Page 67 of Love at First Sighting
It’s a Thursday and we’re making Sunday roast.
We’re making Sunday roast, and so far, eight thousand people are watching. Technically, Bex did give me the heads-up a week ago, before the vodka launch party, that I’d need to block out my afternoon to do a live sponsorship session for La Plat, an overpriced cookware brand that releases new colors like it’s Paris Fashion Week for Dutch ovens.
The pans we’re working with today are in a vomit-y pink color called Capri Sunrise.
Bex wanted to honor her culture, which meant we had to go down a list of the most popular British dishes to cook during our session (she is originally from Wisconsin, so she’s giving a mightyfuck youto cheese curds, clearly).
While I’m not a picky eater, I’m really glad we aren’t attempting to fry fish in the kitchen.
The beef is only at 110°F—or 43°C, because Bex doesn’t understand Fahrenheit anymore—butIam done and cooked and ready to be taken out. I’m also wondering if it’s a felony to stab Bex with a meat thermometer. I’ve listened to her tell theviewers about her favorite Sunday roast memories, which I’m positive are all made up. She’d help her mother clean up dishes while her dad went down the street to the pub, she learned to make Yorkshire pudding at age nine, and she had a favorite “jumper” she always wore for family Sunday roasts.
Meanwhile, off to the side, Lea is convincing the internet that performers who use stage names are gaslighting fans. She started an internet beef with Cary Grant yesterday for “deliberately withholding personal information,” not even caring that the man has been dead for nearly four decades.
“Shame we weren’t able to get goose fat,” Bex says. “It really ties the whole meal together, don’t ya think?”
Lea nods vigorously, only half paying attention. Six months ago, the thought of anything with fat in it in this house would have been cause for Bex to burn it down, but now we’re eagerly wishing for goose fat. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Carter (4:32 pm):Toby sent me a suspected UFO video today. It was a Fushigi ball.
Carter (4:32 pm):Also, hi.
I sneak a peek behind the counter, blushing as Carter’s heart emoji comes through. For just that moment, I’m not thinking about stabbing Bex with a meat thermometer anymore. I’m thinking about heading over to Carter’s after this, picking up takeout on the way, and spending the night trying to get him intoAngel City Noir. All of it makes me feel calm again. Until I go to type a response and take a whack to the thigh. Bex has opened the oven door directly into me.
“Jesus,ow,” I mutter.
“Gotta check on the roast,” Bex says. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “You shouldn’t be texting while we’re on the telly.”
“What if it was important?”
“Nothing is more important than this roast,” Bex sneers.
The problem lately is, since I’ve taken the bold leap forward with Carter to act on our feelings, the less I care about the rest of this. The other day, I posted one of the outtakes Carter took at the diner. The day before, I shared a semi-unflattering selfie while someone fought with the checkout person at Erewhon. Even more shocking, peoplelikedit. I broke out of the filtered mold and people respondedwellto it.
So I pick up my phone and text back on camera.
El (4:33 pm):I wish you hadn’t reminded me those exist.
Carter (4:34 pm):I totally had one when I was a kid. Dropped it on my face once.0/10.
I stifle a laugh. Bex clears her throat.
“Want to share with the class, love?”
“No,” I snap back.
Bex lowers her voice. “What? Are you texting your nobody boyfriend again?”
Lea manages to look up from her thread about howBringing Up Babywas propaganda to make us trust Cary Grant with children when he’d been lying about his identity the whole time. She read us the thesis statement before we began rolling.
“You didn’t pay any bloody attention during part of the beef prep. The carrots you chopped look like a load of toshand your excitement level makes it look like you’ve stepped in dog shite.”
She glares at me. I’m still several inches taller than her, even in her platform sandals that look like they belong on theSpice Worldposter, and her chunky highlights are beginning to grow out. I wonder if she’ll shed this brand once the highlights fade, just like her Christian mom phase.
God, I don’t even want to be under the same roof as her. Or Lea. Both of them take far more pride in being anybody but themselves, whoever that may be. They don’tcarewho they are, and they don’t care about me. I feel like a tea kettle ready to scream.
“Maybe it’s because I don’t want to be here.”
Bex laughs and it echoes off the barren white walls of the Nest. “No one’s holding you hostage. I’m not trappin’ you in the Tower of London.”
