Page 90 of All at Once

He makes a point to look at me. “Especially when one of us couldn’t bemorewrong,” he argues, before walking past me and to the other side of the kitchen.

For a moment, I ponder if that was his way of saying that hedoescare about me. But I quickly brush off any warm feeling that’s trying to distract me again. I give my best cynical smile and mock, “Oh we’re definitely finishing the cakes on time with all this arguing.”

“We were never going to finish them to begin with,” Luca replies.

I scoff. “I’m glad to see you’re just as optimistic as before.”

“I’m glad to see your insults are just as creative as before,” he says, while turning around.

I gasp on the inside at how direct his eye contact is suddenly. “Maybe it would be better if we both just didn’t say anything until we start baking,” I suggest.

“I’m good with that,” he agrees dryly as he places the ingredients into cardboard boxes.

I try my best not to trip while we carry everything to his car. There’s no need to add to the tension when we’re already walking on thin ice.

_________

I don’t know what I expected from his apartment. Definitely not this.

Everything is pretty simple. But at the same it’s clear that there was plenty of thought that went into each detail. From the way the custard beige walls complement the bowl of fresh tangerines in the center of the kitchen that would feel pretty empty without the fruit. And yet with this subtle touch alone, the room feels warm and complete.

I meticulously scan his living room next, now finding a few paintings of cheery landscapes before glancing over at Luca who’s only focused on organizing the ingredients. I was about to pay him a compliment, but since he’s still not acknowledging that I’m even here, the annoyance in me continues to build. Realizing how quickly we got here, I mock, “I think it’s funny how your apartment is barely 30 minutes away, and you still need a whole resort room.”

Luca, to my surprise, locks eyes with me and replies, “It saves me more time to spend with friends.” He walks past me and over to his cabinets. “What’s funnier is how you’ve spent allyourtime with me when you could have spent it spilling things on other people,” he says, while placing measuring cups, pans, bowls, and a whisk onto the kitchen counter.

I stop short on my way into the kitchen, wondering if I should be annoyed or this flustered by his comment. “So when do you want me to take you back?” Luca adds curtly.

I almost scoff. It’s lovely to know how quickly he wants to get rid of me, considering we literally just stepped foot in the door. “That depends on how long we need to finish everything,” I reply.

He sets the bags of sugar next to the baking supplies and briefly pauses. “Look, even if with some miracle we can get all of this done, there’s no way it’ll be earlier than probably 3 or 4 am.” He shifts his attention back to unpacking the rest of the ingredients. “So just let me know whenever you feel like leaving.”

“We’re supposed to work on this together,” I argue. “If you can be up until 4, so can I. Remember? I’m the one wholovesan all-nighter.”

“Or so I’ve heard,” he says dryly, then shrugs. “So what? You’re going to crash here? At some point we’ll both pass out.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get there,” I say.

After minutes of working in silence, he asks, “Can you please pass me the flour?”

“Sure.” I go to pick up the weighty sack before it slides out of my hands. I quickly catch it and hold onto it with all my grip, while Luca gasps even louder than me at how I almost lost one of our main ingredients. Some flour particles flicker through the air, but the container luckily doesn’t completely slip from my fingers. “Woah. That was close,” I say, while exhaling in relief.

He takes the bag from me. “As much as I find your clumsiness endearing, could you maybe stand at least a few feetawayfrom everything?”

That might have been a backhanded compliment. But he did just call meendearing.

I raise my hands and compromise, “How about I just work on the raspberries for now?”

“Good plan,” he agrees.

After blankly staring at the bowl of fruit for the next five minutes or so, I look over at Luca to check his progress. He looks just as lost as I feel.

“Do you want to work on the first one together?” I offer. “So we both know what we’re doing.” His brows are creased with hesitation, to which I get even more annoyed when I’m trying to help. “That way we can work on the rest alone.”

Of course that’s all I needed to say.

He turns around. “Okay. But I don’t even know where to start.”

“Me neither,” I admit while standing next to him, now reviewing the recipe carefully. “It says we need 2 cups of sugar and 1.5 teaspoons of baking powder.”

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