Page 94 of The Choices I've Made
“See? That wasn’t too hard, was it?” she said. “Now, take off those dirty shoes and help me in the kitchen, will you?”
I watched her walk away, the warmth of her touch still radiating in my fingertips.
She’d done it.
Maybe home wasn’t so bad after all.
“Worried about things burning, huh?” I said the moment we walked into the kitchen, noticing immediately that she’d shut off all the burners on the stove.
“Do you think I’m stupid? I didn’t know how long it’d take to get you in here. I wasn’t about to ruin a perfectly good dinner—or worse, cause a fire over you.”
“Thanks,” I grumbled, taking a seat at the old wooden table where I used to eat my Rice Krispies. The familiarclick, click, clickof the gas stove sounded as she relit the burners and continued her relentless dinner preparations.
“Why are you doing this? Going to all this trouble? Sitting next to me at my father’s funeral?” I asked, taking my time to look around.
Nothing had changed. Well, a few things maybe. The outside of the refrigerator was nearly bare. It had once been filled with school art and, later, straight As from school. But, now, just a few random magnets from local businesses were there.
And one solitary photo of my mother and me.
My eyes squeezed shut as I turned away.
“Because that’s what friends do for each other,” she said quietly.
My eyes opened back up, focusing on her. She swayed back and forth, bringing her sautéed onions and garlic back to life, and then she began the process of chopping vegetables.
“Is that what we are now? Friends?”
Her knife stopped, and she turned. “I hope so. I mean, if we can’t be anything else, Jake, we can at least be there for each other now.”
I nodded, unable to find any fault in her logic.
Except that I didn’t want to be just friends with Molly.
I never had.
Even in elementary school, when flirting had consisted of chasing girls around the playground, I’d always found myself getting jealous when other boys picked on her, knowing they had secret crushes on her as well.
Molly had always been mine.
“Friends,” I finally said, not knowing what else to say. “I guess we’ll give it a go.”
She didn’t seem convinced, and neither did I, but we carried on. After a few minutes of catching my breath after my terrifying battle with the front door, I rose from my place at the table and decided to help.
“What can I do?” I asked, not really understanding what she was doing, but hating the idea of sitting around while she waited on me.
“Well, I’m making a simple pasta,” she explained. “It’s all I could come up with based on what I had from Terri and what little was left in your dad’s kitchen.”
An audible pause was felt.
“Anyway,” she carried on, “if you could continue chopping the tomatoes, I’ll get started on the pasta.”
“Sure.” I did my best to dice several homegrown tomatoes just like Molly had. “So, I take it, you don’t use tomato sauce from a can?” I could feel her eyes on me as she watched.
“No,” she answered in an almost bewildered state. “And I take it, you don’t cook much in Chicago?”
A chuckle escaped my lips as I turned to find her amused expression. “No. Is it that obvious?”
“Look at those tomatoes, Jake. What did they ever do to you? I mean, seriously, they look mutilated.”
