Page 50 of Back in the Country
It was something I did not.
One night, sick of him dodging me, I marched up to his door and let myself inside without knocking. I found him by the stove making these little, tiny quiches. There was flour all over the counter where he’d made the dough, and bowls and spoons covered every surface. When he saw me, he sighed but told me to wash my hands.
I did, and he taught me how to pinch the edges to make them look nice—his words not mine—and the rest is history.
It became our thing after that night. We don’t talk about it, and I like having a special secret with Hank. It wasn’t till years later that anyone realized he was such a good cook.
He cooks because he likes it and that is that.
“Oh! What are these?”
Snagging the little triangle pastry, I don’t wait for his answer before popping it into my mouth. The flavors are light and fluffy and absolutely delicious.
He chuckles, and it is such a rare sound. “Patience never was your strong suit.”
“You find that endearing.” I wink as he braces his hands on the butcher-block island across from me.
“That was a cream cheese and blackberry tart with a small amount of mint.” He points to another container. “These have caramelized onions and brie in them. And these are little quiches with ham, broccoli, onions, and cheddar cheese.”
In a dramatic fashion, he opens the last container and looks at the contents.
“And these…are mini lemon-blueberry cheesecakes.” He pops one in his mouth and nods in approval.
“Good, huh?”
“Would you expect anything less?”
I snort. “There was the lemon-thyme chicken incident.”
“That wasonetime,” he groans and I shrug. Even with almost a decade separating us, our relationship and banter are always like this.
“Facts are facts.” I fill the small plate he sets in front of me. “And snacks are snacks.” I hum in excitement.
“Drink?”
“Just water, please.”
He fills a glass for me and watches me devour his little creations. Hank cooks a wide variety, but he is happiest making appetizers and finger foods, which is hilarious on principle.
His large stature and gruff nature make it almost unbelievable that the delicate creations come from his hands. He takes pride in his food, and as long as I am around, I thrive on being his official taste tester.
“How are you holding up?” The tart is halfway to my mouth when his question drops my stomach to the floor. I replace the buttery pastry on my plate and wipe my hands to buy me some time before answering.
“Not great.”
The admission does not come easy, and Hank doesn’t press for more.
“I just want him to be okay—and I don’t know how to help. He won’tletme help. I’ve been in some of those online support groups, you know? They talk about helping family and friends adjust to life after a military-related injury, but I’m just so scared he’s going to keep shutting me out.”
The doctors had saved Sorren’s life—and his leg. The surgery had been a miracle. No amputation was required, but it did leave his calf severely disfigured as a result.
“He loves you.”
I toy with the napkin again. “I know, but he’s been taking care of me his whole life, and I just want him to let me help. I’m not a kid anymore.”
He nods. “I know. It’s just hard for brothers to see their baby sisters grow up.”
Wiping an errant tear away, I sigh. “I know.”
