“It’s fine to need help, y’know, it sounds like your workload has increased, and you could use an extra hand.”
Staring at Shawn, I realize something has changed. I haven’t seen this side of him before, a defiant streak that didn’t really exist when we met.
He wanders around the kitchen island, finding the sink piled high with the aftermath of my efforts. He glances at the comically long rubber gloves that are dripping from the dish towel hooks. I’m waiting for them to dry out again before I tackle the sink.
“I don’t need you to help me wash dishes,” I say preemptively, but he’s already pulling open the drawer with all of the dishtowels, laying them out on the counter for when he’s done.
“Isn’t that what I’m here for?” he says over his shoulder, then with a smooth, sardonic tone, “I know how you love to snap the latex on.”
I don’t really approve of wearing gloves for cooking, but I can’t stand washing dishes barehanded. I don’t like touching dishes with food scraps that have been soaking for the last hour, making a terrible soup in the sink.
“I thought you were here to annoy me,” I say over my shoulder, checking the fridge door shut with my hip.
“Well, that too. Maybe I wish I’d had more time doing dishes with you, alright?”
“Let’s be clear, you are doing them by yourself, voluntarily.”
“Sure, boss.”
I set the bowl of focaccia dough and veggies out on the part of the kitchen island that isn’t set up for icing flavorcombinations and turn back around to root around for a knife and a cutting board.
“I just wanted a chance to talk a bit. We haven’t talked in...”
I pull the cutting board out. “Eight years.”
He flinches.
I turn away and take out the olive oil and a carton of cherry tomatoes. “What was there to talk about? Our lives untangled pretty easily.”
“You think I don’t want to know how you’ve been?”
I make a gesture to our surroundings, the palatial kitchen that I spend most of my time in. “What’s there to tell? I’ve been working with the brewery,and with your mom,for a few years. Clearly, I didn’t realize that when my business partnered with Aconite Ales.”
His eyebrows raise in surprise. “Years?”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s consistent work. I was enjoying a bit of job security, there isn’t always much of that in the catering industry.”
“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, and I can see in his face that he means it.
Whatever that’s worth.
I fold my arms together and hold them close against my chest, weighing his apology. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that you apologized.”
“Yeah, I...didn’t always think to do that,” he says, then winces, and I wonder what specific things he’s remembering.
I’m not gratified by that. I squash whatever sense of peace I feel at thinking he regrets how he behaved during our relationship. I still hate him, on principle. But I can’t pretend I haven’t wondered what he’s been up to as well, how the years have treated him, what he’s like now.
He takes a cautious glance at me, apparently thinking along the same lines when he asks, “How’s your family doing? Or, families, in your case.”
I feel my expression sour reflexively, like taking a straight bite of lemon.
Shawn looks like he swallows a laugh at my expression. “That bad, huh?”
I huff out a breath. “No, they’re fine. Both my stepsiblings graduated high school last year.”
And neither of my parents thought to invite me to either ceremony. They forgot I exist, again.
I clench my teeth at the thought. It’s been so long since I’ve talked to either of them, that I honestly don’t know why I care anymore. I can get along fine on my own.
