Page 72 of Rules to Love By

“I don’t get it.”

With a sigh, Tris went back to separating his eggs. “I know.”

“So explain it to me, please. For fuck sakes. If I’m that stupid—”

“You’re not stupid.” But Tris kept his head down, the one time Marcus would have wanted him to look up, look at him, and mean it. “Go wash up.”

“What?”

“Hands,” Tris said, nodding at the sink.

Not having anything else to do with them, Marcus did as he was told and washed his hands, returning to the stool a moment later to glare at Tris.

“Everyone here thinks I’m an idiot for walking away from the diner,” Marcus said.

“No. They don’t.” Tris added the last egg white from the small bowl he’d cracked it into, to the larger bowl with the rest, then pushed the big bowl and a cup of sugar at Marcus. “Here. Make yourself useful.” He also held out a whisk.

“I don’t do this anymore.” Marcus leaned back on his stool, both hands up. “I’m a handyman now.”

“Bullshit. Whisk.”

“I don’t bake.”

“You’re not baking. You’re whisking. Just like omelettes, except with sugar instead of yolks.”

Reluctant, Marcus took the whisk.

“Whisk first. I’ll tell you when to start adding sugar.”

“Bossy much?” But he started whisking.

Tris winked at him. “You love that about me.”

Marcus said nothing because the pattern was becoming disturbingly clear. The pattern that had begun with “eat your breakfast.” Or had it begun before that? He wasn’t sure he wanted to examine that idea too deeply.

“You know what I think,” Tris said after a moment.

“Pretty sure I will in a sec,” Marcus muttered.

Tris didn’t skip a beat. “I think you don’t want to admit you miss the routine. You miss Iris’s rules as much as you miss her. She wasn’t a warm person. Not didn’t care, but she was a rules person.”

Marcus frowned and whisked harder.

“Easy.” Tris peered into the bowl. “You can start adding sugar now. Just a tablespoon at a time. As soon as that dissolves, add more. It’ll take a while, but you have to be precise and patient, or it won’t work.”

“I thought baking was more of an art. Sort of a little of this, a little of that.”

“Eh.” Tris waggled his floury hand, then scooped pie dough out of a bowl to plop it onto the flour-covered counter. “Art. Science. Tomato. To-mah-to.”

“You really like this shit, don’t you?” He sprinkled sugar over the meringue as he watched Tris shape the blob of dough into a disk.

“I absolutely love this shit.”

“You’re giving Kreed a run for his money.”

Tris grinned, but it was a flash, followed quickly by a frown. “I’m getting on his nerves, actually.”

“Nah. They love you.”

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