His father is silent for so long that Hiram hunts for ways, short of just hanging up, to end it.
“Yes, I did,” Barrett finally confesses.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t my fight.”
The words rattle in Hiram’s bones.
Hazel eyes peer out from behind the armchair. Antaris picks up a children’s dictionary, flips through it while sitting, sets it on the table, and scoots to the end of the sofa.
Hiram sneaks glances during each part of his approach, hiding his amusement as a head of damp curls pops up at the edge of the kitchen island.
“Would you like to help?”
The answer is a decisive, enthusiastic nod and something odd: Antaris taps the table twice.
Hiram looks around the kitchen before finding a step stool that brings Antaris to a height fit to see everything.
“Your list has pasta and cheese,” he says, bending slightly to show him. He and Antaris are close but not quite touching. “I thought I’d make Alfredo with grilled chicken on the side.”
Antaris’s excitement dims. After cycling through reasons, Hiram thinks he’s found the answer.
“Did your mom make this for you?”
Antaris nods slowly.
“Ah, yeah. It was her favorite.”
Hiram feels strange saying it out loud. Antaris knows more about Grace than Hiram knows about him.
“I can make something else if you ...” Antaris shakes his head. “Okay.”
Still a little blue, Antaris touches the bag of pasta, fingers lingering on the crinkled plastic.
“I usually like to make it from scratch,” Hiram admits. “I enjoy making something out of nothing, but if we want to eat before midnight”—he gestures to the clock—“this’ll do.”
He sets the water to boil, tossing in a generous pinch of salt. At Antaris’s inquiring look, he explains, “It helps it boil faster.”
Cooking has always been a solitary task for Hiram, quiet and focused. A time to challenge himself with balancing tastes and textures. He never had much time before, always working, but now, creating three meals a day for a picky eater has become more satisfying.
Strange how easily his life has changed. How quickly he’s adapted to Antaris’s presence. How naturally the words spill when his hands are busy.
“I was about your age when I learned to make eggs,” he says, measuring flour for the roux. “I burned them each time, but I never gave up.”
Antaris watches closely while Hiram makes the roux, seeming surprised when Hiram offers him the whisk.
“It’s mostly done, but it’s important to keep stirring while I add the ingredients.”
Antaris accepts the task with care, stirring slowly. He freezes at Hiram’s suggestions and relaxes with each hushed word of praise. They cook like this, with anecdotes from the parts of Hiram’s childhood thathave nothing to do with his parents. Antaris gradually unfurls. When the sauce is ready, Hiram offers him the first taste. They move on to the chicken. Hiram demonstrates how to clean and slice the chicken breast; Antaris watches, fascinated.
“Now we season it. How many can you recognize?”
Antaris points to the salt and pepper. Hiram nods and lets him sprinkle both on the chicken. More here, less there. It goes offtrack when Antaris starts pointing to random spices on the rack: dill, cinnamon, star anise.
“That’s not how it works,” Hiram explains. “We season to make food taste better.” He lets Antaris taste each one, hiding a smile when his son grimaces after the first two and outright refuses the third. “None of them taste good in this type of dish, so we try others until we find what works. Luckily for you, I already know.”
He picks out garlic and a few others from the rack, showing Antaris how to sprinkle them evenly. After the chicken has cooked and the pasta boiled, they sit at the table with their plates. Hiram’s anxiety spikes when Antaris stares at his meal, unmoving.
