“Only if you want to help,” I put in quietly, rolling up my sleeves. “You can also sit at the table and keep us company if you’d prefer.”
“No. I, uh…” Isaac clears his throat. “Where’s the apron?”
With a smile, I grab it from the cupboard, and Isaac loops it over his head. Once tied, we wash our hands, and I lead Isaac over to where my uncle is currently prepping the chicken.
Isaac, as it turns out, has zero experience in the kitchen. But he tries his best, coating the drumsticks—and himself—in the rub I mix together. When the chicken goes into the oven, my uncle tasks Isaac with peeling potatoes.
“Away from your hand,” I tell him, adjusting his grip on a potato so he doesn’t take a slice out of his thumb.
He shoots me a chagrined smile over his shoulder, leaning back against me for a moment before I can step away. It takes concerted effort not to bend low and kiss the tiny freckle I can see on the tip of his ear.
My uncle asks Isaac questions as we cook. About his major. His family. About what he wants to teach and where he got his love for books.
Isaac doesn’t have a solid answer for that last one. “I just remember loving them, as far back as my memories go. My mom would read to me before bed each night, and I liked that time. For twenty minutes or so, we’d be transported to another world. It didn’t have to be better than our own, and it wasn’t always. But the fact that literature is capable of making us dream with our eyes wide open has always fascinated me. I’ve seen things through books my own brain would never have known to show me.”
My chest aches as I hand Isaac a towel to dry off his hands. “Your dad didn’t read to you?”
“Not much,” he says with a shrug. “Even before my parents split, it wasn’t his thing.”
I would think if Isaac is so passionate about it, his dad would make it his thing. But from what little Isaac has said about the man, his father’s priorities lie elsewhere.
“His loss,” my uncle says before twisting the top off the chili pepper oil. “Now somebody grab that bread while we’re waiting.”
As the chicken and potatoes cook, the three of us take a seat at the table, dipping pieces of baguette into little dishes of the oil. I can tell by Isaac’s increasingly red cheeks, it’s a bit spicier than he’s used to. But he soldiers on.
I make a point of mentioning I need water so I can get Isaac a glass while I’m up. He looks grateful, swallowing half of it down in one go.
When the timer dings, my uncle adds a honey BBQ glaze to the drumsticks, and Isaac and I mash the potatoes. It’s only another few minutes before we’re sitting down with our meal, fresh chives adding a pop of color to the potatoes and the chicken dripping as we move drumsticks to our plates.
It’s messy, but Isaac dives right in, groaning low as he bites into the chicken. “Holy crap, that’s good.”
My uncle chuckles. “Home-cooked meals always hit the spot. Trevor’s mother was big on eating healthy. I don’t know if I’ve done as good of a job as she would have, but I’ve tried my best.”
“You’ve done great,” I tell him, not for the first time. I’ve learned everything I know about cooking from my uncle. “I appreciate these meals. Thank you.”
“He’s a good one,” my uncle says to Isaac, affectionately tousling my hair. Thankfully, he uses the hand not covered in BBQ glaze.
I huff, but Isaac’s gaze is warm as I swipe my hair back out of my face.
When our dinner is done, my uncle shoos us from the kitchen so I can give Isaac a tour of the place. It doesn’t take long. Apart from the kitchen, there’s the small foyer wepassed through on our way in, a decently sized living space, and the hall that leads to the bedrooms and bath. Isaac seems interested in it all, stopping to look at wall art and the pictures placed around the apartment.
He points to one picture in particular in the living room. “Is that your mom?”
“It is.”
“She looks young here.”
I hum. She was twenty-five, the same age I am now. It hurts to know she didn’t get longer. “It was a long time ago.”
He nods, continuing on until we reach my bedroom at the end of the hall. I open the door, waving him in. He walks the perimeter slowly, glancing at the knickknacks on the dresser and the weight bench near the wall. His gaze skips quickly over the bed, but I don’t miss his swallow.
“So this is where you sleep,” he says, coming back my way.
“Mhm.”
“It’s a lot quieter than my place. Comfier, too.”
“Yeah? You haven’t even tested the bed yet.”
