Page 231 of The Holy Grail
Jules made a face as she picked up Evan’s beer and took a drink.
Evan released a long sigh. “I’m worried about him.”
Watching Malcom struggle stirred up a lot of memories of watching Paige struggle, so Jules had a lot of empathy. That being said, it wasn’t easy to watch a second time. “Me, too. Especially since he’s lost interest in making dinner—” she broke off as she realized how bad that sounded. “I’m not saying that because I’ve gotten used to having delicious dinners made for me almost every night. I’m saying that because losing interest in things you like to do is never a good sign.”
They looked at one another for several moments, until Evan broke it. “Well, I guess we should start making dinner, but God, I just don’t want to have another meal with just the two of us. Oh, Jesus, no offense,” he quickly added.
“None taken,” she replied dryly. “I don’t want to have another meal with just the two of us, either.”
“So, should we go and drag him out of his room, or what?”
Jules shook her head. “I have a better idea,” she said. Then, as she got herself a beer of her own, she told him what it was. “What do you think? It might be a little underhanded, but if he’s in there just doing nothing, it might draw him out, and if it doesn’t, then I guess we’ll have to order a pizza.”
Slowly, a smile spread over his face, and after clinking his beer bottle to hers, they got to work.
“How about spaghetti for dinner?” she asked, raising her voice just enough so Malcom would hopefully hear it.
“That sounds good,” Evan replied, equally as loud. “Where’s the spaghetti?”
“I’m not sure. Start checking all the cabinets. I’ll look for the sauce.”
Together, they began opening and closing cabinet doors, making a fair bit of noise, enough that Dawn Corleone fled the kitchen.
“I can’t find any spaghetti sauce,” Jules said.
“I think Mal makes it homemade—not that I can tell the difference, to be honest.”
At the deliberate, and totally over-the-top insult, Jules chuckled silently before saying, “I can’t, either, but let’s not tell him that.”
“Deal.”
Evan half-filled a pot with water and set it heavily on the stove, then leaned back against the counter and took a drink of his beer, making a face that Malcom hadn’t taken the bait, yet.
“You’re supposed to wait for the water to boil before putting the spaghetti in,” Jules said.
“Good one,” he whispered, before telling her petulantly, “Well, I’m hungry, so I’m not waiting.”
“I don’t think it cooks properly like that. You know what? I’m just going to make waffles for dinner. Why don’t you grab the waffle maker?”
“What about all this mess?”
“We’ll deal with it later, after I make waffles. I’m hungry—and you know what I’m like when I’m hungry.”
“That’s actually one of your red flags.”
Jules stuck her tongue out at him.
Evan grabbed the waffle maker out of its cabinet, and set it on the counter with a thump. “For God’s sake, how long will waffles take?”
With as much bitchiness as she could summon, she snapped, “As long as they usually take. Twenty minutes.”
Jules took a drink of her beer as she opened more cabinets, taking a metal mixing bowl and setting it on the counter, just short of slamming it down, but managing to create a nice clanging sound which echoed in the kitchen.
“Careful, you’re getting flour everywhere,” Evan said a few moments later.
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up.”
“Jesus, I wish I hadn’t given those cakes away. I’d be eating one right now.”
