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I made a noncommittal noise. And then, as if I thought taking an interest in his potatoes would make up for my previous needling, “How long will they be?”
“Maybe about thirty minutes? Depending on how hot the fire is.”
Unfortunately, having asked about the potatoes, I now had no idea what to do with the information. So I made another noncommittal noise.
“I might go grate some cheese,” said Leo, rising. “Are you okay with dairy?”
I wasn’t particularly okay with anything. “Mm.”
He Croc-ed back to the kitchen area, leaving me on the sofa. The silence of the boat enfolded me softly, broken only by the occasional crackle from the stove or the sad wheezing of a potato. I watched the glow of the coals through the glass, expecting at any moment for the spectre of domesticity to rise up and smother all my peace with its banshee scream. But perhaps I was too far removed from a life I recognised. And the only ghosts that could find me here were my own: a line curving across the canvas of my mind, spine and shoulders, the shadow of an arm, the suggestion of a face—dark-eyed, light-eyed, who could tell?—beneath a free fall of hair.
Eventually, Leo came to retrieve his potatoes, popping them on a wire rack until they were no longer too hot to touch.
“Should I leave you two alone?” I asked as he subjected one of the potatoes to what could only be described as a massage.
He kept massaging, undiscouraged. “I read somewhere this is how you get a proper fluffy texture.”25
“So you’re fluffing it?”
“Yep.”
“You’re a vegetable fluffer?”
“Technically”—he began fondling the other potato—“I’m a tuber fluffer.”
Next he placed each of them on a plate and used a fork to cut into them, first lengthwise, then across, squeezing the edges until the interior of the potato burst forth in pillowy abundance. It was testament to how little there was to do on a boat that I actually bothered to watch this process. Leo was clearly unaccustomed to food preparation—something I recognised because neither was I—but whereas unfamiliarity made me impatient and slapdash, it made him frowningly precise. I was sure watches had been constructed, symphonies composed, angels collected on pinheads with less consideration than he piled toppings on a pair of potatoes.
And then one of them became my problem. I put what was left of the ice pack on the floor and swung my leg off the sofa so I could balance the plate on my knees. Leo propped his hips against the dinette and, still standing, dug in immediately.
“Careful,” he said, with his mouth full. “Hot.”
“Strange outcome for something that’s been in a fire.”
Steam was rising from the potato, bringing with it frighteningly rich smells: the clottiness of butter and cheese melting together, the tang of freshly chopped chives, a touch of smoke fromthe stove. My stomach clenched like a fist. Rejection and longing inescapably muddled.
I had to eat. I knew I had to eat. I had made a lot of promises about food, to professionals, to my family, to Edwin. Sometimes even to myself. And in the last handful of years, I’d broken them all.
“Can I have another glass of water?” I asked.
Leo had refilled the beaker in seconds. And the potato was still sitting there, unconquerably.
“Thanks.”
He gave me a slightly concerned look. Perhaps because I’d made so little previous effort with basic courtesy. Ignoring him—and any further looks he wanted to give me—I gulped down the water. It settled me. Gave me a clean, bright illusion of fullness.
And then, while my senses were still recovering, before they could send me a thousand hectic signals about what I did and didn’t want, I jammed the fork into the potato and shovelled whatever I’d scooped up straight into my mouth. And swallowed before the taste could overwhelm me, in case I remembered how to like it and being hungry stopped feeling like being strong.
I got through nearly half the potato like this, and then I had to stop. Leo took the plate away without comment, which I refused to be grateful for. It was, after all, none of his fucking business. It was nobody’s fucking business. While he washed the dishes, I finished my water, then propped my leg back up on the sofa, disgustingly sluggish and content.
“I’m sorry you slipped on a puddle and sprained your ankle.” While I’d been useless, Leo had folded himself cross-legged onthe floor opposite the sofa, his back against the wall. Which still—with a stretch—put him in touching distance. And that was one of those thoughts I didn’t know why I was bothering to think in the first place.
“So am I,” I said.
He stared at his knees. “But I’m—um. It’s nice to have you here.”
Various possible answers raced across my mind and were just as swiftly discarded. “You have too much time on your hands.”
“I know what too much time feels like”—his tone was wry, and gentler than I deserved—“and I really don’t. There’s nearly always something to do on a boat.”
