Page 60 of Goode Tidings

Callum, it turns out, is an attentive student. We start with the basics. How to read a recipe in its entirety so you know what's coming next. Preparing ingredients ahead of time. Knife skills and the different types of cutting.

"We're starting simple with pasta tonight. Sound good?"

Callum agrees. He boils the water, and adds salt. I stand back and issue instructions. He seems to prefer it that way, working it all out on his own.

I hoist myself up to sit on the counter, relaxed and watching from my perch with a glass of wine in my hand. I could get used to this.

"Now what?" Callum asks, angling his body toward me while stirring the marinara sauce. It's bottled. I figured we'd start small. Homemade marinara can come later.

I peer around his midsection at the knob on the stove. "I'd turn down the temp. It's up a little high. If it gets too warm, it will bubble up and⁠—"

A tomato bubble pops and splats onto Callum's stomach. His brow knits, turning down the knob. "You were saying?"

I hop down from the counter. "Do you have a shirt on under that?"

He's already unbuttoning his shirt. "Does it matter anymore? I've left little to the imagination when it comes to you."

I laugh a little too hard. He's not wrong. And my imagination has run wild with all that I've seen. I hold out my hand and he passes me his shirt. The shirt he's wearing underneath is a plain gray tee. "It's important to act fast with tomato sauce. It stains quickly."

I turn on the sink and hold it under a steady stream of water, using a drop of dish soap. When I'm satisfied, I wring it out and hang it over the back of a chair.

We finish making dinner without another incident, and I call Oliver in. He sets the table while I show Callum how to twirl a portion of spaghetti into an aesthetically pleasing nest.

We sit down, and when Callum takes his first bite of spaghetti, a look of pride stretches across his face. "I cooked this," he announces, slowly nodding his head.

Oliver's gaze slides my way. In a theatrical whisper, he asks, "Is he ok?"

Callum chuckles. "You're lucky that you have a mom who can cook. My mom didn't enjoy it, and I didn't learn."

Oliver's dubious. "Mom is constantly reminding me that I need to learn." He looks at me. "It's a life skill," he says in falsetto, at the same time I say, "It's a life skill."

"It is," Callum insists after swallowing another bite. "But I wouldn't have thought so at fourteen. It seemed like forever until I would be an adult and need to feed myself."

"It is forever until I'm going to be an adult and need to feed myself," Oliver insists.

Callum grins at Oliver's naïveté. "It goes by fast. I promise."

Oliver twirls his fork in his pasta. "When were you stepbrothers with my dad?"

Callum wipes at the corners of his mouth. "I was about eight when our parents married, and fourteen when they divorced."

"What was my dad like?"

I'd been happy to listen to them talk, but now my attention is heightened. I hadn't considered that Oliver might want to talk to Callum about his dad.

Callum pauses. He seems tripped up by Oliver's question. Or, perhaps by his honest answer to the question. "He was...fun-loving."

Callum's gaze meets mine briefly. He's definitely editing his thoughts for Oliver's benefit, and I'm grateful.

"Was he irresponsible then, too?" Oliver's voice has hardened, attempting to hide his hurt.

Callum sits back, deep in thought before simply saying, "Yes."

Callum watches Oliver, patiently waiting for another question, a reaction, anything at all. I appreciate the honest answer, and that he's willing to talk it through.

Oliver doesn't say any more, and even with me trying to make idle chatter (the leaves on the trees are changing color. The coffee shop is bringing back its toffee crunch latte. We should start thinking about purchasing cold weather clothes.) the temperature of the table is lukewarm. Justin has a way of casting a shadow all the way from Thailand.

When Oliver has a few bites left of his dinner, he asks if he may be excused. I nod, but tell him to come back to the kitchen in a little while to clean up. "The cook doesn't clean," I inform Callum.