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We were just two people who spent a lot of time together and had fucked a couple of times.
Right?
Esme raised her eyebrows as if she was expecting one of us to have answered already.
“No, not a date,” I finally said after a moment. “Just two friends. Making dinner.”
Ahem.
Max cleared his throat. “I told Ellie it was Mum’s birthday and she suggested doing something Mum enjoyed to cheer me up, so we’re cooking dinner.”
Esme smiled, slowly sliding her gaze from Max to me. “She did love to cook. I’m happy to leave you kids alone.”
“No, Grandma. It would be nice if you stayed.”
I held up the potatoes. “I bet you’ll understand my chopping instructions.”
“They made no sense!” Max exclaimed.
I peered over at him. See? Drama queen. “I don’t know how you didn’t understand them!”
Esme frowned. “What were they?”
“Small. But not too small. In quarters, maybe. Six bits depending on the size,” I repeated.
She held out her hands. “Makes perfect sense to me.”
I grinned, handing her the bag of potatoes, then shot Max a sly look. “I told you that wasn’t complicated.”
He grunted, taking another knife out of the block. “If I said this was a date, I’d never hear the end of it. I said it’s not, and now I’ll never hear the end of these bloody potatoes,” he muttered. “I can’t win.”
Esme winked at me as she walked to the other side of the sink and retrieved a chopping board from the drawer. “What are we making?”
“Roasted diced potatoes and green beans in a garlic and herb butter sauce with salmon cooked in lemon juice,” I replied. “But we’re also making an apple pie so it’ll be going in at the same time.”
“Ooh. I came at the right time.”
“Funny how that worked out,” Max muttered.
“Be quiet, Maximillian, and chop those beans.”
He sighed. dropping his head right forwards. “Yep. Just like cooking with Mum used to be.”
I laughed.
Esme snorted. “Isabel had to tell you to be quiet. You never stopped bloody talking as a child. You were always nattering on about something to the point I actually thought you were a little girl. I’d never known a boy to talk so much in my life.”
“I didn’t talkthatmuch,” Max argued.
“Oh, you did. Aeroplanes this, boats that, tanks the other.” She turned to me, barely paying attention to the potatoes she was cutting. “He went through this stage at about… oh, six or seven, was it, Max?”
“I’m not getting involved in this slander.”
I laughed, dropping the knob of butter on the floor instead of into the pan.
Max snorted. “Is that why your grandma used to shout at you while you were baking?”
“Shut up,” I muttered, reaching for the paper towels so I could mop it up.
