Page 87 of Tomorrow Belongs to Us
She eyes the groceries with suspicion. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm making you dinner.”
“Why?”
“Because … why not? Can I come in?” It's a bold imposition on my part, given how we left things, but that's all I have. I pray she hasn’t eaten.
I wasn't expecting such coldness, not now. She wears her grudges for longer than is healthy. Maybe that’s a generational subtlety. Younger people think they have more time, that they have forever. I have learned that time flies the older I get, and that it is limited, and scarce, and that holding grudges isn’t wise because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
“This is heavy. Can I come in?” I’m hoping to appeal to her good nature as I shuffle the bag from one hand to the other. She's in a mood, and she's tired. There’s a chance that my good intentions might not be appreciated the way I had hoped.
“I don't want you to make dinner.” But she opens the door and lets me in.
Her place is spacious and tastefully done, in silver and grey and white, contemporary colors, not pretty and girlish, but slick and smart. A quick glance around shows me a tidy little space, just like how I imagined. It’s a cozy place, with cushions on the sofa, a table with a stack of books. A vase filled with pink carnations. She turns on a lamp and a honey colored glow bathes the room in a soft light.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, following her to a good-sized open plan kitchen area.
The firm set of her mouth tells me that she hasn’t, and doesn’t want to own up to it. On the countertop I see a box of cereal, an empty bowl and a spoon. “Isthatdinner?”
“What if it is.” She moves towards the bowl and stands in front of it, as if hiding it might make me forget all about it.
“I can do better than cereal.” I start taking out the ingredients on the kitchen island. She doesn't stop me and, to my surprise, she pulls out a stool and sits down wearily. I set the ingredients over by the stovetop, and when I glance over my shoulder, I catch her gaze skimming my butt.
I take that as a good sign. “How was the interview?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. What are you making?”
“Cheesy mushroom sauce with salmon fillets. It works, trust me,” I tell her when she scrunches up her nose.
“Should I?”
“Should you what?”
“Trust you.” Her eyes dim with suspicion.
“You can always trust me.” What has she heard?
“Can I trust you not to have a hissy fit when someone—a guy—wants to talk to me?”
“Yes.” I clamp down on my teeth, feeling foolish for the way I behaved. “I’m sorry.”
“Just don’t make a habit of it.” She gets up to put her cereal and bowl away.
“Knives?” I ask, looking around the kitchen. She points to the knife stand, then tells me where the cutlery and the rest of her kitchenware is. I catch sight of an open bottle of wine and her half-filled wine glass.
“Shall I get you a glass?” she asks. I shake my head. I'm driving.
She sits silently behind me, while I get on with the cooking. I leave her alone, sensing that she’s tired and perhaps a little worked up because I’m here.
“I don’t think I got it,” she says after a long time has passed. I’ve put the salmon fillets in the oven and I’m making the sauce. I’m boiling a whole heap of fresh veg on the side.
“Why don’t you think you got it?” I walk over and place my hands on the kitchen island, then lean over slightly.
“Because the others were all men and they looked so much smarter and—”
“They looked smarter? Based on what?” She puts herself down so much. It’s like the smart confident girl has vanished. I hate that I never once called her up to see how she was, but I truly thought it was for the best.
“They all looked like Ivy League grads.”
