Brooke
I stir the sauce slowly, letting the steam rise up and warm my face. I’m no master chef, but I can make a decent meal, and pasta happens to be one of my specialties.
Marta has Penny, which means I’ve had the rare luxury of a shower, a quick clean-up, and actual cooking time. Cleaning, in this case, mostly meant putting a load of laundry in and wiping down the counters, but it’s amazing how good it feels to move around in a space that doesn’t have burp cloths and bottles scattered everywhere.
And honestly? It’sreallynice living with someone who not only cleans up after themselves but me, too.
I guess that’s what it must feel like to have a wife.
I scoff quietly to myself. Stupid men.
Matthew texted me when he left the centre, so I had time to plate the food. I sprinkle a generous handful of cheese on top of each dish just as the front door opens.
He steps in, does this exaggerated sniff of the air, and groans dramatically. “God, I’m starving. That smells amazing.”
He hangs his jacket on the hook, kicks off his shoes, and walks over, his expression already softening.
I smile a little and set the plates on the counter. We don’t have a dining table, so the counter has always beenour spot.
Matthew washes his hands and drops onto the stool beside me.
“How’d it go?” I ask, sliding a fork onto his plate.
He takes another bite, chews, swallows, then makes this vague little circle next to his head with his fork. “Not great. I mean, I told him stuff, but he kind of… you know. Not all there.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You think your therapist is crazy?”
Matthew nods earnestly. “He is. Get this, he thinks I resent you. Can you believe that?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Why?”
He moves his pasta around with his fork like it suddenly got very interesting. “Apparently it’s because I loved you in college.”
The fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “…You loved me in college?”
He nods, almost too casually, then shrugs. “You know this.”
“I knew you had a crush,” I say slowly, still processing. “I didn’t know it was love.”
Another shrug. I swear, if he does it one more time, I’m going to launch a forkful of pasta at his face.
“So why didn’t you ever ask me out?” I ask.
He shrugsagain. “I was going to. One time. Before graduation. But I got talked out of it.”
“By who?”
“One of the guys.”
I narrow my eyes. “Jay?”
He looks at me, surprised. “How’d you guess?”
I roll my eyes. Jay was an asshole. The kind of guy who peaked in high school. He used to say I was ‘taking advantage of Matthew,’ even after I introduced him to the group. If Matthew so much as handed me the bread, he would go all, ‘she’s at it again.’ I hated him. Always nitpicking. Probably had something to do with me turning him down.
I tell Matthew, “he hated me ever since I turned him down.”
Matthew’s head snaps up. “Wait, Jay asked you out?”
