“I will,” I lie, and I have never felt sicker. “Just not right now.” I try to smile, but I have already done the damage.
I don’t lie,especiallyto The Apartment.
She studies me for a second, then nods slowly, disappointment flickering in her expression like a dimming light. “Okay.” She liesher head on my chest, and I can only hope she doesn’t hear my heart crack. “I just hope you know you can trust me.”
“I do,” I whisper.
We sit in silence for some time, my turn to stroke her head. I match my breathing with hers and look at the wall.
She gets up and hesitates in the doorway like she wants to say something else. She doesn’t; instead, she just walks out.
And when she does, I feel hollow.
I go to the kitchen and start cooking.
It’s not my turn, but I need some sort of release, and mixing ingredients to make different flavors gives me exactly that.
Seeing the tomatoes slowly turn into a liquid in the pan satisfies the part of me that needs a repetitive constant.
Nothing stays the same; everything disappoints you at one point.
Cooking never does.
No matter what, putting pepper and salt in a mix of tomatoes and basil and mixing it in a pan will always give you the same result.
No matter what, putting penne in boiling water will always make the pasta soften.
It’s a secure bet, and something I find peace in.
Like a safe space in a storm.
A repetitive constant, something my grandfather taught me, and it stuck with me.
It’s funny how he found it in volleyball, and I find it in cooking.
I almost feel the disappointment in his eyes when I think it, which is a word, so I decide not to think about him.
Which makes me feel even more guilty, but I don’t think my grandfather would want me to drown in self-pity, especially when it comes to me-
“Need help?”
Tilly’s voice breaks whatever spiral that was, and I have never been more grateful.
I expected it, because she hates being alone unless she’s reading, and she can’t sit still for longer than an hour.
“No, thanks. I kinda need to be alone right now.”
She teases, her voice slightly lighter now, “Are you saying that because you mean it, or because you don’t trust me not to burn dinner again?”
“I mean it.”
The words come out sharper than I intended, and I hate myself for it.
Her face drops.
Amazing.
“What the hell, Luca? I’m literally trying to be nice, and you shut me down?”
