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He nods. "Scrambled eggs too."
"Anything else?"
"Burgers. Salad. Grilled chicken."
"What do you eat?" I ask.
"When I'm not eating quesadillas and eggs?"
I nod.
"A lot of rotisserie chicken. Takeout from places near Inked Hearts. My parents send me home with leftovers when I see them. Molly too. Beef stew, mostly."
"It keeps well."
"And they make it well. I can't complain."
"Stew is easy," I say. "I could teach you."
"You like stew?"
"Who doesn't?"
"You don't eat anything plain. Even that oatmeal. You'll drown it in cinnamon."
"Well, I do make Japanese Curry, but that is a stew."
"Aha."
"I can do stew," I say. "Plain, boring stew."
Again, he raises a brow.
"Plain, not boring stew."
"I can, actually," he says. "Deidre taught me a few dishes when I moved out. She didn't want me to survive on ramen and Cheetos. But I… I haven't made it in a while. Or Shepard's pie. Or sheet pan chicken. Sheet pan anything."
"We could do it together, if you want."
"Yeah?" His shoulders soften.
"Whenever you're ready."
"You're sweet," he says.
"Maybe I like chunks of beef."
"Obviously." He flexes a bicep. Laughs at himself. "Sorry, that's Dare's bit."
"It works for you too."
"Yeah, but it's lame," he says. "Even for me." He moves to the coffee table and opens his laptop. "Do your best with the oatmeal."
"I always do."
He looks through his sister's song library.
I fix oatmeal on the stove. It isn't my absolute best, but it's solid. Soft and chewy with the extra crunch of walnuts and sweetness of raisins.
