"There's a button," she says.
"I know there's a button."
"You're a fire captain," she says.
"I'm aware."
"Just noting it."
She looks at the stove. At the pan, still sitting on the cold burner, the garlic beyond any reasonable description. Then she looks at me, still standing on the chair, dish towel in hand,and her expression is so neutral that holding it is costing her something visible.
"How long have you been doing this?" she asks.
"A while," I say, which is a dignified non-answer.
"Beck."
"It's handled."
She sets her mug on the counter, opens the refrigerator, and surveys what's available with the calm efficiency of someone accustomed to finding solutions in unreasonable situations. Peanut butter from the second shelf. Bread from the counter. Butter knife from the second drawer she tries, because she already knows the first drawer is where I keep the spatulas. That small thing — the fact that she knows which drawer — lands somewhere I'm not ready to examine.
"Sit down," she says.
"You're not cooking in my kitchen."
"I'm not cooking," she says. "Sit down."
I step off the chair and sit at the kitchen table. Gemma makes two sandwiches without ceremony — peanut butter spread evenly, both halves pressed together, cut diagonally. She sets a plate in front of me and sits across the table with her own, bare feet hooked on the chair rung, and takes a bite.
"This is the best date I've ever been on," she says.
I look at her.
She's not faking it. That's what catches me — no brightness turned up for the room, no smile she's managing. Just her face, open and steady, a smear of peanut butter at the corner of her mouth she hasn't noticed, looking at me like there's nowhere else she'd rather be than in this kitchen that smells like failure and dish soap.
"You're being nice," I say.
"I'm being honest," she says. "Mrs. Delgado's note. Hazel with the phone. Big Jim announcing us like we'd walked into theSuper Bowl. And then this." She looks at the sandwich, then back up. "This is the most fun I've had in I don't know how long."
"You have a very low bar for fun," I say.
"I have a well-calibrated one," she says. "Most dates I've been on, everyone's performing. Like the whole point is to convince the other person you're worth their time. This was just—" She gestures around the kitchen, at the open window and the cold draft and the pan that will need soaking. "Real."
My chest doesn't settle the way it should.
"The restaurant being closed was not planned," I say.
"I know. That's what made it great." She's looking at me steadily across a failed attempt at a real date that somehow became one anyway, and I cannot get a read on what's behind her eyes except that she means every word and is waiting to see if I'll believe her.
"You're serious," I say.
"Completely serious," she says.
The refrigerator hums. The window lets in pine and cold air. On the counter behind her, the second ruined pan sits waiting to be dealt with.
"Okay," I say.
She picks up her sandwich and takes another bite.
