Page 2 of The Bright Side of Brooding
Very Respectfully,
Sergeant Nicholas Masters
I blinked against the ire rising in me. What kind of fool had written this?
“I mean, come on!” I said to the non-existent crowd gathered around my large table.
Who said things like that? Whowrotethings like that? Honestly, who? I’d never had a conversation with the man, but I knew him by reputation.
Well… reputation and sight.
“And what a fine, fine sight it is.”
Okay, let’s face it. I talked aloud to myself a lot. It might’ve been cute if I had a dog to lovingly waggle his tongue at me, but in reality, it was just me. Get a sauté pan crackling and it sounded like a supportive enough chorus, though.
Anyway, Masters. Truly. The man was… how to describe him? You know that feeling when you go somewhere and you see, like, mountains in the distance with a gorgeous rainbow sunset behind it and little stars twinkling above it and you think to yourselfthis is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen?
Looking at Masters was like that.
No, really. He wasthatgood-looking. He looked fake—that’s how pretty he was. But the thing is, notjustpretty. The man was built to the hilt. He had this aura that readpower. He was also notoriously introverted, quiet, and antisocial.
Six months ago, I’d sat a few seats away from him at a fest. He’d arrived with Thatcher Wild, all around excellent human and delightful guy, and my interest had been piqued. I’d thought,Hey, self, here’s this gorgeous guy right next to you. Maybe you’ll say hi to him!
But almost before I’d fully settled in, he’d gotten up and left without so much as a fare-thee-well for anyone but Thatcher and one other person! I’d wanted to scoff, and loudly, but it wouldn’t have done me any good because the band had been blasting.
Plus, I didn’t know him. Even if some part of me wanted to know him, in the same way I wanted to know Henry Cavill or Chris Hemsworth—which meant notreally. But, like, if they were sitting a few seats down from me at a table? Yeah, I’d do my best to have a quick chat and stare that beauty in the face at close range.
Whatever.He likely had no clue who I was aside from the basics of my name and house number, so this wasn’t personal. I had no idea why he didn’t want my food, but I wasn’t quite ready to give up. I’d gotten the tip from my friend Rob Waverly that Masters was a bit of a health nut.
I chuckled at the memory. Rob had been so earnest, like I wouldn’t know someone who looked like Masters had to be pretty tuned in to what went into his body. Still, the seared skirt steak, crispy potato stacks, and brussels sprouts salad with warm bacon dressing wasn’ttoobad. I’d been excited to take that to him because, funnily enough, it turned out he lived three doors down from me. I could make things for him that needed to stay crisp, and steak that might overcook if I had to drive it twenty minutes to someone’s house. Plus, I’d grabbed the skirt steak on sale—it was destiny. That meal had undoubtedly been an improvement on the first week’s beef short rib ragu over pasta and giant, fresh-baked ciabatta loaf. And cheesecake.
It may seem ridiculous that I didn’t know the man considering our proximity for nearly a year and a half, but I never saw him. I mean,never. I could count on less than ten fingers the times I’d seen him out of his house in the last few months. Half the time, his place looked vacant except that his garden was always perfectly manicured and his porch tidy and swept. Lately, I’d seen someone duck in for a half hour twice a day, which I’d noticed happening during rotations on weekends. I couldn’t say whether it happened weekdays, but I figured it might. Girlfriend? Seemed odd for those quick, regular visits, and only certain times… couldn’t be a cleaning lady with that frequency.
Since I didn’t know the man, the person visiting his house and the reason for it didn’t concern me.
I wasn’t about to give up on the food. I would try again, but this time, I had a menu that would be grain-free and generally very healthy. I could do healthy. Didn’t love to if I didn’t have to, because all of the fun cooking used butter, butter, and more butter, but I could do it. Butter just made life better in every possible way. But if that was what Masters needed in order to eat my food and be relieved of cooking one meal a week for himself, then he’d get it.
* * *
Two nights later, I signed the letter I’d just written. It said:
Dear Sergeant Masters,
I am very glad to hear you enjoyed the food. I do hope this meal will meet with your approval. A mutual friend informed me that you prefer healthier eating, and so I have done my level best to meet a more stringent nutritional requirement. Included in the bag, please find paprika-seasoned grilled chicken breasts, kale winter salad with toasted walnuts (on the side in case of allergy or aversion), baked sweet potatoes sans filling and bereft of anything delicious other than themselves and a pinch of sea salt and dried thyme, and fresh-cut winter strawberries smuggled in from Spain. Because I find the absence of dessert to be a depressing reality no one should face in these dark winter months, I have included oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. And if oatmeal isn’t on the menu, you can find the chia seed cookies. I look forward to your feedback.
Sincerely,
Summer Applegate
There. Put that on your plate and eat it.
I bundled up in a long, wind-proof coat that ended at my knees and donned snow boots. The snow had started just as I’d finished grilling outside, thankfully. I hated cleaning grill pans, so whenever possible, I used the outdoor set-up. I looped a scarf around my neck, pulled a bright blue knit hat with a white snowball pompom on top over my hair, and grabbed the bags. I could be to his house and back within five minutes, I estimated, and then would sit down to my own meal.
I walked as fast as I could with the bags of food and my puffy coat and boots slowing me down. The sidewalks were slicked with a fine layer of snow. His house looked closed for business. The rolladen—heavy metallic shutters that could be raised or lowered over windows—were all lowered. This meant I couldn’t see whether any lights were on. No matter, though, as I knew he wouldn’t answer the door when I knocked.
I set the paper bags with the food on the porch next to the door, then knocked twice and turned to scuttle back down the path as quickly as possible without biffing it. Done! Hopefully, he’d find it soon and eat it while it was hot. I hated the idea of him discovering it hours later.
Hmm.With a moment of indecision, I turned around and moved to ring the bell. And just as I reached it and pushed, the door swung open to reveal the man himself.
