Page 34 of Roommate
Zara and I make two dozen gorgeous bagels and a slew of muffins and pastries. When Kieran comes in to work behind the counter, I fix him a pumpernickel bagel with smoked salmon and cream cheese and carry the plate out front. “This is for you. Thanks for everything.”
He blinks. Then he takes the plate and licks his lips. “Thank you. And you’re welcome. I’ll start the coffee before I eat this.”
“Good plan.”
As I return to the kitchen, I catch Zara watching us. “What’s up with Kieran? Anything wrong?”
“Not a thing,” I say, carrying some dishes to the sink. “I, uh, asked him to rent a room to me, and I guess I’m your tenant now, too.”
“Oh,” she says, obviously startled. “That’s nice.”
She has no idea.
* * *
When I get off work at three, Kieran is off to one of his other jobs. The dude works hard. So I’m left to my own devices, exploring his house in the daylight.
I don’t go upstairs, because I won’t invade his privacy. But I poke around the empty living room, taking in the inlaid details in the wood floor, and admiring the view of the town green from the front window. Colebury isn’t a fancy town, but this is the nicest part of it. Most of the houses around the square have been recently upgraded. My parents’ church is visible on the opposite side of the green. Once a week they’ll be a quarter mile away, I suppose, praying for my soul.
Or not. I wonder if they think of me at all.
On this depressing thought, I continue my investigation of the house. The dining room is beautiful, with built-in china cabinets in the corners. It lacks a table and chairs, but nobody’s perfect.
In the kitchen, I open all the cabinets and drawers, finding them empty. So I go out to my car and fetch the very few items that I brought with me from Nashville. I’ve got my favorite mixing bowl, a single All-Clad skillet, a kitchen scale, my lucky saucepan, and my knives.
A cook never goes anywhere without his knives. I left my whole life behind in Nashville, including my guitar, but somehow I had enough clarity to take my favorite kitchen essentials. I wasn’t about to walk away without my five-hundred-dollar set of Wüsthofs. They’re worth more than the guitar, anyway.
I tuck all these items away, which only takes a few minutes. And then I wonder if Kieran would want me to stock up on a few more things that every kitchen needs. Would he be grateful? Or would he think I’m dominating his space?
I ponder the question for a minute or two. But, fuck it. This kitchen is empty and sad, and cooking is my area of expertise. I grab my car keys and the wallet that contains all the money I have in the world.
And I head for the store.
* * *
Maybe I go a little crazy at the grocery store, but a guy needs to eat, right? When I get busy cooking in Kieran’s kitchen, I feel happier than I’ve been in a long time. I rub spices all over a pork loin and set it to roast in my skillet, leaving my saucepan free for a nice batch of applesauce.
It isn’t until I hear Kieran walk in the door at seven thirty that I notice there’s flour on the countertop and steam on the windowpanes. I’ve made myself at home before he’s had a chance to do the same.
Hastily, I start cleaning up. But there he is in the doorway, holding—
“Is that a pre-made sandwich from a convenience store?” I ask, unable to keep the horror out of my voice.
He looks down at the plastic wedge in his hand, as if he’s not quite sure how it got there. “I decided not to stay for dinner at my folks’, but then I didn’t have a better plan.”
“Well, I made a pork tenderloin and applesauce. Then I realized I don’t, uh, have any plates. So I had to make some rolls to eat it on.”
“It smells so—” He sniffs the air. “Wow. Really good.”
Even this small crumb of praise makes me grow taller. “Then let’s eat. You can save that for tomorrow.” I grab the plastic sandwich container out of his hand, open up the refrigerator, and chuck it inside.
Kieran catches the fridge’s door before it closes. “Holy cow. You did some shopping.”
“Well, I guess I did.” I let out a nervous chuckle at all the food I’ve crammed in there. A gallon of milk, because it’s cheapest that way. Apples, winter squash—because it’s cheap. Butter. A few condiments for cooking. Blocks of cheese, because it’s an inexpensive protein, and some of them were on sale. My sourdough starter. “Look, I can keep all of this on two shelves and give you the other two. I don’t need to hog the space.”
He shrugs. “There’s plenty of room. And I don’t know how to cook. Like, at all. Do you think you might…”
I wait.
