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I pause my cutting and wait for him to leave the kitchen.
My plan backfires when he takes a handful of the basil and carries it to the sink, dropping a few in the process. The man can hit a running target but not carry a few leaves across a room.
I dump the chicken into a pan with pasta noodles, tomatoes, and chicken broth. He finishes rinsing the leaves and drops them into a pile on the counter beside me. I shiver when he stands behind me and peers over my shoulder.
“Listen,” he says, as if suddenly having an issue with our meal. “We can order delivery.”
I wince. “Excuse me? Dinner is about finished. Why would we order in?”
“Those noodles … they’re not cooked.” He says the words slowly, as if it were something I forgot to do and he feels sorry for me.
I roll my eyes. “I’m well aware.”
“Who the fuck eats uncooked pasta?” He digs his chin into my shoulder. “I can hire a chef. It’s no biggie.”
“You don’t have to precook the pasta in this recipe.” I glare back at him. “Now, complete your task and let me do my work.”
He pulls away, stands beside me, and starts tearing the basil leaves.
I realize giving Benny a tearing job was a mistake.
The sound of him tearing echoes through the kitchen. He rips them apart as if they were the limbs of a man who owed him money with no intention to pay him back. I shudder, my stomach dropping, and I hate that my mind immediately goes to Tommaso. That will happen if he doesn’t pay his debt to Sammie.
I cover the pasta and chicken with minced garlic and mozzarella, and I wiggle my fingers in agive megesture toward Benny. He hands over the basil, and I add it to the top.
I cover the pasta bake with foil, shove it into the oven, set a timer on my phone, and start cleaning my mess. There isn’t a dishwasher, so the dishes have to be washed by hand.
It might be the suckiest thing about old, unrenovated homes.
The appliances—or lack thereof—aren’t updated.
Give me a home with history but add a dishwasher and a new stove.
I open a drawer, snag a dish towel, and flatten it on the counter next to the sink. While the water is running, I roll up my sleeves, and as soon as the sink is full, I start washing dishes. After I clean a bowl, I place it on the towel.
I furrow a brow when Benny opens a drawer, removes a towel, and dries the bowl. It takes me a moment to wrap my mind around what he did as he places it into a cabinet.
The urge to tell him he doesn’t need to help is on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself. My mother would be horrified if her husband helped in the kitchen, but I don’t mind. If Benny stays in the kitchen, he might as well make himself useful.
“Thank you,” I say, placing another dish on the towel.
He dries it.
We keep doing that, like a Benny and Neomi dishwashing assembly line.
We appear so domesticated.
We don’t speak much, but it’s not an awkward silence.
It’s a comfortable one.
That silence stops when a loud whack reverberates through the kitchen. I jump at the sudden sting on my ass and drop my towel. I lower my wet hand to my ass, getting my sweater wet, as if to confirm that’s where the pain is coming from.
“Did you …” I wipe my face with my arm and glower at him. “Did you just smack my ass?” It’s a struggle to keep my voice serious.
Benny grins and twirls the towel, as if preparing to do it again.
I’m thankful there’s at least a pull-out faucet. I tug it out and point the sprayer toward him. “Do that, and you’ll get a shower before dinner.”
