James has this uncanny ability to push my compulsive honesty button.
His frown deepens. “What do you mean, you don’t cook? You must have …” He waves his hand around. “… fried eggs or heated up a can of SpaghettiOs, things like that.”
I look down at my feet. “I’ve heated up canned food. Never really done eggs, though.”
He puts the spatula he was using down and turns toward me. “You’ve never made eggs? Like in a pan, over-easy?”
I did try once, a long time ago. The eggs were hard and dry and ...“My mom doesn’t cook. We’ve always eaten frozen meals. Peel the plastic off the top, stick it in the oven.”
“What about breakfast?”
“Does adding milk to cereal count as cooking?”
God, I should stop talking now. I bet he thought he’d be sharing with someone who would take turns making dinner. The thought of making something for James makes me break out in a hot sweat.
His eyes tip down toward the food, and he picks up his spatula again, giving it a stir. A sudden smile breaks over his face. “Well, while you’re staying here, I’ll teach you some recipes.”
I peer into the pan again. “It looks difficult.”
“Did throwing all that together look difficult?”
No, actually. No, it didn’t. “Yeah. Like rocket science.”
“I’d be quite worried if they sent rockets from Cape Canaveral that were as basic as my chicken, beans, and pesto recipe.”
I like his dry sense of humor. It’s like mine. He gets my jokes, and no one ever does that. Oh God, now I’m thinking I’ve got something in common withJames.He’s a computing genius who understands old-school, complicated hardware stuff and has a PhD.You’re an idiot, Sadie.
I tip my head toward where he’s moving the stuff around in the pan. “What’s next?”
“That’s pretty much it. A few extra veggies thrown in as well, if I’m feeling decadent.”
“What, you throw three ingredients in a pan, it cooks and miraculously tastes good?”
His eyes gleam at me. “You sound surprised.”
I’m amazed, to be honest, but I can’t say that. He leans to the side and nudges me with his shoulder, and the woodsy scent of him drifts over me again. Being here with him is like some dream life. A life that belongs to aglossy, confident woman who wears designer jeans and knows where to get her nails done.
“I could be trying to poison you,” he says.
I peer up into clear blue eyes behind his glasses. “Yes, but where would you hide the body?”
He snorts, a grin breaking across his face, and my lips curl up. Making him laugh is just … I stare out over the countertop to the living room. “This apartment is beautiful.”
“Yeah. If you could see the place that Jane and I lived in …” He trails off as his shoulders tense.
Whathasbeen going on with Jane? He said things were difficult, but that was all.
“I’m sorry about Jane, James,” I say. “Must be rough.”
He nods, not meeting my eyes. Not that I meet his most of the time anyway.
“I meant what I said when we talked in the office,” he says, and he does look at me now. “I really appreciate you being here. I’m sorry I was so abrupt with you when Des suggested this …”
I understand better now, and I get it. When you’re going through a tough time, the last thing you want is to talk to people or socialize. I feel like that all the time. Like, my worry about how things are fucking up takes up so much headspace that I have nothing left for making conversation with other people. I realize it’s not how most people think, but I don’t know how to think any differently. I’m also quiet, slow, and not the best roommate material.
“There’s no obligation to keep me company or hang out with me,” he adds.
Shit. I’ve been silent too long. “Same goes, James.” I take a deep breath. “I’m pretty boring company. I’m buried in a book 90 percent of the time.”
