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I get a thrill at the sight of all those crisp, shining peppers and apples, all the bright and bloody packs of meat, loaves of uncut bread, and packs of fragrant, fancy cheeses.
I could make so many delicious things…
Sullivan’s kitchen may be slightly out of date, steeped in the styles of the early 2000s, like everything in this house, but it’s still large and well designed. The only problem is the shit quality of his pots and knives, clearly bought by someone who has no idea how to cook.
Those gorgeous loaves of bread and a pack of butcher’s bacon help me decide what to make. I pluck tomatoes off the vine that holds them together like a six pack of soda and get started on a truly epic BLT.
With nothing to do and nowhere to go, I spend a full two hours whipping up my own homemade chipotle mayonnaise, carefully braising the bacon in brown sugar, and grilling thick slices of the multigrain bread.
I even boil a pot of oil and shoestring two massive tubers so I can make my own sweet potato fries.
When I’m finished, I’ve got two plates that look like they belong on the counter of an upscale diner, the sandwiches cut into triangles and speared with the type of toothpicks that has flags on the ends.
Come to think of it, a gourmet diner would be pretty cool…
My brain starts spinning with all the dishes I could make.
Fried chicken and waffles with homemade pickles, pork chops with pear sauce, and maybe some of those crazy milkshakes with outrageous garnishes like sparklers or an entire piece of cake speared on the rim…
I used to come up with restaurant ideas all the time. I’d spend my entire weekend creating pretend menus in the notebook stuffed under my bed.
But I haven’t done much of that lately. I guess deep down I knew there was no point.
Now I’m feeling excited again. My brain is full of ideas, charged up and fizzing like my blood is carbonated.
I made two plates because I sort of hoped Sullivan would come home while I was cooking. But now I’ve got this stunning sandwich and no company in sight.
Except…
My eyes drift over to the kitchen window that looks out at the pool house.
The tiny building is still dark and motionless, covered in vines.
I keep thinking about Sullivan’s dad out there.
The way Sullivan talked about us meeting, (You won’t…), was not inviting.
But on the other hand…we live thirty feet away from each other. For this week, at least. It seems like I should introduce myself…
And who could say no to a free sandwich?
I cover the plate with an upside-down mixing bowl and carry it out into the backyard.
The jungle swallows me. This must have been an incredible garden, once—now half the trees are browning, choked in weeds, and the rose bushes look like they might be concealing Sleeping Beauty’s castle.
The swimming pool is especially sad, with entire bushes growing up through cracked cement that might once have been painted blue but has chipped away to speckled gray.
The neglect of this place is almost willful.
Considering how neat Sullivan’s bedroom is, I bet it bothers him.
Yet, he doesn’t fix it.
Is that because he’s stretched too thin, working long hours? Or because his dad won’t let him?
My nervousness increases as I approach the pool house door. The house is tiny, its door Hobbit-like with a round little window and a large brass knob.
I knock softly then louder when I doubt he could have heard me.
