I’m a billionaire who can’t light his own stove without nearly incinerating himself.
I put the kettle back onto the range. It heats, and eventually boils.
So, time to make coffee with the French press.
I got this.
Attempt one: I dump grounds into the press, add boiling water, and plunge immediately. The result tastes like battery acid mixed with burned rubber.
Attempt two: I let it sit for thirty seconds before plunging. Still tastes like shit, just slightly less aggressive shit.
Attempt three: I add more grounds, thinking more coffee equals better coffee. Wrong. Now it’s thick sludge that coats my tongue like motor oil.
“Thefuckis wrong with this piece of shit?” I glare at the French press as if it personally offended me.
Which it has.
“You’re supposed to let it steep,” someone says behind me.
I spin around.
She’s standing in the doorway. Still wearing my Columbia hoodie. Her hair is messy, sticking up in places. I remember washing it yesterday. Vividly.
She’s pale but steady. The fever flush is gone.
Thank God.
“Well?” she says.
I blink. She’s watching me with poorly concealed amusement.
What did she say?
You’re supposed to let it steep...
“Steep?” I repeat.
She nods. “Four minutes. Hot water, grounds, stir gently, wait four minutes, then press slowly.” She moves into the kitchen. Slowly, carefully, like she’s still unsure of her own stability.
“I know how a French press works,” I retort.
“Sure you do.” Her eyes flick to the three failed mugs sitting on the counter. “I’m Sorrel, by the way.”
So I finally know your name.
“Gregory,” I tell her.
“Pleased to meet you, Gregory.” She starts to hold out a hand, but then seems to think better of it.
“Pleasure’s mine,” I reply politely. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Thanks to you.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to say thank you. For last night. For taking care of me.”
“It’s what anyone would do.”
“Is it?” She tilts her head slightly. “You washed my hair. Fed me soup. Stayed with me all night.” Her voice is soft but pointed. “You’d do that for just anyone?”
The question hangs there between us.
