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A delicate frown lodges itself between her brows. “Forgot about what?”
“When Martha asked to take the day off today, what did you say?”
“That I’d clean and cook and take care of everything.”
I raise a brow and her lips fall open. “Oh.”
“Right.Oh.”
“I…got engrossed in baking. Dinner slipped my mind.”
“Do you do that a lot? Get so engrossed in something that you forget everything else?”
“Yeah, it used to drive Dad insane. Sometimes, I’d be reading a book or cleaning and he’d call my name but get no reply. Then he’d find me and call me by my middle name because he thinks it makes him sound stern, which it doesn’t, by the way.” She’s about to smile, but her lips pull downward and I see the exact moment she dismisses it as if it never happened.
Gwyneth isn’t the type who’d forget about her father just because he’s in a coma. But that’s what it seems like recently. She’s stopped going into his room, removed her picture with him from the entrance hall of the house, and never talks about him anymore. She slipped just now by mentioning him.
“I’ll fix something,” I say.
“You don’t have to. I’ll cook pasta when I’m done.”
“It’ll be faster if you bake and I cook at the same time.” I’m already in the kitchen, searching through the cupboard for what I’ll need.
“I didn’t know you could cook.” She stares at me over her shoulder.
“I’ve lived alone for long enough to learn how.”
“So it’s only out of necessity? You don’t enjoy it?”
“Not particularly.”
“What do you enjoy then?”
“Work.”
She rolls her eyes as she scoops the batter into the small cupcake liners. “Work isn’t a hobby.”
“It can be.” I chop the tomatoes fast and she stares at me with weird fascination.
“Wow, you’re good with a knife,” she says because she easily gets distracted and has to express everything on her mind, then she shakes her head. “Anyway, there must be something else you enjoy outside of work.”
“No, there isn’t.”
She pushes the tray into the oven and when she leans against the dirty counter, her top rides up her pale belly and flour smudges her denim shorts, thighs, and even down to her sneakers. She won’t be happy when she finally notices that.
“How about…when you’re with Aspen? What do you guys do?”
“Work.”
“Really? You don’t do any other activities together?”
“Aside from work, no.”
She smiles a little, then says, “But that’s just sad.”
I throw the ingredients into the pan and add olive oil and some garlic. “That we’re workaholics and have no interest in anything that wastes our time?”
“That you don’t have hobbies. I’ll find you one.”
