The kitchen fills with that slow-building warmth only a stew can make. It smells like every memory I have of home.
This recipe’s been with me since before I left for college. Mom printed it out for me and slipped it into a binder she swore I’d need if I didn’t want to survive off ramen. Back then, I thought she was being dramatic. Turns out, she was handing me something more than instructions. Every smudge of spice on the page, every oil mark on the paper, it’s a record of the times I’ve come back to it. Comfort. Routine. A way to make wherever I am feel like home.
My hands move with muscle memory now, but that doesn’t stop this morning’s antics at the store from floating back into my mind. Liv slipping her arm through mine. The surprise I felt at her body against mine.
I huff out a laugh under my breath, shaking my head. It was only so she could get the discount at the store, nothing more. I don’t need to read into it.
I toss in the bay leaf and stir. My mom would have teased me mercilessly for forgetting.
I stir the pot harder than I mean to, white plumes curling up into my face. This morning might’ve been fake, but it landed in that same part of me people always seem to point to, the one that says I’m reliable, solid, safe. The one I can never quite escape.
The truth is, I don’t mind being dependable. I know how to be that guy. I just don’t know what happens if one day it isn’t enough, if being steady and reliable is all people ever see. Being that got me that volunteer spot with the Jaguars, and that didn’t work out, so maybe I need to figure out a way to not play it safe all the time?
Maybe the fact that I’m living with one of the most impulsive people I know, I could learn a few things.
I lean against the counter, arms folded, breathing it in when the door opens, and in swirls my very own wild roomie, bags balancing in her arms, curls electrified around her face, jacket slipping off one shoulder. When I notice the pale skin being revealed, I push off the counter and step in before my mind can wander.
“Shit, this is heavy,” she pants, nearly dropping one of the grocery bags. I catch it just in time, and seeing the eggs inside, it’s a good thing I did.
“You went shopping?” I ask, even though it’s probably the most obvious question I could’ve picked. “I thought you were going on a date tonight?”
“No, I found all this on the side of the road. Had to fight a badger for it.” Her face dances with mischief as she looks up at me.
I eye her, deadpan. “Worth the rabies shot you’ll need for fighting him?”
She kicks the door shut behind her with her foot and a smile as wide as the lakes. “Nah, selfish bastard kept the avocados.”
Setting the eggs down gently on the counter while she starts unloading, I watch what’s being pulled out. Bread, cereal, oat milk, grapes, three types of cheese, four different popcorn flavors, and a few cartons of peach iced tea decorate my kitchen counter in seconds.
“As for the date, I left within the first twenty minutes because he kept on calling me babe. Hence the grocery shop.”
“Ah, not a fan of nicknames?”
“It depends. He has no idea about me, at least get to know me first and let the nickname come naturally.” She pauses, her nose lifting and scrunching, inhaling deeply. “Oh god, what is that heavenly smell?” She moans, and I suddenly forget how to function like a normal human being. My teenage brain kicks in and demands an encore. Fantastic, now anything I can imagine is absolutely not safe for work. “Jay?” she asks again, looking over to the stove. “Please tell me it’s something you made and I’ll be eating shortly.”
I clear my throat, trying to reset. “It’s feijoada. Portuguese stew. My mom’s recipe.”
Liv’s eyes widen as she drifts closer to the stove like she’s under some kind of spell. “You madethat? Just… casually? On a Sunday?”
“I meal prep, remember? Plus, I made extra,” I say, suddenly very focused on needing to stir the pot andnoton the way she’s leaning over it, reminding me of earlier in the shop.
She sighs, dramatic and pleased. “Jay, I swear, this smells like something you’d write poetry about.”
I glance over at her. “Please don’t write poetry about stew.”
“No promises.”
She peeks into the pot again, eyes dreamy, then she turns to me. “Wait, did you say you made extra?”
“Uh, yeah?” Heat crawls up my neck at a rapid pace. “I thought you might want to try it.” I don’t know why that makes me feel nervous. I’ve cooked for my friends before.
Her mouth hangs open a little as she stares at me, completely dumbfounded. “No one’s ever made dinner for me,” she says quietly, then turns to face the pot with a look I recognize from the other day. She inhales the aroma, and I just stare at her and wonder why she’s never had dinner made for her before. That’s bullshit. What kind of guys is she dating? Clearly not the right kind.
“Seriously, though,” she says, “if you ever need to win someone over, just make this.”
“Good to know,” I mutter, trying to play it cool, even though my ears feel suspiciously warm. Am I annoyed on her behalf or bewitched by her in general? Who knows. “You know, we should probably do grocery shopping together from now on.”
“Domesticating me already?” she teases.
