting to push and lose this moment, but he nods, serious as ever. “How about you?”
“I’m not a chef.”
“Everyone has food memories. Some of the strongest moments in our lives are tied to food. Good and bad.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that.”
“It’s a constant.” He sips his beer. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. “We need food to survive, right? But we don’t view it as survival. Every culture in the world puts food at the center in some way. We celebrate with it. Mourn with it. Remember with it.”
I knew Jack loved food—it would be impossible for him not to—but the passion in his voice speaks to my heart. At the end of the day, he loves to cook. Loves the power that food can hold. It’s undeniably sexy, hearing him speak about it.
I play with my braid as I try to think of a memory. “I guess... there was this bakery we went to on vacation.” The scene unfurls in my mind like a sail. I can practically taste the lavender icing, thelemon-scented pastry. “In Carmel. All the way in California. They had the most amazing pop tarts.”
“Pop tarts?”
“Yeah, but not like the boxed ones. They were flaky and fresh and perfect. And the baker made each one look like a work of art. There would be swirled icing, and bits of candied fruit, and sometimes edible flowers.”
“Breakfast for a princess.”
I smile. “Yeah. That’s exactly how I felt.”
At the thought of those sleepy California mornings—because of course I begged to go every day, once I had the first taste of a perfect pop tart—my heart aches. I can’t deny that the distance has been good, but I miss my family. Letting Dad’s calls go to voicemail has been hard. I know that when Julia calls me Pop Tart, she’s remembering those mornings too.
“I bet it would come back to you, if you tasted it again.” He nudges his shoulder against mine. “How old were you?”
