Thankfully, living in the city means I never have to cook. There’s always something available, and it usually tastes a lot better than my sad attempts at creating something edible in the kitchen. Although, all the take-out is not helping my credit card bills.
He looks at me for a long moment with an expression I can’t place before he says, “I actually know how to make my own chicken and dumplings, so I’m good there. But thanks for looking out.”
“Really?” I’m intrigued.
“Yeah, I used to stay with my high school coach and his family sometimes. They wanted me to learn how to be independent. Mrs. Carver taught me how to cook a few things. She was really big on casseroles and Crock-Pot meals.”
“That sounds kind of nice.”
“It was.” His voice holds the tenderness of the memory. “It was homey.”
“I know the feeling. I miss having family dinners with homemade food, laughing with people around the table.”
“Me, too.”
We might not have a slow cooker at the ready, but it’s comfortable and domestic here in his apartment as Jordan sets to work making us a quick stir-fry and I set out plates and silverware.
“Hey, so I thought maybe in the morning I could take you to that coffee and karaoke place and treat you to breakfast before I head over to the hotel. Especially since you fed me all day today,” I offer.
Jordan grabs two glasses from the cabinet next to the sink. His shirt rises, and I catch a glimpse of the V-shapedindentation in his obliques, pointing down like a neon flashing arrow straight toward what I know I shouldn’t be thinking about. He fills the glasses with water and hands me one before leaning back against the counter to sip his own.
“We can go out tomorrow. But you’re not paying.”
I roll my eyes. “I can’t believe you're one ofthoseguys. No, I’m not letting you pay for me again. Sorry to tell you, but women are allowed to have jobs now and everything. We can at least take turns.”
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore when he holds out his glass to clink it against mine.
“I usually just microwave a Toaster Strudel or something in the morning,” he admits, taking another sip.
“I’m sorry, you do what?!” I’m appalled. “Who microwaves a Toaster Strudel? It tells you right in the name, they go in thetoaster.”
He shrugs and tosses some pre-chopped frozen vegetables into a pan, along with a spoonful of jarred garlic. “I don’t have a toaster.”
“Well, this is it. It’s finally happening. We’ve reached a fundamental disagreement. I simply can no longer be your friend. I can’t support a life without toast. Think of all those poor untoasted bagels, sandwiches, and Pop-Tarts,” I tease.
“Sorry to tell you, but I also eat my Pop-Tarts straight out of the package.”
“What?! Blasphemy. I’m pretty sure the toaster is the thing they’re supposed topopout of, hence the name.” I watch as he adds soy sauce to the veggies and boils water for rice noodles in a separate pot before tossing everything together. It smells like a restaurant in here, and he’s only been cooking for ten minutes.
“What can I say? I’m a rebel who willfully ignores the directions on packaged pastries. It’s my fatal flaw,” Jordan says, plating our food.
I scan him up and down and exaggerate my disappointment as I take a seat for dinner. “I’d rather skip breakfast altogether than let you take me down with you.”
He shakes his head at me good-naturedly.
The meal he threw together is amazing. A girl could get used to this. I wonder if I could get him to consider giving up baseball to be my own private chef.
When we’re finished, we move the few steps into the living room and sit together on the loveseat watching old sitcom reruns on TV. A small crocheted baseball with a cute embroidered face stares back at us from on top of the console and makes me smile.
It feels good to let my guard down around him, but when I shift my weight and my arm brushes his, Jordan reminds me exactly how he thinks of me when he scoots away to put more space between us. I’m still just Mike’s little sister to him. I probably always will be.
After a few episodes, we say goodnight and retreat into our separate, lonely rooms.
Chapter 7
Shelley
As happy as I am for Mike and Danielle, there’s a tiny pang of jealousy as I watch my brother exchange vows with his new bride. They're standing on the decorated pier in the Gibson’s yard, overlooking the Chesapeake Bay. I’ve never felt anything close to the love I can see in their faces when they look at each other.
