“Okay,” I say.
He laughs, but there’s nothing in it. “He said the C isn’t a position; it’s a brand, and the rest of this semester is critical to my career.”
“That’s a lot to put on a twenty-year-old.”
“It’s the job.”
I don’t argue about that yet. I uncross my arms, walk past him into the kitchen, and open his fridge. As I lean down and survey the contents, I see him in it — the whole week, everything that was supposed to be handled, and some of it starting to slip.
There’s a row of meal-prep containers that were clearly full a few weeks ago, but whatever’s inside has given up. There’s some chicken a day past its expiration date, eggs, a bag of spinach going dark at the edges, half a red pepper, a tomato, and some cheddar.
“What are you doing?” he says, hovering.
“Making you dinner.” I turn around, a rough plan of attack forming. “You’re going to sit on that stool, you’re not going to help me, and you’re not going to argue with me.”
He’s already opening his mouth. “Sloane?—”
I dig the vegetables out and set them on the counter, then find a spatula and point it at him. “Hale. On the stool. Now.”
He stares at me, then at the spatula, then back at me. His body is frozen, like his mind knows what he should do but his limbs have locked up because he can’t do it — relax, sit, settle. Then he lowers himself onto the stool like a kid who’s been told off.
The laugh that comes out of me is loud and unmistakable, the kind Harrison used to wince at across the senior dining hall and my mother taught me to soften in restaurants. When I look up, his face has changed, the ghost of a smile there.
“What?” I say, defensively.
“Nothing,” he says, quiet.
Something goes warm and off-balance in me, and I don’t have anywhere to put it. The loud is the thing that cost me everything, and he’s looking at it like it’s the thing he wanted most.
“Don’t get cute.”
“No, ma’am.”
I find his cutting board in the cabinet to the left of the sink, and the other tools I need in the most logical places. But it’s the garlic that stumps me, because it’s not in the pantry or on the counter or… anywhere, really.
“Need help?” he says, fighting a grin.
Then I find it. “Your garlic is in a drawer, Rowan.”
“Keeps it fresh,” he says.
“You’re insane.”
As he grins, I start chopping — pepper first, then the tomato, carefully, because it’s one squeeze away from becoming a crimescene, and then the garlic — and put a pot of water on the stove and a pan on the heat next to it.
“Do you have butter?” I say.
“Sure.” He shrugs. “But I have olive oil, too.”
“This is comfort food.” I go to the fridge and get the butter. “Butter.”
“I’m an elite athlete, Sloane,” he protests. “I can’t cook with butter…”
“You’re not cooking, I am.” I hold his gaze. “Now stop backseat cooking.”
The butter melts, and when the garlic hits the pan, the kitchen starts to smell like something a grandmother would approve of. Rowan reaches across the counter for the pepper strips I’ve set aside, and I smack his hand with the spatula without looking up.
“I said no helping.”
