Page 37 of Roommate
I laugh again. That’s twice in one day.
* * *
We let the bird roast for an hour. I shower and call my brother, then Roderick makes rice.
“For brown rice or basmati, try two cups of water to one of rice. That usually works.” He lifts the lid off the saucepan of rice, and a homey scent fills the air.
“That smells delicious.”
“I just threw in some turmeric and cumin.” He shrugs. “We ought to have a vegetable, too. But we’re out of pans, and we’re out of time. So maybe I’ll tackle that at your next lesson.”
“Good plan.”
He opens the oven door, and the chicken is gorgeous, like something on a magazine cover—golden brown and sizzling everywhere.
“Jesus,” I murmur.
“I know, I’m hungry, too,” he agrees. “Move your big self out of the way so I can get this.” With a dish towel in each hand—my mother gave me those from her stash—he lifts the skillet onto the stovetop. “It has to rest for five or ten minutes, then we feast.”
I can barely stand the wait. But when I finally get my first bite, it’s delicious.
“Your cooking rocks,” Roderick says, biting into a thigh. We’re standing at the counter side by side, because there’s no table.
“Don’t flatter me, it’s your recipe,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. I have that happy glow you get from eating something amazing. The garlic and butter have turned an ordinary thing extraordinary. “But what I don’t understand is this—if cooking is so easy, why do so many people do it badly?”
“I’ve always wondered the same thing,” he says, licking his fingers.
The sight of his tongue reminds me of something else, and I look away. Jesus. Even if Roderick has been good about not bringing it up, the memory is obviously still there, lurking in my psyche.
And I have no idea how to make it go away.
Roderick
November rolls on. Before the end of the month, I leave my rent check on the counter when I leave for work at five a.m. It’s money well spent. Every morning I wake up in a snug house instead of in my car. And I sleep soundly at night knowing that the door is locked and that there’s a burly farm boy somewhere in the house.
I’m a pack animal. I’m not cut out to live alone.
Also, I’m already deeply in love with Kieran’s house. The living room has a high ceiling and shiny wood floors. It has the old bones of a home that’s been standing for a century. I love the creaky built-in cabinets in the dining room we don’t use. And the ornate staircase spindles.
Little by little, we’re furnishing the place. Kieran shops at stores and online. One morning when I wake up, I find a large, creamy rug in the center of the living room. I lie down in the center of it and decide I approve.
For my part, I’ve been haunting the thrift shops in Montpelier, slowly furnishing the kitchen with my finds. I’ve bought coffee mugs with roosters on them and a shiny copper teakettle.
One Saturday I swing by a church rummage sale and hit the motherlode: egg cups, serving spoons, a two-dollar cast-iron griddle with the tags still on it. And those are just the bigger purchases.
On Monday, for the first time ever, neither Kieran nor I has a shift at the coffee shop. That’s the day that Zara and Audrey have claimed to work together. “We’ll get a chance to start the week and talk. Just the two of us,” Audrey had said.
I wake up at six thirty, though, because I’ve trained myself to be awake in the morning. I run out for groceries, because it’s time for Kieran’s next cooking lesson.
He comes downstairs at eight, wearing flannel pants, a snug-fitting waffle-weave shirt and sleep-tousled hair. As usual, I experience a rush of affection for the hot farm boy who rescued me off the streets.
I don’t gush about my gratitude, though, because it’s clear that Kieran doesn’t know what to do with praise. And my exuberance generally makes him a little uncomfortable. So I try to rein myself in whenever we’re together.
Still, I can’t stop wondering how good it would feel to be grabbed up in those strong arms and hugged. Or, say, pinned to the bed while he fucks me. I’m not picky.
“You didn’t have to do that,” is the first thing Kieran says to me this morning.
“Um, what?” I’m still distracted by my morning sex fantasy, and by the way his hair is grown out and starting to curl. I want to sift my fingers through it.
