“Chef Luke reporting for duty,” I announced as I returned to the living room, setting the breakfast tray on the coffee table before him. “Two over-easy eggs, and in true millennial fashion I’ve included a piece of toast with avocado, and lastly the finest coffee this humble establishment has to offer.”
Oliver sat up, the pain evident in the way he moved, all slow and stiff, a grimace on his face. He took the plate and mug, settling both in his lap. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied, settling into the rocker chair I’d dragged back out from his bedroom. His bedroom. It might be strange to call the guest room his already, but it seemed right. I didn’t want him thinking he was squatting. While he stayed here, however long that might be, this would be his home as much asit was mine. “Now, I have an extremely important question. One that will determine the fate of our legacy as housemate buddies.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Ultra serious, the most serious.”
“Okay?”
“If you had to replace your dominant hand with a kitchen utensil, which one would you choose?”
“Uh . . . I have no idea.”
“Take your time.”
After several moments of his eyes pointed to the ceiling he said, “I think a melon baller.”
“Oh! My mom used to make her famous fruit salad with a melon baller as a kid. Carrie and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I’d forgotten those exist.”
“Yeah, they’re not super common, I guess. I took culinary arts as an elective in high school. Several of our projects required using one. I sort of fell in love with it. It’s far more versatile than people think. Sure, there’s the standard of making decorative fruit garnish, but it has so many other uses. You can use it to deseed and hollow out vegetables, scoop ice cream, make butter balls, portion out cookie dough. You can even use it to make meatballs.”
As he talked, Oliver’s hands were flying all over the place, and hell if it didn’t make me stupidly happy to see. It made me wonder how much of this, of him, Vincent and his family had tried to squash down. Well, that wouldn’t happen here on my watch. “So, if you had one for a hand, you’re tellin’ me you’d get like way more cool features out of it than people think?”
“Partially. You’d also be able to do the impossible, and hold water in your hand. There would be magic in that, I think, the ability to carry something that usually slips through your fingers.”
My heart tightened at the wholesomeness of his answer. “That would be pretty special.”
“But more than that, melon ballers create something beautiful and fun. Who doesn’t love little spheres of fruit or balls of butter and cute little scoops of ice cream? Not everything needs to be sharp or hard to be worthy of praise. Sometimes, the gentlest tools make the sweetest and most memorable things. I want to do that. I want to shape my softness into something fun, something people admire, that some might want and see as beautiful.”
“Okay, wow. That was hands down the most beautiful answer to a random kitchen prosthetics question I’ve ever heard in my life.”
He shrugged.
“You deserve good things, alright?” I said. “You deserve softness. People might’ve stomped on your sweet nature before, but I promise you there are people who’ll see it and love the hell outta you for it.”
A little crescent formed on his lips. “Thank you.”
“It’s only the truth.”
Staring down at his coffee, he ran his thumb across the rim of the mug. He flicked his eyes up at me, but the second our eyes were about to make contact he bailed, looking right back to his mug.
“What’s your answer?” he blurted, chucking the spotlight at me like a hot potato. I got it. Being seen was risky for him, compliments looked like booby traps, and deflecting was his safety button. So I caught the redirect and rolled with it.
“Me? I’m all in on the C-shaped dough hook. Useless as a prosthetic; paperwork would be wrecked, texting would be a disaster, and the state might not be keen on renewing my security credentials with that thing. But looks? Legendary. I’d be like a modern Captain Hook, minus the villain vibe andthe whole crocodile beef. And honestly, it’d make a killer intimidation move for anyone dumb enough to mess with our clients. Less Neverland, more never again on my watch.”
Another smile spread across Oliver’s face, larger this time, teasing, bright enough to shine even through the bruises.
“Somehow, I’m not surprised by that answer.”
“I’ll take my predictable clichédom as a compliment,” I said.
“Predictable? Maybe. But something tells me never boring.”
“Speaking of boring, and sorry to drag it back to practical stuff, but I want to make sure you’re covered. Have you talked to your job about time off? I’m guessing you’re missing work?”
“Crap! No I haven’t.” He began to move again, planting his feet on the ground.
