He didn’t answer.
After Reena stared at her phone for about two minutes, the three little dots started flashing. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her leggings and waited.
Nadim:You wanted this so much. I am willing to continue. As your friend.
Why had he added that last sentence? To remind her or himself that they were only friends?
Also, why was this so complicated?
After seeing her name on the website, she realized that shedidwant it. Not just the prize, but also the recognition. The prestige. She wanted proof that even though her life was a steaming pile of turd, she was still a great cook worthy of a national contest. She just wasn’t sure how wise it was to do this with Nadim.
He wrote again before she could respond.
Nadim:Come for dinner tomorrow. I owe you a home-cooked meal. We can talk. Total honesty.
Reena finally exhaled.
Reena:OK. What can I bring?
Nadim:Just you is all I need.
***
Her Canadian manners wouldn’t let her go to a dinner party without bringing something, so despite the flock of butterflies using her stomach for flight practice, she still went to a local microbrewery on Friday afternoon to grab some craft beer. When she returned, the most unexpected smell overcame her as she entered the first-floor hallway.
Bread. Home-baked bread. And there was only one place it could be coming from.
Nerves be damned, she knocked on Nadim’s door, despite being two hours early for dinner. The smell couldn’t be from him, though. He should still be at work.
But he answered the door, eyes wide, wearing a red plaid apron.
“You’re early,” he said, quickly untying the apron and pulling it over his head. He tossed it on the couch.
She handed him the six-pack. “What’s that smell? Sourdough? What bakery is it from?”
“I made it.” His shoulders fell. “But I messed it up. I was just about to go out and buy another loaf. I should’ve waited for you to teach me.”
“You made bread?”
“I tried. It’s to go with dinner.”
“How? With what? Where’d you learn?”
He raised an eyebrow, one side of his mouth barely curling up in a smile. “Have you heard of this new thing, Ree? It’s called the internet. There’s so much information there—”
“Let me see,” she said, still disbelieving.
She followed him into the kitchen. And sure enough, cooling on the kitchen counter was a golden, flat, sourdough loaf.
“I made it with Al,” he said, “but something went wrong. It didn’t rise like yours.”
Reena pressed her finger into the crusty loaf. Good spring back. Crisp crust. True, itwasa little flat, but it had some lift. She lowered her nose to smell the crust. Nice, slightly sour, nutty scent. Not bad for a first time.
“You made it with what?”
“Al. My all-purpose starter. Remember, the puppy from Brian’s litter you let me keep?”
“You kept that starter? And you named himAl?”
