Page 63 of Anyone But the Superstar

‘Come in,’ Anne calls over her shoulder as my feet remain planted in the hallway, too shocked by what I’m seeing to move.

Cabinet doors open. Fridge ajar. Wafts of steam and the sounds of bubbling coming from the stove top.

And Anne, her topknot off-kilter, a sheen of sweat on her brow and an oil splatter on her t-shirt, twirling one way and then another between the cooktop and the island.

‘I made dinner.’ Anne cracks an egg on the side of the pan, leaving a trail of egg white sliding down the side.

‘I see.’ I also see what appears to be every pot, pan, bowl and utensil in the condo strewn out over the countertops, all in various states of use.

Wiping her forehead with her forearm, Anne wipes one egg-covered hand on the tea towel before grabbing one of two spatulas laying on the counter. ‘I think it’s done.’

If going by the blackened nature of whatever meat is laid out on the plate next to the stove, I’d say it was done quite some time ago.

‘Don’t look at that.’ Anne points to the plate. ‘That was my first try.’

My eyebrows shoot up.First?How many tries were there?

‘Meow.’ The forlorn sound emanates from the opposite side of the room, where Mike, as if keenly aware of our impending doom, burrows his head in the sofa until only his naked, wrinkled butt is visible between the cushions.

Scanning the empty jar of tomato sauce on the countertop, the half-mangled shallot with the skin somehow still intact on the cutting board, and the open bottle of white distilled vinegar near the stove, I fight the urge to cross myself before entering.

With her free hand, Anne grabs a plate from the cabinet, one of the few things still in there, then gestures to the bar stools with the spatula in her other hand. ‘Sit down.’ Specks of rice arch off the utensil and onto the floor.

She doesn’t notice.

Tentatively, I cross the threshold, closing the door behind me while Anne turns back to the stove and flips the eggs.

Feeling like a passer-by at a car wreck, I’m unable to look away as the yolk breaks and flecks of shell float in the white.

She must not notice that either because she scrapes it out of the pan and onto the plate of rice.Pinkrice.

Anne places the plate in front of me and steps back to make jazz hands. ‘Ta-da!’

I ignore the foreboding churn in my stomach.

‘It’s tomato rice.’ Anne’s smile falters. ‘You like tomato rice, right?’

‘Yes. I like it.’ Not that I would classify what’s before me as tomato rice, which is usually red, or the egg as fried. More like barely scrambled.

‘Good.’ Anne heaves a sigh of relieve. ‘Your mom said it’s supposed to be served with chicken, but, ah—’ she eyes the plate of charred meat by the stove ‘—I figured eggs would be a good protein substitute.’

‘Eggs are fi—wait.’ My shoulders tighten when what she said registers. ‘My mother?’ Dread, having to do with the meal before me, coils in my stomach.

‘Yeah, you left your phone in the bag in the car.’ Anne circles the island to sit next to me. ‘She called and since I wanted to apologize to her for the boob incident, I thought it would be okay to answer.’ She glances at me and what’s left of her smile vanishes. ‘No?’

Avoiding her eyes, I pick up my fork. ‘What did, uh, you two talk about?’

Out of the corner of my eye, Anne shrugs. ‘Not much. I apologized to her and then shamelessly asked her to tell me what you liked to eat so I could cook you dinner.’ She ducks her head, adjusting the utensils on the counter. ‘I told her I wanted to thank you for helping me out today. And that she raised a son she should be proud of.’

My stomach tightens, but not from the prospect the dinnerbefore me. Rather, the unsuspecting swell of emotions I’m having trouble controlling.

Anne’s lips twist the side. ‘She said she’s always proud of you but would be even prouder if you stopped taking your clothes off for money.’

I laugh, choking on the lump that had been forming in my throat. ‘Yeah, she isn’t a fan of my recent underwear campaign.’

We smile at each other, warmth filling my chest where dread had been just moments ago.

Anne fiddles with her utensils. ‘My first attempt was piri-piri, but when that didn’t turn out, she suggested tomato rice instead.’

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