“Oh yeah?” I looked up.
He unlatched the walk-in refrigerator and held the door open for me. A cool blast of air hit the back of my neck.
“This wasnota fair exchange,” I repeated, and went back to sniffling over the diced onions. “You get to stargaze and I get stuck cutting and chopping and peeling.” I gestured to the vegetables around me.
“You’re free to leave any time you want. In fact, if Captain Bailey finds out you’re in here prepping meals with me, she’ll have my head.”
“I’m surprised she’s not after you already. Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a hairnet?” I pointed to his half-bun. I wasn’t really concerned about food hygiene. I just wanted to throw a hair net on Alex. Anything to flatten, constrain, and keep his magnetic appeal from crawling under my skin.
Working in close quarters with Alex was playing havoc on me. The scent of his shower gel when he opened the hot oven. The brush of his skin as he reached over to grab a pan. His movements were smooth and precise, like a conductor orchestrating a symphony, keeping time and track of all the parts that went into feeding everyone on the yacht. He had a bulletin board crammed with paper clippings, handwritten menus, prep lists, names of passengers and their preferences, names of crew members, highlights of food allergies and special diets.
“Yes.” Alex heaped grated tomatoes on barley rusks and plated them with a sprinkling of herbs and cheese.
“Yes, what?”
Alex zoned in and out when he was working. One moment he’d be talking to me and the next, he’d get so focused on what he was doing, he’d tune everything else out. When he was alone, he put on his earbuds and listened to an eclectic mix of Greek songs and 80’s music. When I was in the kitchen, he streamed his playlist through speakers.
“Yes, I should be wearing a hairnet.”
He gave no explanation for why he wasn’t. If Captain Bailey ever called him out on it, she’d probably get a rebellious hair flip.
I moved on to the carrots. I was preparing what Alex called a mirepoix—a mixture of onions, carrots, and celery—used as a base for soups, sauces, stocks, and stews. I felt pretty good about my slicing and dicing, given that Dolly always lamented my lack of kitchen skills. Maybe I should take a video for her.
Look Ma, I’m getting domesticated.
On second thought, no. She’d probably upload it to a matchmaking site:
Looking For A Nice Indian Boy With Three Thumbs.
“Hey.” Alex rapped his knuckles on the counter. “No daydreaming when you’re working.”
“Oh please. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll end up dicing the potatoes instead of the carrots?”
“A girl lost her finger on a boat one time. In a galley just like this. On a chopping board just like that.”
“That’s horrible.” I shuddered. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t say I was there. I’m just saying be careful.”
I made a face but paid more attention to what I was doing. As I slid the first batch of carrots off the cutting board, I noticed an hourglass by the sink. It hung in a white frame on rubber feet and was filled with bright, yellow sand. I flipped it over and watched the tiny grains empty into the bottom chamber. Something about watching the cheerful pile dwindling away was both sad and lovely. It was a little like the hopes I’d pinned on this trip, pivoting my life around these fourteen days on the water. But the days were slipping away and nothing had changed.
I glanced at Alex. He was seasoning something on the stove. My fingers closed around the hourglass, stopping the rest of the sand from emptying out. It was small and slender, and fit perfectly inside my pocket.
I picked up the knife and went back to dicing the next batch of carrots.
“Three minutes,” said Alex, without looking up from the pan.
“Sorry?”
“The hourglass takes three minutes to empty.” He rested his wooden spoon on the rim of the pan and turned around. “I use it to time poached eggs.”
“I…” My protest was crushed by the uncomfortable sensation that goes with betraying someone. “I—”
“I see you, Moti.” He rested his hands on either side of me, trapping me against the counter.
I stood frozen to the spot, my heart thumping in my chest.
“I see you.” He unclenched the knife from my hand, bits of carrot peel still sticking to its edge, and dropped it in the sink. “I’ve seen the bag you have, stashed under your bed. A light bulb, coffee stirrers, a playing card, a pen, a ping-pong ball… I didn’t know what to make of it, but I see it now.” His hand slid into my pocket and he pulled out the hourglass. It caught the sun between us and sent glints of light into his eyes, warming up the cinnamon specks.
