“It makes no sense to have the plates in a drawer that they don’t fit into. Why wouldn’t you have plates and bowls all in one place, like a cupboard for example?”
“I like the plates being at reaching distance from the stove.”
He frowns. “But only half of them can fit in that drawer.”
“I’m only one little person.” I shrug. “I don’t need six plates available to me on a whim. All I need is one plate waiting for me in that drawer and I’m sorted.”
Lifting his eyes to the ceiling in despair, he sighs. “If I open this drawer now, how many plates are going to be in there? Would I be right in guessing there are none because they’re all in the dishwasher?”
“You know what you need to do, Ryan?” I say innocently.
“Live a little?” he guesses.
I laugh, releasing him from my embrace and going to open the dishwasher, bending down and passing him two clean plates, before shutting it again. He looks pained.
“Bloody hell,” I say, putting my hands on my hips, “you won’t start cooking until the dishwasher is unloaded, will you?”
“I’m not proud to admit this, but it puts me startlingly on edge,” he grimaces, coming over to help me as I pull the door down again. “And don’t get me started on your dishwasher technique. How anything gets cleaned in here when you pile it up in this haphazard way is a miracle.”
I let him lecture me on the best way of arranging the cutlery in the dishwasher because it’s very nice of him to cook and he looks very sexy when he talks passionately about something, his forehead creased in stern concentration. Florence was great, but I’m discovering that I like the version of us here, too, bickering over plates and bowls, comforting each other after a bad day at work. Small moments with Ryan seem as meaningful as the big ones.
Later, my phone rings, and when I see it’s my dad calling, I groan, pushing it away a little too enthusiastically. It flies off the table, clattering onto the floor.
“Whoops,” I say, checking that the screen isn’t more cracked than it already was.
“Who was that?” Ryan asks curiously.
“My dad. I’ll message him later.”
“You can call him back now if you want to.”
I shoot him a look.
“Or not,” he chuckles, recoiling under my glare. “You want to talk about it?”
“What?”
“Your parents,” he says gently.
I pause, reaching for my wine and taking a sip for courage. “We haven’t seen each other in a while,” I say finally. “I think the last time was Easter. It didn’t go well. We had a huge row. I don’t know why they insist on meeting for dinner. No one has a good time. We should give up. I honestly don’t know why we bother.”
Ryan listens intently, waiting for me to say more. When I stay silent, he says simply, “Because they’re your parents.”
“Yeah, well, they wish they weren’t,” I mutter glumly, picking up my wine again and this time taking a large glug.
He watches me carefully. “You’re seeing them for dinner soon, then?”
“Next week.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
I snap my head up to check he’s being serious. “What?”
“If you want some moral support, I could come with you,” he suggests calmly, looking completely unfazed by the idea.
“Ryan, you don’t know what they’re like. You do not want to put yourself in this situation, trust me. Avoid at all costs.”
“I know that you find it tough to spend time with them, and I want to support you. It doesn’t matter to me how the evening goes, as long as you’re okay.”
