Jonah grabs a broom from the corner by the fridge, and uses the handle to press the off button on the alarm. He sets the broom down, walks to the sink and gets a glass of cold water.
“Here,” he says, setting it down next to the stove. “For your hand.”
“Oh it’s nothing. It’s not really burned.”
“Do it anyways,” he grumbles.
“Fine.” I stick my hand into the water and try not to sulk. “I need to finish dinner, though.”
“I can finish it.” Using a pot holder, he puts the cast iron back onto the burner, and turns the heat on. He flips the steak and I see that it’s pretty blackened.
“I hope it still tastes okay.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
“I still need to boil the potatoes. I hope that doesn’t take too long.” I turn on the back burner with the potatoes on it.
“Uh, Winnie?” Jonah asks.
“Yes?”
“Have you ever cooked before?”
I fiddle with the dishtowel in my hands nervously. “Well, I know how to make avocado toast. And smoothies. Lots and lots of smoothies at the Grant house. Plus rice cakes.”
“Rice cakes. Right. But not steak?”
“No. But my dad used to grill it, and it never took that long, so I figured it would be a good meal for me to try and make. For you.”
“For me?”
I nod. “You left me breakfast this morning. And you uh, well you married me. And you let me move into your house so that we could make it look real. Dinner was meant to be a thank you, but…” I trail off and glance around the kitchen. It’s a disaster. The water for the potatoes is only just starting to boil, meanwhile the steak is done. The asparagus I sautéed is burnt, and there are potato peels all over the counter and floor.
Jonah doesn’t say anything. He goes over to the pantry and returns with a loaf of crusty bread, and then he gets a pack of salad mix and a bottle of steak sauce from the fridge. He slices the steak and then plates it along with some of the juices, and the salad and bread on the side.
“We’ll have the potatoes tomorrow, because they’ll need a good ten minutes of boiling before we can mash them,” he says by way of explanation.
We sit down at the small wood plank dining table, which looks like a smaller version of the one that he made with his dad. The steak looks completely brown on the inside, but the juices look okay. Maybe I didn’t ruin things completely.
I take a bite, and even though my inexperienced palette can tell it’s far from perfect, flavor still explodes in my mouth and floods my senses. “Oh my God,” I say after chewing. “I know I overcooked this but I haven’t had steak in so long, and it’s so good.”
“Did your parents control what you ate or something?” Jonah’s voice contains a dark note to it, like the mere idea of this pisses him off.
I set my utensils down, suddenly not wanting to eat another bite. I’ve been doing really well eating whatever I want, but as soon as I think about my mom and whatshemight think of my meals, I get anxious.
“Yeah,” I admit. “They did. Mostly my mom.” I look down at the table and trace the wood grains with my finger tip, rather than meet Jonah’s eyes.
“Well, fuck that,” he says resolutely. “But we don’t have to talk about it anymore. Eat whatever the hell you want.”
“Thanks.” I pick my fork up again and take another bite, my anxiety lessened. It’s nice that Jonah doesn’t expect an explanation or ask too many questions. I guess he could tell that talking about it made me anxious.
“How’s your mom doing?” I ask, wanting to make sure that he’s okay as well.
“She’s good. She has a scan and a checkup soon.”
I know that this must be making him nervous—that he must be dreading the results. I don’t want Jonah to feel like I’m pushing him to talk, so I just say, “I can go with you, if you want me to. For support.”
He considers my offer for a moment, his empty fork hanging in the air. He’s clearly unsure of how to respond.
