Page 9 of Considering Us

“Good one,” said Kyle, coming up behind me. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, and I tried not to let it get to me. It wasn’t easy.

“Who on earth wasthat?”

“The meanest of the mean girls, the most obnoxious and entitled student at Rockwood. Ashlyn Lark.”

“Lark, Lark… Any relation to Andrea, or just a coincidence?”

“Her niece. Andrea has no control over her. Ashlyn does whatever she wants because she knows Andrea won’t do shit.”

“Sounds like a great person,” I said, shaking my head as I went back to picking apples.

“You just have to feed her,” he said, joining me but picking twice as quickly, not inspecting the apples like I was. “She’s such a pain in the ass in class—always thinks she’s right, clearly pawns off her work on others, you get the idea. Can’t wait to have her in my Political Science class this year.”

“You know that was my major,” I said.

“I do,” he said, picking another apple and placing it in my basket since his was already full. “And I majored in Econ and thought I was going to be some big corporate exec type. Now I teach your major, and you are a chef. Funny how life turns out.”

“Wasa chef. Not sure I call this that. This is likely to be more about keeping a ton of people reasonably happy or at least well-fed.”

“You didn’t cook when I knew you,” he said, taking a bite out of an apple. I was still filling my basket, examining each apple thoroughly before I twisted it off its branch.

“We knew each other for about twelve hours,” I said, realizing how that sounded. A lot had happened in those twelve hours.

“Still, it’s cool, you know,” he continued. “The food aspect of you.”

“That’s one way to phrase it,” I replied, trying hard not to smile. He was trying to engage, and part of me really wanted to. And part of me was still angry about him ghosting me, but I knew I couldn’t delve into that in the middle of the apple orchard with so many ears around.

“I’ve never eaten anything you’ve cooked,” he said. “Want to go get a doughnut?”

“Yes, but one second,” I insisted. I looked around and discovered we were alone in the orchard aisle. “You and I obviously need to talk about some things. I have no groceries. If you are willing to go buy some food, I’ll cook it. But this is just to talk, okay? I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

A big smile curved across his face, and in that moment, I saw twenty-year-old Kyle. “I’d love that. What should I buy? I don’t know where to begin.”

I shook my head. “I honestly don’t care. Think of something you really like, look up a recipe for it, and buy the ingredients. I worked in restaurants for years and then cooked for some of themost high-maintenance people you’ve ever met. I can figure out almost anything.” I picked one last apple. “Okay, let’s get that doughnut.”

We walked up the hill to where there was an open-air doughnut stand. The batter was being fried in hot oil for all to see, and Ashlyn Lark was standing nearby, munching on a fresh doughnut. “Raw food, huh?” I asked Kyle, and we both had a laugh.

6

Kyle was standing in my doorway with three overstuffed grocery bags–one from Market Basket, one from Whole Foods, and one from Trader Joe’s–and I could see the veins bulging in his tanned forearms. Part of me wished this was just a cute guy coming over to make dinner with me, but it wasn’t. This was Kyle; there was a lot of baggage, and we were going to be living and working in close proximity to each other for at least the next nine months. It was complicated.

“Three different stores, huh?” I asked, opening the door the rest of the way for him to enter the apartment.

“So, I was watching Food Network when we got back from the orchard,” he began, setting the bags down on the kitchen counter. “And they went to this food truck that specialized in croque monsieurs. They looked awesome, and you said anything, so I started looking up recipes; there were so many variations, so I bought it all. Yes, at three different stores. Plus, potato chips because they served those with the croque monsieurs from the food truck, but I didn’t know which kind you liked, so I bought four different ones.”

He really did talk a lot, as I remembered from years earlier, but he was also thorough. There were several kinds of bread, cheese, ham, mustard, milk, butter, and flour; indeed, all the things I needed. I plucked the prosciutto, gruyère, and parmesan from the spread. “This is great,” I acknowledged. “I actuallyprefer my croques with prosciutto, which isn’t traditional at all. But I think you’ll like it. And these,” I said, setting aside the crinkle-cut kettle chips. “Are perfect.”

“And there’s this,” he said, pulling out a six-pack of Coors Light from the bottom of a bag.

I shook my head. “Although I did enjoy the trip down memory lane when I cracked them open when I couldn’t sleep last night, I’ll admit that I hadn’t drunk one of these since 2007.”

He set them on the counter. “That night, then.”

“Yes, that night,” I replied. Flashes of laughing, sipping from the silver cans, lying next to each other on the twin bed in the sparsely furnished temporary dorm room, his hands on my hips, his mouth… I had to stop letting myself think these thoughts. “Anyway, I prefer whiskey sours. The only groceries I did bring from Boston were lemons and sugar to make them. You want one?”

“Oh yeah, I remember you telling me your dad drank them every evening.”

“And sometimes before the evening. Seriously, that one is obscure. I don’t even remember telling you that.”

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