AllFreeNovel
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“Why, if I don’t have to?”
I shake my head and put a ham hock into the cart. “You’re such a millennial.”
“You’re a millennial, too.”
“Cooking is fun.”
“Cooking is work.”
“That, too,” I admitted. “But it’s a basic skill everyone should know to some degree. You at least know how to boil an egg, right?”
He stares at me without a word.
I realize he doesn’t know how to boil an egg. This boy needs help. “Okay, as a favor since you returned my sweater, I’ll teach you how to boil an egg.”
“After we’re done shopping.”
I was joking, but he’s taking my offer seriously. Too surprised to think coherently, I say, “Well, um, I was going to work on my resume tonight. There’s this fellowship I want to apply for. Plus, I have to type up some notes on a meeting for my internship.”
“How long does it take to boil an egg?”
“Depends on the method and egg size. For hard-boiled eggs, usually about ten minutes.”
“I’m a quick learner. You only have to show me once.”
He wants to take an egg-boiling lesson from me. Maybe he wasn’t just in the area? My pulse has quickened. He’s also standing really close to me, rattling my breath.
“Um, okay,” I say. It would seem selfish of me not to spare ten minutes of my time when he drove over to give me my sweater and took me grocery shopping.
He reaches for me, and my heart leaps like it’s doing the high jump in the Olympics.
But no, he’s just reaching for something on the shelf behind me.
“I’m out of salt,” he says.
I tell myself to get it together and continue the shopping. We pass by the frozen aisle, and now that I’m getting a ride back to the apartment, I can get Simone’s ice cream cones.
“So what are you cooking besides the collard greens?” he asks me as I place the groceries on the counter before the cashier.
“Sweet potato pie with fresh whipped cream.”
He looks impressed.
“It’s actually really easy—no, I’ve got this.” Seeing him take out his wallet, I slide in front of him and jam my debit card into the machine.
“But my salt—”
“It’s just one item.”
We check out and head back to the car. I admire the way he navigates the car through the tight quarters of the garage with other cars waiting to grab our parking spot when we pull out.
“So who did the cooking when you were growing up?” I ask as he drives up University Avenue.
“The family chef.”
“Did your mom cook?”
“She wasn’t a fan of cooking.”
