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CHAPTER TEN
Laura
Istood in the middle of my unused kitchen, having aface-off with the built-in oven, wondering how the hell to operate it. So many buttons and functions for one machine.
You’dthink that me, who operated areally freaking complicated camera and knew the ins and outs of every function of Photoshop, wouldn’tbe fazed by setting an oven to 375 degrees. And you’dbe wrong.
Preparing ameal for Zach—again, not rocket science—proved far more challenging than expected. Iwouldn’thave done it if not for the guilt over calling him, albeit in my head, aliar. And then not talking to him for afull week. But Idid both and this was my way to make amends.
It sounded like an idea Ishouldn’thave had issues with when Isuggested it to him, especially when the internet promised this would be an easy recipe. The internet lied.
Or worse, the internet assumed Iknew how to operate an oven.
After pressing this button and the other, the number 400 flashed on the electrical appliance screen. Ididn’tsee how atwenty-five-degree difference could make or break ameal, so Ipressed the universal triangle button forplay. The machine roared to life, and Iput myself to work on the actual food.
It boggled my mind how people stayed on top of their cooking game with regular jobs. Anxiety bubbled within me as Iwatched the raw meat and vegetables strewn around, expecting me to make something edible out of them. Ithen made the mistake of picking up the onion soup mix the internet told me to buy and covered my mouth to keep the nausea at bay when Iread the list of ingredients.
The recipe deemed it safe, but the recipe also said this would be easy. Next time, if there would ever be one, Ipromised myself I’dgo organic.
Ifastened the rope of my brand-new apron behind my back and set myself to cooking.
Or Ithought Idid. How was Isupposed to do this searing thing? And when they said Icould use beer, wine, or broth, what did it even mean? Ineeded an answer of what tasted better, not the rotten-free choice concept. Anywhere but in the kitchen.
Thomas, the genius chef, could’ve been ahuge help, had it not raised amillion and one red flags. He and Erin knew Iavoided cooking at all costs, so Iwasn’tgoing there. Wasn’tgoing for my sister’shelp either. That girl’scluelessness in the kitchen matched mine to the tee.
With less than four hours until Zach’sarrival, Ifollowed my hunches again. Apparently searing meant burning the meat on each side, so Idid that. From there Iadded broth and the radioactive onion soup mix, threw everything inside the pot, shoved the pot into the oven, and slammed its door shut.
So long, fucker.
The scary part of the day was behind me. In the three remaining hours where Ihad to wait for both Zach and what I’dhoped was food, Iedited photos, shaved, and showered. As afinal touch, Isprayed on my strawberry-scented body mist and applied an identical body cream from my feet to my shoulders, my secret weapon.
Despite his sneaky attempts to hide his lust for my scent, Isaw through him and Imore than felt how hard he’dget sometimes when his nose was buried in my hair.
So Isprayed alot. On myself, in the toilet, on the bed, everywhere. It overpowered any other smell in the house, and unfortunately for me, including the smell of food burning.
Inoticed it too late, when the smoke filtered into my room while Iput on my floral print dress. Zach’skey jingled in the lock as Iran outside to stop the madness in the kitchen.
“Hi, welcome, sorry!” Ishrieked in his direction before darting to grab adish towel and save what might have been left of our dinner.
Fanning the oven, Icoughed and blocked my nose and mouth with my palm. Zach closed the door and hurried to my side, placing abottle of wine on the kitchen island.
He rested his hand on the small of my back. “What can Ido to help?”
“The windows.” Ipointed at the living room, my voice choked from the smoke that filtered into my airway.
From behind me, Iheard the windows being slid open. The sound of Zach’ssneakers pounding on my hardwood floors grew louder afterward, as he neared the kitchen.
“Was that our dinner?” he asked when the smoke evaporated, pulling his lips between his teeth.
Rolling my eyes and throwing the towel on the counter, Islid my hands into the potholders and extracted the pot from the oven. The food, or charcoal was more like it, had turned black. Nothing was salvageable. Itossed it in the sink and ran the tap over the sizzling would-be meal.
My shoulders slumped, the air rushing out of me. “Wasbeing the operative word, yeah.”
“Could’ve been worse.” He kissed my forehead as if we always did this sort of thing. “It might have not been burned, and to be honest, Ikinda dreaded it.”
These words were more familiar.
He dodged to the side when Iflung the dish towel at him, not reining in his laugh anymore. “You know I’mright.”
