I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled it.
“Wow!” Fiona exclaims as we step inside. “Smells good in here!”
“Fiona!” Khesan appears around the corner as we head toward the kitchen. “I’m glad you’re home. I was hoping it would be soon so dinner didn’t get cold.”
Dinner? Oh, no. Khesan has cooked while we were away, and I remember how that ended when I attempted it. The same concern registers on Fiona’s face, and she jogs into the kitchen. But there is no smoke, no fire alarm. Khesan turns off one of the burners on the stove, which has a pan on it full of food. There is a pot, as well, and a wooden board with fresh chopped vegetables on it.
“It’s almost done,” Khesan says as he busies about. Fiona is staring with her mouth open.
“How did you do this?” She steps closer, surveying the meal he’s prepared. My anger grows by the moment as I take in the sight of what he’s accomplished on his own.
“I looked up a recipe, then researched which pans and utensils to use. I made sure to only cook with the rubber ones in the non-stick pan.”
Fiona exhales a breath. “Thank you. I love that pan.”
Khesan reaches into a cupboard like it’s his own kitchen and withdraws a bowl, passing it to her.
“I have prepared stir-fry chicken with peppers and onions over rice, and spring onion to go on top. It was also suggested I make a sauce, so I used some of your condiments to create it.”
Fiona lets out an ooh as she takes the offered bowl and opens the pot, revealing a fluffy white grain. She spoons some out, then moves to the pan and does the same.
“Looks heavenly,” she says to Khesan, her face alight. “Thank you so much.”
“It is what husbands do, isn’t it?” he answers, and I don’t realize that I’m emanating a low hiss until Khesan smirks at me. “What’s wrong with you? Even your fans are up.”
I didn’t notice that, but I am both infuriated and jealous. Why couldn’t I have created such a lovely meal for Fiona this morning instead of smoke and charred meat? But because of our date, Khesan beat me to it, and now he has capitalized on time that Fiona and I spent away together.
“I still don’t know how you did all this alone,” Fiona says as she takes her bowl to the table.
Khesan preens. “I am good at following instructions.”
I just want to knock that smug look right off him.
Khesan helps himself next, and then I am last, but there is enough food for me, too. I hold in a snarl as I scoop it out the way he instructed and join them at the table.
The worst part? The meal is… delicious. Wonderful. Flavorful. I hunch further and further forward as I eat. He did this all while we were away, in a kitchen that looks nothing like what we have on our home world. He has leapt leagues ahead of me, and… I can’t help but admire it. I am supposed to be the better cook, having owned my own grocery for my entire adult life. But here is this military-grade child using a recipe book and a communicator.
“This is amazing, Khesan!” Fiona jams her fork into her bowl and spears another piece of chicken. “I don’t know how you did it.”
“You had all the ingredients,” he says calmly. “I just struggled with the labels.”
I say nothing about the meal, but Khesan smirks at me anyway.
That night, after Fiona has shown me how to clean up after a meal—which led to the discovery of the dishwasher, a simple and yet remarkable device—Khesan goes to his room for the night. Fiona offers to help me find homes for the lamp and the inexpensive painting I purchased at the thrift store, and she follows me down into the basement.
I get to be alone with her yet again, and this time, I will make the most of my opportunity. We find a place for the lamp on a small side table, and then Fiona pulls down an illustration of a furry creature with pointed ears holding onto a hanging wire. The text says, “Hang in there.”
“I’ve always thought this is tacky,” she says with a chuckle. “But Mom loved it.”
I hang my painting on the hook left behind, and we both stand back to observe its placement. Fiona straightens it, then nods in satisfaction.
“Look at that. Now it’s more your space.” She sighs. “Weird how things change.”
“Are you comfortable with this?” I ask. “Changing what used to belong to your mother?”
“No, no, it’s good. It’s time to put some of this stuff away anyway, or donate it.” She smiles up at me. “I want you to feel at home here.”
I will feel most at home when I am sharing a room with her, but that is for the future.
