“You hired me to catch a ghost, not become a Michelin chef,” he whined.
“You offered to cook,” I corrected. “You said ‘You’re too sore from last night, let me cook you my favorite’.”
He grinned, so boyish and smug. “Okay, I did say that. But there’s still hope!”
“You’re having a full blown conversation and burning thesauce, I think hope flew out the window.”
He bumped his hip into mine. “You doubt my abilities.”
“Wholeheartedly,” I replied, as I stole a piece of grated cheese and popped it into my mouth.
He gasped dramatically. “That was a garnishing piece.”
“It’s my kitchen.”
“Again…” He stopped, sighed, then cleared his throat. “You’re right, definitely yours.”
I smirked into the wooden spoon I’d stolen from him. “Uh-huh. Cook away, Chef.”
And he did. We moved around the kitchen like we’d done it a hundred times, laughing, touching elbows, dodging each other in small dances, and talking about our lives outside this life, a life that for the life of me, I missed. I missed my friends, missed our Friday chicken and beer ritual, missed David and his annoyingly good boy charms. God, was life always this beautiful?
He told me about his best friends, their plans for the New Year, and how they once tried to ghost-proof his room by hanging garlic everywhere that nearly killed him in his sleep, hence why he hates garlic. I told him about the girls, and David too, about my childhood. He talked with his hands, his big, expressive, dramatic hands, and spilled a bit of sauce on the counter mid-story.
“You mentioned your brother was adopted?” he smiled.
“Max? Yeah he was,” I said over a laugh. “I can’t remember at what age he was, though. But I came that same year he was adopted,” I laughed again, the memory of the story from my mother’s POV always made me laugh.
“I can’t imagine the joy your parents must’ve felt,” he commented, and I couldn’t decide if he was being sarcastic or serious.
“Mother said Max was a ball of sunlight when he came, and when she got pregnant with me, the light kinda almost blindedher.” I shook my head.
“You two must really miss them,” he smiled warmly.
“I know we do, but since the accident, this is the first time I’m going to be seeing Max. He just kinda vanished on me, and I on him.”
“Well, I’m glad he’ll be here tomorrow, on your birthday.”
“Right, me too.” I smiled, and let the conversion move to him and his mom’s relationship, then we somehow found ourselves back to square one, talking about the food he was making, and I teased him about it for five whole minutes.
He retaliated by flicking flour at me, I retaliated by dumping flour on his hair. He stood there, white-haired and open-mouthed.
“You’ve…assassinated my dignity.”
“No,” I said, snorting. “Just seasoned it.”
After a little while of more normality, we sat on the counter while the pasta cooled, the same counter that started a morning of madness.
He nudged my knee with his. “You’re different today.”
“Different good or different bad?” I smiled at him.
He tilted his head. “Different good…like you’re breathing again.”
I looked down at my flour-stained fingers. “Feels like I’m learning how.”
His smile softened. “Then let’s make today simple.”
“Simple,” I smiled.
