“It’s dry and warm,” he joked. “Not exactly Titus’s place, but at least I don’t have a four-year-old pounding on my bedroom door at six in the morning because she’s thirsty.”
“Do you miss living with them?”
“I miss seein’ the kids every day,” he replied, almost sheepishly. “But havin’ the place to myself is nice. Quiet.”
“I bet they miss you, too.”
“Yeah, I need to go over there for dinner soon,” he said as the timer went off and he turned to pull the pan out of the oven. “The secret to makin’ the tater tot casserole is to cook it in a cast iron. I’ve cooked it in a pan and then baked it in a glass dish—garbage.”
“You’re very serious about this casserole,” I teased.
“It’s—you have a meal that you love, right? Just reminds you of home?”
“My mom’s potato soup.”
Taking his time, he scooped out two portions and put them in bowls, making sure that he had enough tots on each one. “Ididn’t think this through,” he said, sticking forks in each of the bowls. “Considerin’ I don’t own a kitchen table. Couch?”
“Works for me.”
I carried our drinks over and set them on the coffee table while he followed me with the bowls of food. When we got to the couch, he handed me a floral potholder.
“What?”
“Bowl’s hot on the bottom,” he warned.
“Shit,” I said, hurrying to take my bowl from him. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“It’s fine. The calluses on my hands pretty much take care of it.”
“You’re not going to use one of these? Love the flowers.”
“There’s only one,” he said, sitting down.
I sat sideways on the couch with one of my legs crossed under me and looked at my bowl of food. It smelled good. Taking a tentative bite, I was fully prepared to lie my ass off.
“Holy shit,” I mumbled, covering my mouth with my hand. “That’s good.”
“Told you,” he replied happily. “Taco tater tot casserole always saves the night.”
“This was your foster mom’s recipe?” I asked, blowing on another bite. The first one I’d taken was hotter than the sun.
“Bernice,” he confirmed, nodding. “She had a few tried-and-true recipes, but this one was my favorite. By the time I was thirteen, she had me makin’ dinner one night a week. Said it was a life skill.”
“Smart woman.”
“Pragmatic,” he agreed. “She also taught me the right way to load the dishwasher, how to clean a bathroom, basic budgeting, shit like that.”
“You wouldn’t believe how many guys I’ve met that don’t do shit,” I replied. “Clean a bathroom? Yeah, right.”
“So, what, you were just bangin’ guys with filthy bathrooms?” he asked, wrinkling his nose. “Please tell me you didn’t clean it.”
“Oh, hell no,” I replied with a laugh. “If I don’t live there, I’m not cleaning shit except dishes or whatever. No, they had cleaning ladies.”
“Fancy.”
“It came with the apartments,” I explained. “I had a cleaning lady, too.”
“Ooh,” he teased.
