“Hey,” he says, and it’s winded.
“Hi.Did you guys...have fun?”Real smooth, Tate.Should have just asked him what color her underwear was.
“We didn’t do anything, if that’s what you mean.”He hits the landing, coming to stand next to me.
I look up at him, trying to decide if I should press him on it, but all that comes out is, “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.I’m starving.Would you mind if I ate before we go practice?”
“Yeah, of course.”
I follow behind him, watching his easy strides.I want to be mad at him—he’s been nothing but self-serving—but I’m losing my gusto.As we come into the kitchen, I drag a wrought iron chair from underneath the heavy stone island.My reflection is lost in the gray swirls and dark veins of the marble.I slide into the seat.The counter is cool under my forearms.Levi is rooting in the fridge, his hat turned backwards as he tosses different items on the counter behind him.Eggs, milk, butter.He disappears into the pantry, coming back with bread, cinnamon, and vanilla.He stares down at the pile, mentally checking off ingredients, when his face lights up and he turns back towards the cabinet.He brings back an oversized mug.
I can no longer be silent.“Okay, I thought I knew what you were making, but the mug just threw me off.Please explain.”
He looks up, his eyes bright.“I could tell you, but I would rather show you.”
My face must have betrayed my apprehension because his chin drops a bit before shooting me a don’t make this weird look.I slide from my chair, coming to his side.“Okay, what are we making today, chef?”
He pulls up the sleeves of his Henley shirt, exposing his well-worked forearms.I follow the movement up to where the sleeves of his shirt strain against his biceps.I swallow back my noncooking thoughts and look up to find him watching me, smiling.And I know right away it’s not a mask.It’s just a light pull of his lips.A small smile of true contentment.
“Alright, so I’m going to show you how to make one of the best, easiest breakfasts, all under two minutes.”He claps his large hands together and rubs them, as if stoking a fire.“Tate, could you please cut a tablespoon off the butter stick, add it to the mug, and heat for...”He closes his eyes in concentration before reopening them with remembrance.“About eighteen seconds.”
I get to work, dropping the slab of butter in the mug as instructed and tossing it in the microwave.It goes around and around a couple times before I look back at Levi.He’s gotten out a cutting board and is cubing two slices of bread.The microwave timer goes off like a detonator to my brain.Every thought lay in pieces.
“Now, grab that and tell me if the butter is mostly melted.”He stops what he’s doing before adding, “Please.”Carefully, I grab the mug from the microwave and inspect.
“It is,” I tell him.“Now what?”
He drops the knife along the side of his bread, that now looks like something out of Minecraft, and walks over to where I am.He looks down, his blue eyes shining like a coin in a fountain midday.
“Are you inspecting my work, Levi Johnson?You know, I have operated heavier machinery than a microwave before.”His lips fight a growing smile, a smile I caused.Something inside me flips like I’m in the loop of a rollercoaster.
“Nah, I just wanted to get close to you,” he drawls, and it sounds as sweet as a song.I shy under his eyes, dropping my gaze to the tumbled limestone floors as he walks back over to where he left the bread.
As if what he said wasn’t a big deal, he continues his instruction.“Alright, will you add an egg to that and whisk while I measure out some vanilla?”I walk over, dog-earring the page in my brain where Levi openly admitted to wanting to be near me.Something happened upstairs, something changed while he was in that room, and as much as I said I wouldn’t pry, I’m very curious.I reach into the carton and pull from it one brown egg.In one whack against the counter, it breaks pretty evenly, a crack running along the sides.Using my fingers, I open it above the mouth of the mug before gravity brings it down into the pool of butter.
“Here.”Levi’s voice filters into my left ear as a dinner fork enters my vision.
“A fork?”I ask, turning towards him.
“Yeah, to whisk.I find it fits in the mug better than the standard whisk.”
Makes sense, but all of a sudden, my brain doesn’t seem to be connected to my hands.I feel his stare running from my hands to my face.
“Here.”I drop the fork into the mug, ready to pass off the assignment.
“No, no, no.I’ll show you, but I’m not doing it for you.”He comes around behind me, lining us up, arms in front of arms, legs in front of legs.He’s the big spoon and I’m the girl who can’t whisk with a fork.
“Okay, grab the mug off the counter with one hand.”The warmth of his breath against my neck causes a full-body shiver that there is no way he didn’t feel.I swallow my embarrassment, picking up the mug.“Hold it at an angle like this.”His big hand engulfs mine, holding the cup on its side.One more tilt and the buttery egg mixture would be on the floor.I feel his chest press into my back as his other hand brings my free hand to the fork.I can hear my heart slamming against my rib cage.My pulse floods my ears.He is not only touching me but practically holding me.“Now, put the fork in the cup and whisk.”He guides my hands together because I can’t work my arms anymore.It’s like I’m watching this all play out from an aerial view, and I don’t hate what I’m looking at.It’s just unexpected and different.
“Tate?Come back,” he says into the crook of my neck.
I blink a couple times and the egg mixture is staring back at me.
“It’s all in the wrist.Whip it till we get some nice bubbles.”
I start, the fork brushing against the bottom before emerging for a split second and going back down.After the third or fourth go, bubbles start to develop.
