“I’m from Jersey, Parker. We don’t have manners,” Ryan says over his shoulder.
Parker and Hearst look at me expectantly, making me realize I’m still in the doorway, taking up too much space.
“By all means,” I step aside, sarcasm lacing my words.
Hearst is carrying three bags of groceries, and the trio wanders inside, making themselves too at home for my liking.
“Pleasetake off your shoes,” I admonish. None of them have bothered, tramping all the dirt and filth from wherever they’ve been all over my entry hall.
“Sorry,” Hearst says, her platitude diametrically opposed to the way she rolls her eyes.
“If you did that in Sweden, you’d be crucified, just so you know. This way.” I shove past the three of them and lead them to my kitchen.
“Nice place,” the cameraman remarks. I can’t tell if he means it, and it makes me oddly self-conscious.
“Thank you,” I say, not that I know anything about design. I pay someone for that.
Hearst deposits her bags on my kitchen island, and already the troll twins are breaking out their film gear. I lean against my countertop, watching Hearst silently. When she starts digging through my kitchen drawers, I let her. Other company aside, there’s something I don’t entirely hate about watching her familiarize herself with my flat.
“Do you have a tenderizer?” she asks. I put one hand on her shoulder and gently move her out of the way, opening the correct drawer. Only, for some reason, I don’t drop my hand. She doesn’t shrug it off, either.
“Here.” I hand it to her and step away, my fingers lingering on her an extra moment before I restore an appropriate distance between us.
“What’s on the menu?” I say like an idiot, trying to keep the heat out of my face.
“One guess,” the Texan interjects. Hearst gives me a sardonic smile, and suddenly I feel like there’s a joke being had at my expense.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I say.
“What, you don’t like my Kubrick smile?” Hearst replies.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“If youguessed meatballs, it’s your lucky day.” Hearst pulls out what I can only describe as an entire log of meat.
I stare at it. “You can’t be serious.”
“Unless you’d rather pickle your own herring? I thought it’d be fun to make everyone cook something traditional from their hometowns.”
“I can’t believe someone is paying money to have this produced,” I say under my breath.
“Poirier’s making hamburger soup.”
“What the fuck is that?”
“Some Saskatchewanian abomination,” Hearst says.
“I’d rather die,” Parker comments.
“Damn, I was looking forward to poutine,” Ryan says.
Parker knocks his hat off his head. “That’s the PB&J of Canada. When are you gonna grow a real palate, bucko?”
“Simple is good,” Ryan quips as he picks it up.
“Where did you find these?” I move to Hearst’s side, plucking a jar of lingonberries out of her hand and scrutinizing the label. I’m close to her again—too close—but she doesn’t move away and I don’t really mind.
She bites her lip. “A furniture store which shall remain nameless.”
