Page 77 of False Start
“That’s just… so crazy. I said this totally random food and you were like ‘I’m gonna research and cook this.’ And you’ve been at it for the last like two hours and—” I stop her train of thought with a kiss, running my hand through her hair to feel her roots damp with sweat.
I’ve gotten her to drink a few sips of water, and she seems to be holding it down.For now.We’re still in the easy part of this, and now I’m kicking myself for ever thinking itwasn’ta problem. She was already in too deep when she came into my work that first night with K.
I try not to blame myself, but I’m not dumb enough to pretend I didn’t push her when all she needed was someone to share her grief with.
I shrug with my response. “I told you I’d cook whatever you wanted.”
“Are you a Pisces?” she asks as I return to the kitchen to prepare the food.
“Fuck off with that,” I answer, feigning annoyance as I set out the onion to chop. “But yes.”
Her laugh is victorious, and the sound gives me hope.
I hope that she’s truly my person when she gets through this.
Just as I’m getting all the ingredients prepped, my phone buzzes. I see a text come in from Mo.
SCOTT WANTS AN ANSWER. COME TO PRACTICE EARLY.
CAN’T MAKE IT TODAY. TELL HIM HE CAN KISS MY ASS THOUGH.
Skippingpractice isn’t a big deal to other skaters. They’ve all done it here and there, and no one bats an eye as long as we make it to the practices that count. We’re required to show up to the practice before a bout in order to qualify to start; otherwise, we’re benched and a B-team player subs out.
It’s Wednesday night.
And though I’ve never missed a bout, I know this will get blown out of proportion.
DON’T FUCK THIS UP, HARVEY.
I roll my eyes,annoyed and overburdened, draped in guilt for keeping too many things to myself. Then, Nia groans on the couch, and I’m back to focusing on her again.
I follow the recipe obsessively, reading the same sentence three times before it fully registers and completing the next step to make sure I’m doing it the right way. The way that will taste how she likes it. Peeling the yuca takes longer than I thought it would, and she’s all smiles watching me deal with an ingredient I’ve never personally handled before in my life.
Once the root is peeled, I cook the chicken, then shred it and use the same water to boil the root. Once it’s good and cooked, I put it in the blender before returning the broth to heat. I continuously season it, overly anxious that it’s still going to somehow taste bland to her.
Taking a spoon, I blow, tasting it first. It’s fucking delicious, but I also have no idea if this is the intentional outcome. With the green onions garnish on top, I don’t bother asking her permission. I make her a bowl and bring it to her. I’ve never been more nervous in my life, but I don’t show it.
She’s forcing herself to a more upright position on the couch. There’s a pained look on her face, but when I sit next to her with the bowl in my lap, it’s not the same repulsed expression she had at the diner.
“That smells so good,” she moans, leaning into me and dropping her head on my shoulder.
“You’ll eat?” I can’t help the excitement that comes through.
She chuckles softly before looking up at me with watery eyes. “I’ll try.”
I fill the spoon, bringing both it and the bowl closer toher as she pulls her head up and sits a little more upright. I blow on it for good measure before I bring it to her lips. She opens, accepts, and swallows.
She closes her eyes and sets her head back on my shoulder, like that was entirely too much effort.
“Mmm,” she hums with content. “It’s so good.”
I’m beaming, and before I can hide it, her eyes open just in time to catch me. I bite my lip, forcing the smile back while I wait for her to accept the next spoonful.
It doesn’t take much for her to feel full, just a few bites and she’s pushing my hand away completely. She looks a little better, less on-the-verge-of-death than before.
“Hey.” I wait for her to turn my way. I don’t want to leave her, but Mo rarely talks to me that way. Whatever needs dealt with at the rink can’t wait. “I can’t skip practice tonight.”
Her shoulders slump in disappointment, and a look of worry drapes her face. “You don’t have to come,” I reassure her. “I’ll tell them you’re sick.” She lets out a breath of relief, and I can imagine facing the team like this isn’t something she wants to deal with.
