My apartment was onlyfive minutes from Craft. Well, if I drove like a maniac to get there. But by the time we parked in the attached lot, walked up the three flights of stairs, and stripped out of our coats and winter wear, our food was cold.
I walked over to the oven and punched the right buttons for it to heat. I loved to bake, but I hardly ever had time for it. So this was the most action my oven had seen recently—reheating the takeout that didn’t survive the drive.
Jonah handed over the bag of food wordlessly. I started pulling out the containers and moving things to oven-safe dishes while he dug through my alcohol cabinet and pulled glasses from the right floating shelf. “Old-fashioned?” he asked, sounding like he already knew the answer.
“Yes, please,” I told him. “That blackberry simple syrup you made last week is in the door of my fridge if you want to get fancy with it.”
“Do you have blackberries?” he asked, sounding especially snobbish about his drinks.
I rolled my eyes at the spoonful of shepherd’s pie I was moving to a hand-me-down Pyrex from my mom. “No, but I have those dirty cherries if you want to mix things up. You know, a little modern, a little traditional. I have regular bitters or those black walnut bitters you gave me for Christmas in the liquor cabinet.”
He made a noncommittal sound and rummaged through my fridge and freezer. “You’re out of big ice cubes.”
“Yet somehow, we’ll survive.”
He threw a regular-sized ice cube at me from across the kitchen. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a smart-ass?”
He told me that all the time. “Once or twice,” I said, shrugging one shoulder and not turning around.
Something was settling—easy—about Jonah moving around my kitchen while I made dinner. Well, I wasn’t exactly making dinner. But I was preparing it, so that counted. After a whole day of feeling upended by Will’s secret scheme and the general sprinter’s pace of trying to get ahead on my work at the bar—and failing miserably daily—I liked that Jonah was here now, planning to eat dinner with me, making me a drink.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my independence. It was probably why I wasn’t very good at dating. At least not long-term. I excelled at first dates and the early stages of relationships—when expectations were few, and the conversation was all get-to-know-you questions and discovering favorites. It was when they wanted to introduce me to their friends or parents or set up future plans that I faltered.
It was easier to avoid relationships altogether than try to manage my work, my family, and a boyfriend. And honestly, who had the energy to invest in all those things at once? Owning Craft took everything out of me, and I was still perpetually behind. Plus, add in my crazy brothers... I just didn’t have an unending well of energy—the kind that a serious relationship would require.
Still, this was nice. Having someone to sit with during supper. Having another presence in my apartment after a long dry spell of isolation. Having someone else make me a drink for a change.
I smiled at the inside of the oven as I popped the casserole dishes inside. When I stood and turned around, I tried to smother the contented expression, but Jonah was waiting with a fresh drink. He handed it to me, then settled back against the counter, taking a sip from his tumbler.
My apartment was the cutest. It was ultra-feminine with rosy pink lower cabinets and white floating shelves. I’d filled it with mismatched but colorful appliances that made me feel like I belonged in a French cottage along the beach or something. A plum blender for the protein shakes I made whenever I freaked out about my health. A floral toaster for when I remembered to get groceries and splurged on bagels and cream cheese. A buttery yellow mixer my brothers had gotten me for Christmas a couple years ago. And the pièce de résistance—a retro-style teal fridge that gave me life. The ice machine hardly worked, and sometimes late at night, it would make a growling noise that would wake me from a dead sleep... but it was beautiful.
The rest of my apartment followed the same colorful theme. A U-shaped floral sectional I’d had custom-made when the bar first started making real money. White farmhouse-style everything else—coffee table, TV stand, bookshelves—filled with bright vases and floral knickknacks. The furniture was too big for the tight space, but I loved how it felt full and cozy.
I didn’t remember having many pretty things in my childhood. My mother was as practical as they came, and my dad was always covered in grease from his hobby of restoring old cars. It wasn’t that my family didn’t appreciate beauty... it just wasn’t celebrated.
When I was in high school, I promised myself that my adult life would be filled with beautiful things. That I would spend my whole life collecting a home and wardrobe and people who made me feel deeply. That made me feel lovely.
And so far, I had. Even if a lot of it was a mix of thrift stores, gifts I might have sent specific links for, and a few expensive investments. I had an old Vespa from my dad I was slowly fixing up. It was almost running. And then I wanted to paint it bubble-gum pink. I had no idea where I would drive it, but I couldn’t wait to get it going.
It wasn’t that I refused to be practical. But when you could have a toaster in Dalmatian print with baby-pink roses and curling green stems, why would anyone pick a plain stainless-steel one?
I took a sip of my drink. The ice hadn’t melted yet, so the whiskey was strong. I loved the burn of it. The woodfire taste of it. In high school, I’d been all vodka and sugar. But somewhere in my early twenties, I’d developed a taste for whiskey, and it was like discovering my whole purpose in life.
It didn’t fit with my soft, feminine, flashy style. Whiskey was best when it was understated and solid. It was like closing your eyes after a long day and taking your first deep breath. Or sinking into a hot tub after a killer workout, when all your muscles hurt, and your bones feel like breaking. It was slow and smooth and Matthew McConaughey’s low, drawling voice in a car commercial.
I could be extra in a lot of ways. But whiskey kept me grounded.
Or at least that was what I told myself.
“What?” Jonah asked. “Why are you smiling?”
“It’s good,” I told him. “Even with my disappointing ice cubes.”
He shook his head at me. “Don’t worry, I filled up the good trays for you.”
“Aw, thanks.” There was this awkward moment between us. It sometimes happened when we were quiet. And just looking at each other. Like the air between us flexed. Or froze or something. It didn’t happen all the time, but sometimes I would look at him, and my breath would stall. There would be something I wanted to say but didn’t know what it was. And it felt like he was trapped in the same moment of awkward-almost-something. His gray-blue eyes darkened, and he held my gaze until I had to gasp for breath and look anywhere but at him. “What do you want to watch?”
He shook his head as if forcing himself away from the weirdness too. “Yeah, whatever you want. I’m not picky.”
