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I don’t want to run from it, even if it makes my skin crawl. I don’t want to call Richard and ask him to kill the story, because someone else will just write something that doesn’t involve me at all, and Richard is right, my father’s legacy is mine to protect.
“Perhaps,” I admit. “I’m not too concerned about when I get to the majors.”
She shifts in her chair. “But your plans haven’t changed?”
I wonder what she would say if I told her they did. She’d probably realize, instantly, that she’s sitting on a much bigger story than the one she’s envisioning now. A son following in his father’s footsteps after a tragic loss is good, but renouncing that path and going down a different one?
Not that that’s happening, anyway. I’d be a fool to turn away from the only thing I’ve ever been good at. And I don’thaveanother path to consider. Cooking isn’t a real path. It’s not like I would become the next Gordon Ramsey, and everyone expects great things from me.
“No,” I say. “Of course not.”
“If this works for your schedule, I can be in Moorbridge for the Binghamton series. I’ll conduct other interviews over the phone, but I want to hear from you in person. I’ll bring along my team and we’ll do a shoot.”
I keep the smile on my face, even if internally I’m wilting. “Different from the video segment?”
“We’ll do that later, if you can come to our studio a little closer to the draft.”
Just fantastic.
“Sounds great,” I say.
“Wonderful. I’ll have my assistant send over the details to confirm.”
When I hang up, I immediately scrub my hands over my face. Interview. Photoshoot. Video segment. Individually, they sound terrible, but together? What a torture fest. I’m not good at talking about myself, anyway. She’d be better off just airing some footage from a game.
At least I have something else to focus on—my chicken scarpariello.
I got my love of baseball from my father, but my love for cooking came from my mother. I can still remember standing carefully on a step-stool, helping her roll out a pie crust or marinate chicken. She never minded my help, even when I was little. She’d explain how to follow a recipe, and what changes she made to put her unique twist on it. I’ve always admired how you can tweak a recipe even a little and come up with something new. I’m not an artist, but it feels akin to art. And it’s not just art you admire. It’s useful art, the kind of art that nourishes the body and the soul all at once.
I kept it up as a teenager, even as my baseball schedule got more intense. I’d help the chef with dinner preparations after school, or help Sandra, if she was cooking instead. Now in college, living off campus, I do most of the cooking during the semester. Izzy burns everything, and Cooper doesn’t have interest in anything but eating. When Bex was around, we’d cook together, but we haven’t been in the same kitchen since Christmas break.
I give Tangerine, safely curled on the couch, a scratch behind the ears, wash my hands, and take out the ingredients. Chicken scarpariello isn’t hard to make, it just requires a little time. The ingredients are simple, too, which I appreciate. A whole chicken, broken into pieces. Sweet Italian sausage, with fennel, of course. Jarred banana peppers, plus the juice, and fresh peppers. White wine, chicken broth, garlic, and rosemary. The result, when you add fried potatoes, is a delicious one-pan meal, with a tangy sauce I could happily drink on its own.
I dare Mia to eat it and still insist we’re not friends. I don’t break out the good recipes for just anyone.
I thought it would be more palatable to her to pretend it’s just for Cooper and Penny, but that didn’t help things. Buying her replacement boots probably didn’t help either, but I couldn’t help myself. She was wearing those boots the first time I saw her. They feel like an extension of her, and I want to see her in them. I hoped she smiled when she read the note, and that she’s going to come home in time for dinner.
If not, I’ll save her a plate in the fridge, but I want to see her. To talk to her. To remind her that even if she doesn’t want to be with me, we have a connection. I’d rather be her friend than have nothing at all. The past few days have been a warm luxury compared to the frozen tundra I’ve been living in, hoping for a text from her, or for a hint of her smile when we crossed paths, or even a scowl. I’d rather a scowl from her than a smile from anyone else.
She looked cute this morning, pinning me down. Cuter still when I flipped us over. I wish she’d said something about her fear of heights, because I would never have made her get on the ladder, but if there’s one thing I know about Mia di Angelo, it’s that she’d rather chew off her own arm than admit weakness.
I prep all the ingredients and set out what I need next to the stove. Potatoes first, cubed and browned on the stove so they’ll be crispy, and then the chicken and sausage pieces. They’ll finish in the oven, but a good sear is important for the taste and the sauce. I turn on some music, too; my favorite classic rock playlist.
I’m humming along to Van Halen when the front door slams.
18
SEBASTIAN
“Mia?”
Mia appears in the doorway, the shoebox tucked underneath her arm, her bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair is in a bun atop her head, tilting to the side like frosting sliding off a too-warm cake. She has a glower on her face, and the tip of her nose is red.
She takes a deep breath, as if trying to calm herself, and says, “I’ll be upstairs.”
I set down the pair of kitchen tongs I’m holding and take a couple steps in her direction. “You seem upset.”
“Just stressed.”
