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He pawned his nice things—his only worldly possessions—to make dinner for me? That didn’t sit right with me.
“You really didn’t have to do that,” I said. “That’s everything you own until we figure out who you are. I’ve got us covered. Plus, youneedyour shoes.”
He lifted his leg to the side, showcasing the cheap yellow flip-flop on his foot. It was a dollar-store find, not intended for anything beyond single-use in a public shower.
“That isnota real shoe,” I told him.
Maybe he didn’t know better. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep and left him to go out on his own.
“It’s working just fine. And you’re doing more than enough. I might not know who I am, but I’m not inept. I can help out and buy a couple of groceries. I can follow box directions on macaroni. Let me help you, Morgan.”
He leaned forward, and I could feel how much he wanted to do this. I didn’t have any money to feed us. And if I were in his shoes—flip-flops—I’d want to help, too. I didn’t have the heart to take that away from him.
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you for the meal. It’s been forever since I had—”
He paused chewing mid-bite, causing me to pause my words mid-sentence.
“What?” I asked.
He didn’t say anything.
I scooped a forkful of macaroni and lifted it to my lips.
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Do not eat that.”
How bad could it be? I popped the food in.
The noodles were gummy. The cheese sauce was somehow sickeningly sweet and bitterly burnt. I chewed quickly and swallowed.
“It’s…not that bad?” I didn’t mean for that to come out as a question. The second bite was easier, because I knew what I was getting myself into.
“I’m sorry. I was sure I could follow simple instructions,” Tristan said. “I’m a grown man. Why can’t I handle cooking boxed mac and cheese?”
“You did just suffer a pretty severe brain injury. It’s just a fluke. You’ll do better next time.”
“You want there to be a next time?”He made a face.
No. Please never ever cook anything ever again.“Let’s see what I can nab from craft services at the studio.”
“I can’t believe I screwed up mac and cheese.” His knuckles turned white as he squeezed his fork.
I gently laid my hand over his. His skin was warm, and his fist relaxed under my touch. The small contact felt nice. He felt nice. I gave him a quick squeeze and pulled away. Then I popped another bite into my mouth. If I chewed fast enough, I hardly tasted it.
“You don’t have to eat that,” he said.
“I’m good,” I said.
“You have to be to tolerate my culinary abomination.”
I grinned and swallowed. Tristan’s shoulders sank. Behind his exhaustion, behind the frustration, I could see hints of strength and intelligence. I never knew what I was going to get with him—surly or sweet—but I knew that he was tough as all get-out to take the hand life had dealt him without giving up.
“So maybe cooking isn’t one of your strengths,” I said. “But you have them, that’s for sure. For one, you’re hecka brave. And even learning weaknesses means we’re learning about you.”
“Brave?”
“Crazy brave. You’re somehow all cool and collected even after everything you’ve been through.”
“I don’t remember what I’ve been through.”
