“Oh.” Normally Laleh had gymnastics classes on Tuesday evenings, and got a ride home with one of her friends’ parents.
“Can you come downstairs? When you’re, ah, decent?”
My face burned even hotter.
Being caught making out by my father had deflated my indecency in zero point six eight seconds.
“Yeah,” I croaked.
Dad closed the door behind him.
“Sorry,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t know you were a biter.”
I tried to smile. But then, I don’t know why, I wanted to cry a little bit.
I’d switched medications for my depression over the summer, and while I mostly liked the new prescription, and felt ten to twenty percent better on average, sometimes I got very overwhelmed and wanted to cry.
“Hey. It’s okay.” Landon swiped a tear off my cheek.
“I know.” I mean, obviously my parents already knew about Landon and me. They’d seen us kiss before.
But notkisskiss.
“I know.” I took another breath. “I’m gonna help my dad. You wanna stay here?”
“Nah, I’ll come help too.”
“Thanks.”
One of the best things about Landon Edwards was how good he was in the kitchen.
Not just doing dishes: He was an awesome cook too.
While Dad took Laleh upstairs to get changed, I washed and peeled vegetables for Landon, who chopped them to make chicken noodle soup.
“What’s this?” He pulled down an unlabeled mason jar of brown spice and unscrewed the lid.
“Careful,” I said, but it was too late. Landon took a sniff, which led to a cascade sinus failure.
“Bless you.”
“Thanks. Whew.”
“It’s my mom’s advieh.”
“Advieh?”
“Like a family spice mix. For Persian cooking.”
“It’s different.”
He shook out a handful and tossed it in with the onions and carrots, then got to work chopping celery.
While Landon cooked, I set the table and watched him work. He had become so comfortable in our kitchen, it was like he lived there. He had this soft smile, and he hummed as he pulled apart leftover chicken breast to add it to the pot.
As Landon worked, Dad came down the stairs, his ears red.
