He chuckles, that easy laugh that’s gotten us both out of trouble more times than I can count. “It’s okay. Keep trying.”
“Are you sure this is one of the essentials?” I scrape the mess to the side of the pan.
“Positive.” He reaches around me to refresh both our coffees, the French roast he insists on buying from that overpriced place downtown. “How are you going to cook for your next girlfriend?”
The word girlfriend pulls on something I’ve been trying to ignore. Five years since Devin. Five years of first dates that never turned into thirds, of women whose names I can barely remember now. Since the injury, I haven’t even tried. Haven’t wanted to. I’ve mostly avoided women—all people, in general—altogether.
According to Niall, it’s a crime to be thirty-five and not know how to cook. So we’ve been in the kitchen this whole week while he’s off work. Grilled cheese on Monday—burned the first three. Lasagna Tuesday—forgot the ricotta. Roast chicken Wednesday—actually turned out decent. Ratatouille yesterday—looked nothing like the movie. And now this.
“I’m not looking for a girlfriend.” The words come out flat, unconvincing even to my own ears.
“Or boyfriend.” He’s at the counter now, peeling grapefruit for our fruit salad. “To each his own.”
I roll my eyes. We’ve been attached at the hip since third grade, when he moved in three houses down and immediately challenged me to a street hockey match. He knows exactly which way my compass points.
“What time are you calling your family?”
My stomach clenches. Part of me wishes he’d stayed on the girlfriend topic. Asked about Devin, even. She clearly wants nothing to do with me—made that crystal clear—but her name sits in my throat constantly, waiting for someone, anyone, to give me permission to say it out loud.
The digital clock on the stove glows 9:30. “In thirty minutes.”
He studies me with that look, the one that says he’s cataloging every tell I’ve never learned to hide. “You could just not call them.”
I laugh, and he joins in, because we both know that’s not how the Paxton family works.
“Of course I could.” I remove my disaster of a pancake from the skillet and ladle another scoop of batter in, watching it spread into something vaguely circular. “And then I’d have to pay for it.”
The pancakes look terrible, but at least they’re edible. The sigh escapes before I can stop it. “It’s just easier to get it over with.”
“Have you told them about the coaching job yet?”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. My parents and three brothers think I’m here for an extended visit with Niall. They don’t know about the house I sold, the furniture I donated, the new key on my ring that opens a door to something they’d never understand.
Real athletes don’t coach teenagers. Real athletes get ESPN contracts and endorsement deals. Real athletes play football, like Josh and Lance and Caleb. Not hockey. Never hockey.
“What if you just say that you’re still assessing your options?”
“Yeah.” I watch the batter bubble—too many bubbles? Not enough? The pancake actually looks decent this time, golden around the edges. “That could work.”
I flip it with newfound confidence. For once, the bottom’s perfectly golden-brown, not a burn mark in sight. A small victory, but I’ll take it.
“Good. Now just try to get the next one in between undercooked and overcooked.”
“Easier said than done.” Though this one gives me hope.
Sophie emerges from her studio when we sit down to eat, paint smudged on her cheek, that dreamy look she gets when apiece is coming together. She kisses Niall’s cheek before stealing a piece of his bacon.
“Morning, Oliver. How’s the pancake apprenticeship going?” She grins at my stack, which varies from pale to charred with that one perfect specimen on top.
“Getting there.” I slide the perfect one onto her plate. “This one actually turned out.”
“My hero.” She takes a bite and her eyes widen. “Hey, this is really good!”
“One out of twelve isn’t bad,” Niall teases.
I manage three bites despite Sophie’s encouragement. My palms are already sweating and my heart rate picks up speed. The kitchen clock ticks toward ten like a countdown to execution.
By the time the dishes are done and I’m climbing the exterior stairs to my apartment, the world has taken on that underwater quality that comes before panic really sets in.
