It's a lie and we both know it. I could make twenty different things with what's in these cabinets, could pull together a dozen meals without thinking. But she doesn't need to know that I watched a chef make it once and memorized every movement until I could recreate it perfectly.
She moves closer and leans against the counter, watching me work with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier, and the silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut.
"Can I help?"
"No."
"I could?—"
"I've got it."
She's quiet for a moment and I think maybe she'll let it go, but then: "You're doing it wrong though."
I look at her. "What?"
"The garlic. You're supposed to use whole cloves, smash them, not slice them."
I return to my cooking. "This way's fine."
"It's not traditional."
"You want traditional, go to Italy."
"I'm just saying." She crosses her arms and the movement makes my shirt pull tight across her chest in a way that's going to kill me. "If you're going to make it, make it right."
There she is. The sarcasm, the sharp edges, the challenge in her voice that I can actually handle because this I know how to navigate.
"You want to take over, Princess?"
"No. I want to criticize from over here. It's more fun."
The corner of my mouth twitches again but I force it down before she can see, focusing on the sauce instead of the way she's looking at me like she's trying to figure out a puzzle.
"Glad I could entertain you." The words come out dry, almost bored. "So I guess you're not eating."
"I didn't say that."
I drain the pasta and toss it with the sauce, watching steam rise between us to fill the space with the smell of tomatoes and garlic and something that feels dangerously close to normal. Like we do this all the time, like she belongs here in my kitchen making fun of my cooking, like the last four years of silence and distance never happened.
I plate two portions and slide one across the counter to her, watching as she looks at it, then at me, then back at the pasta like she's trying to solve some equation that doesn't add up.
"I’m finding it hard to believe you actually made me dinner."
"You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat."
She picks up the fork and I can see the hesitation in her eyes. The way she's second-guessing everything, wondering what this means, trying to figure out my angle. She finally twirls the pasta and brings it to her mouth.
She chews slowly and her eyes close in pleasure.
"Oh my god."
"What?"
"This is—" She takes another bite, chews, swallows, and I watch her throat work in a way that's completely inappropriate. "This is exactly like I remember."
