Page 79 of I Think They Love You

“Where’d you learn this recipe?”

“As a kid…” Bray pauses. “My mom used to make these for me. All the time.”

There are parts of each other they’ve learned through hints. Abridged references with key details left to be filled in later. Things like Bray’s mom dying from cancer when he was seven.

He rarely mentions her without a thickness to his voice, a shift in his mood. Denz never pushes him. It’s a mutual understanding since Denz doesn’t always freely offer specifics about his own family. At least, nothing that can’t already be found through a simple Google search. They tread lightly, only taking what the other gives.

Today, Bray’s ready to share.

“My dad tried so hard to replicate the recipe after she died,” Bray says, his limbs gradually loosening. “But he’s so bad in the kitchen. Like you.”

Denz pinches his hip but doesn’t interrupt.

“It was a lot for him,” Bray says. “Missing her. Being Mom and Dad for me. After a while, he gave up on the sandwich. I was eight.”

As much as Denz hates how over-the-top or unbearably rigid his parents are, he can’t imagine growing up without either of them.

“I went years without it. My favorite comfort meal.” Bray carefully dips a sandwich in the batter. “Then, one day, I found an old notebook in a kitchen drawer. You know, the one you throw random shit in?”

Denz laughs. The Junk Drawer, an affectionate term his mom used at their bungalow. The place for Tide pens and scissors and that phone charger you swore you lost years ago.

“It had all my mom’s recipes. Including this one.”

Bray lowers a sandwich into the pan.

“I was fourteen?” He tips his head back, thinking. “I messed up so many times. But I got the hang of it.”

“That’s why you want it to be perfect?”

Fondness sits in the corners of Bray’s smile. “It’s like she’s here with me anytime I make it just right.”

Denz gets that too. He’s tried imitating his mom’s sweet potato pie, to disastrous results. But there’s something about peeling the potatoes’ softened skin. Adding the spices. Watching everything blend together in a stand mixer.

It’s like she’s next to him.

While one side of the bread browns, Bray says, “I make them for Dad. When he’s too busy with work to think about food. Or when he’s sad and doesn’t want to talk.” He’s sheepish when he adds, “But no one else. Not until you.”

Denz tries to break that down into small, digestible pieces. He doesn’t want it to be so big. So overwhelmed by how easily this has happened in less than a year.

Bray ducks his head. “Sorry, I made this weird, didn’t I?”

“No, no,” Denz rushes out. “Not at all.”

He’s not sure what else he wants to say, so he doesn’t.

After the first grilled cheese is finished, Bray guides Denz through the process. He’s forcibly quiet as Denz builds a lopsided sandwich. Accidentally drips batter on his bare feet. They’re hip-to-hip, Bray smiling goofily as Denz plops the egg-soaked bread into the pan. In the background, a bluesy Elvin Bishop song plays in the Captain-Doctor-Incredible-Panther-Man movie: “Fooled Around and Fell in Love,” one of Kenneth’s favorites.

Denz catches himself humming along.

“And now…” Bray twirls the spatula like a master chef pandering to a live studio audience. “The flip technique.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“There’s anartto this.”

Denz snatches the spatula away. “I can handle it.”

“Go ahead, Bobby Flay.” Bray gestures widely toward the stove. “Show me your skills.”

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