“I’m not complaining,” I say. “I’m disappointed in myself. Cooking a meal shouldn’t feel this daunting. I blame my mother.”
Miranda laughs. “Why is your lack of skill in the kitchen your mother’s fault?”
“Because she didn’t teach me anything,” I say. “She made everything for me growing up—she’s the best cook. Every meal was incredible. Which means my food standards are ridiculously high, but I can’t recreate a single one. She even made my sandwiches. I didn’t make my first one until college. She didn’t prepare me.”
“Sounds like you have a great mother,” she says, smiling softly.
“Well, yeah, she’s the best. No doubt. I just wish she’d given me a little guidance to help me save face.”
“I think you’re too old to be blaming your mother for your inadequacies.”
I scoff. “I am not inadequate.”
“In the kitchen, you are.”
I wrap my arms around her middle and tickle her. She bends over, laughing uncontrollably.
“Take it back!” I shout over her laughter.
“Never!”
“Say it—Miles Keller is a god in all he does—or the tickling never ends!”
She lifts her arms and lets her body go limp like a fish, sliding out of my grasp. When she hits the floor, she scurries away, stands, and grabs a spatula from the pot of pasta sauce.
“I will fling this at you if you tickle me again.”
I glance down at my favorite sweatshirt, one I definitely don’t want stained with red marinara. “But you didn’t say it.”
She grins, eyes sparkling. “Miles Keller, you are not a god at everything. I’m sorry that I have to be the one to break it to you.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” She giggles. “You suck in the kitchen. Hell,Isuck in the kitchen. This is just something we have to accept. I know it’s hard for you to admit defeat, but my friend, just admit it.”
“Fine,” I grumble.
She lowers the spatula, smug. “Lame admission, but I’ll accept it.” She sets it on the spoon holder beside the simmering sauce.
I shake my head, laughing as she turns back to the cutting board.
“What exactly are we making again?”
“Pasta with a homemade marinara sauce,” she says, slicing vegetables like she’s auditioning for a cooking show.
“That seems ambitious. Shouldn’t we have started with grilled cheese?”
“How hard can it be?” she says, dumping the chopped veggies straight into the pot of sauce.
“Famous last words.”
“Relax, Chef Keller. I’ve watched enough cooking shows to know the basics.”
“Yeah, and I’ve watchedShark Week,but that doesn’t mean I should go swimming with great whites.”
She snorts—a real, unfiltered laugh that fills the kitchen—and something in my chest tightens.
God, I love that sound.
