“What’s a dollar?” Callie asks, suddenly appearing.
“My hugs,” Rosalie says, opening her arms. “Want to smell like onions? It’ll cost ya.”
“No!” Callie runs back out, hair flying behind her. She’s got pool hair, too.
Rosalie throws the last handful of onions into a sizzling pan, gets out minced garlic from a jar in the fridge, adds that, and then washes her hands. I clean up around her, close, but hopefully notin the way. Rice and chicken stock come next. She’s making Spanish rice, I realize. My grand plan to keep my distance has bitten the dust. I’ve turned into a hoverer instead.
She did tell me not to be a stranger, but I’m not just hovering. I’m thinking about her tan shoulders and her messy hair, and it’s all I can do to act like this is just an extension of us exchanging letters. It is not, at least, not for me. I should probably just leave her be and go check on the kids.
Like she senses I’m about to bolt, she turns and looks at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Wanna come here and help me? I don’t smell like onions anymore. Or at least, not as potently.”
When I reclaim my spot next to her, she hands me the can opener and a can of tomato sauce, and I get to work, glad to be assigned a task. She hums as she cooks, probably not aware that she’s doing it.
She turns the heat down on the pan and turns to me, looking contrite. “I need to confess something.”
“Okay.”
Her seriousness is on the level of ate-all-the-ice-cream and not robbed-a-bank, so I’m not too concerned. Maybe she still prefers my irrigation boots, which I’m fine with as long as she’s not traversing stairs in them.
“I can’t keep letting you believe that chocolate pudding dirt cake is an impressive dessert. It takes me about five minutes to make.” She goes over to the pantry, pulls out a little box, and hands it to me so I can see the chocolate pudding instructions on back. It does look easy. You just add milk and stir.
“That’s your deep, dark confession?” I ask.
“I never said it was dark. I’m just saying, you could have this every day if you want. It’s not special. I should probably stop pretending it is.”
Simple things can be special, too. “I think it’s impressive,” I tell her. “You layer it with the whipped cream and the crushed Oreos and the gummy worms. The kids cheer every time you bring it out.”
She shrugs. “I know your grandma made the stovetop version from scratch.”
I mentioned it in a letter once, and our gazes both go to the desk where the calendar is. There’s a small gap under the last calendar page, letting me know there’s a letter waiting for me. I force myself to look away.
“My grandma made chocolate pudding a few times, but we usually made JELL-O. The kind where you need hot water and lots of stirring and then a careful trip to the fridge without spilling it all over the newly cleaned tile floor and the entire inside of the refrigerator. Not that I’d know that from experience.”
She grins. “Well, anyway, there are enough cups of dessert in the fridge for the kids to have seconds. You too, if you want.”
“Are you going to eat with us?”
“I can’t.” She pulls out her phone and wakes it up, making a face. “In fact, I need to get going so I have time to shower and change. I’m getting fondue with Trey and my sister and her boyfriend tonight.” She puts her phone away and claps her hands at her sides. “Okay, so, the rice is simmering. Keep an eye on it. Beans and tortillas are over there.”
“Of course.”
This shouldn’t be awkward. She’s often in the middle of making dinner when we change places, but I just made it obvious I wanted her to stay, and now she looks sheepish about leaving. It’s my turn to smooth things over. It’s a Friday night. Of course she has plans.
“Have fun tonight.”
“I’ll try.” She grabs her bag from the hook by the back door. “Don’t forget to set an alarm for your flying drunken guest tonight.” She taps the side of her mouth.
Ah, the tooth fairy. I’ve been known to forget for several nights in a row that I need to sneak into my kid’s room late at night, trip over stuff on the floor, steal a tooth in the dark, and leave money behind. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Chapter 26 – You Don’t Have to Feed a Drum Set
Liam
“Will you kill the music?” Rosalie calls out from the living room. She knows I’m in the kitchen, and she probably suspects I’m in here retrieving my letter, considering the little remote to the sound system is kept next to the calendar. I silence the Jonas Brothers and unfold her letter, walking with it as I read. I had a feeling she’d share about her weekend, seeing as how it’s Monday, and I’m right. This is a recap of her Friday night date.
Liam,
At 29 years of age, I can now safely say I’ve tried fondue. I’m not a fan. I thought I would be. What’s not to love? It involves hot cheese, bread, seasonedmeat, dessert, chocolate, and turning dinner into an activity. I was not counting on Trey trying to feed me and therefore dripping hot caramel sauce into my lap and down my shirt. A little bit got inside my bra and burned something fierce. My skin is fine, it was just a bit of a jolt, and I jumped and rattled the table when my knee connected with it. Unfortunately, our waitress witnessed it, and she gasped and ran (yes, ran—she almost hit an old lady) to get me a clean rag, and then she berated Trey like she was a schoolteacher and he was a student on her last nerve.