“Oh, this is alreadyveryinteresting,” Lola says, tapping her fingers on the counter.
This is my fault, for mentioning it to her at all. It would have been smarter to just come in here, keep the whole thing to myself. Especially after having her ankle in my hand, hearing her gasp at my touch, looking up to see her biting her lip.
I was practically kneeling between her legs already. It did not help the wholetrying not to think about Lolaissue.
Once again, I drag my thoughts away from her. Away from the fact that she will, once again, be sleeping in my cabin tonight. And this time freshly showered and dressed in clean, soft clothes. Instead of thinking about that, I think about the measurements for the bread. The new flour I’m trying.
Even out here, I’m not immune to the trends, especially not with Pete bringing me books and journals each month. And sourdough seems like a very practical way to spend my time.
Since I’ve stopped developing, stopped coming up with new ideas for software, it’s felt good to do things with my hands. With the sourdough thing, I can feed the starter, watch it grow. Try new recipes and make a loaf for myself each week.
The first time I tried it, all I got was a tough hockey puck of a thing. But now, I’m pretty good. As I work, grabbing jars and pulling water from the tap, Lola peppers me with questions. And I find myself answering.
“What is the rubber band for?”
“So I can keep track of where the level was before.”
“Why does that matter?”
“You want the starter to double before you use it.”
“Did you make it yourself? Or did you buy it?”
“I made it myself,” I say, maybe a bit too defensively. After my first failure at making a starter, Pete had offered to ask for a starter from a stall at the farmers’ market. But I’ve never been the kind of guy who likes to take shortcuts.
“How long did that take?”
“About a week.” When I pull the lid from the jar, the room fills with the smell — a little sour, slightly yeasty. The precursor to fresh bread.
“Why do you need to feed it each day?”
“The starter is like a culture. There are bacteria in here that eat flour, and what they excrete is what holds the bread together.”
“Are you dumbing down the science for me?” she asks.
That makes me laugh, and I glance over at her quickly, which makes me spill some flour on the counter. Outside, the world is still gray, but the lights inside are warm, and they make her glow. Her hair is dry now and practically golden in the light, and her cheeks are pink.
“Don’t answer that,” she says, tilting her head. “Iknowthat you are. But that’s okay. I hate science.”
“You can’thatescience.”
“Why not? I’m sure there are plenty of things you hate.”
Elliot and Hannah, and business in general, come to mind, and I push them away before Lola — with her piercing gaze — can peel back my layers and see their faces hovering there like a television inside my mind.
“Everything is science,” I say, cutting a glance at her. “Your clothes, your phone — hating science is like hating existing.”
“Edgy.”
I laugh again, but this time I don’t spill a thing. Silence stretches between us, and I finish up what I’m doing with this loaf — mixing the flour, starter, and salt until it’s fully incorporated, then washing my hands and putting a tea towel over the whole thing, setting it to the side.
“You’re not going to bake it?” she asks, and I shake my head. It’s not that I’ve forgotten she’s here, exactly, but just that I feel comfortable. Like I’ve forgotten my body in these moments.
Before, everything felt like a performance. I was always aware of how I was perceived and wondering if it was good enough. With Elliot. Definitely with Hannah.
“It’s not ready yet,” I say, opening the fridge and pulling out the loaf I finished a few days before. It’s been proofing in the fridge for about forty hours, which, according to my data, is just about the perfect time at this elevation. “But this one is.”
“So what do you do now?” she asks.
