“We’re just about to start cooking,” she calls back, her voice only slightly breathless.
She straightens her hoodie.
I tuck a strand of honey-gold hair behind her ear.
We share a brief, searing look, then we break apart as they come tumbling in.
“We heard some muffled sounds and worried for his health,” Liz says.
Francesca turns red and whirls around.
I find my abandoned beer and lift it, grinning at her friends. I’m not embarrassed at all that they overheard us kissing.
This is what I want. Not just the kissing, though that’s pretty fucking spectacular. But being part of Francesca’s everyday world.
As she adds a freezer bag of cooked ground meat and diced veg to the pot on the stove, her roommates tell me about the origin story of this very specific dinner.
“Her first year out here for med school was our girl’s first year living on her own.”
“Ever?” I look at Francesca with surprise. The woman I met in Vegas was so confident and mature for someone who had only been living on her own for a few years.
She makes a face. “Controlling parents. I lived in residence every year of my undergrad, and at home for my Masters degree.”
“Was that Boston?”
She nods, hesitating briefly before adding, “My mom stayed there after my dad took a job in St. Louis.”
So she agreed to live at home for a year because her father wasn’t there.
And then fled to the west coast as soon as she got into medical school.
I wonder how much of her life her parents are still involved in. Tuition and living expenses have to be pretty steep.
But that’s going to change in the summer.
Freedom for Francesca is right around the corner.
I can understand why she doesn’t want to rock the boat right now. I stormed into her life at exactly the wrong moment.
“I was trying to eat as cheaply as possible, but I was living in this really tiny little studio apartment, and I only had two burners. One pot, one frying pan. Basic. So I mastered the onepot pasta, and to this day, it’s pretty much the only thing I know how to make.”
“Not true, she makes amazing breakfast for dinner, too,” Liz says, storming to her defense.
They all share an affectionate look.
Francesca nods. “I can make eggs. So that’s two meals. But I’ve perfected this one. It comes together really quickly because I’ve prepped these frozen packets in advance. Now I just add stock and tomatoes, and then pasta, and it all cooks together into this delicious comfort food.”
My mouth is watering already from the scent. “It smells amazing.”
“Thanks.” She beams at me.
“How about you, Logan?” Sloane has made herself comfortable at the table again. A beer bottle swings between her fingers, and there’s a bright, inquisitive gleam in her eye. “Can you cook?”
Can you take care of our girl who only knows two meals and is going to be working her butt off as a doctor?
“I can cook.”
“His sister is a chef,” Francesca says.
