Page 87 of The Rebound
But maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were her way of trying.
Trying badly but still.
I take out two cans from the fridge, trying to imagine myself slotting in here. Try to picture what it would be like, maybe getting an apartment in one of those new blocks near the beach or one of the houses around here. I’d get my coffee at Beth’s and go to Roman’s on special occasions. The idea doesn’t fill me with horror the way it had a few weeks ago but nor do I feel any particular pull either. Just confusion.
The front door opens and I hear Louise and Tomasz call to each other before she enters the kitchen, her shoes squeaking on the floor as she flicks on the overhead light. The rain is heavier now and even in the short walk from the car to the door, her hair is plastered to her head, her jacket sodden. She looks like a drowned rat and, because I’m her younger sister, I tell her just that.
“Thanks,” she says, dumping her purse on the table as I take a seat. “It’s really coming down out there.” Tomasz, too impatient with my procrastination, comes in to take the can from my hand before kissing Louise on the forehead and going straight back to the football.
“Is there another one of those?” she asks, nodding at the fridge.
“Sure.” I get up to get her one but she’s already moving.
“Bad day?” I ask, because this could be a thing we do now. Chat.
“Terrible day. What do you want for dinner?”
“I can cook something.”
Louise side eyes me as she opens the can. “You cook?”
“A little.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “We’ve got some lamb. I’ll just do a roast.”
“At least let me help. I can be the gravy tester.”
“Meaning you’ll just drink the gravy.”
“I haven’t done that in years,” I protest but she just snorts, taking out pans and dishes and everything else she needs. “Let me help,” I repeat.
She looks confused, which is understandable given how I’d usually have left the room by now, but she’s too tired to argue.
“Fine. Do you know how to chop?”
“I know the general principle of it.”
“Then you’re in charge of the potatoes. Do know how to boil a potato?”
“Yes.” Kind of.
“Wash. Peel. Chop evenly. Start with that.”
At least she lets me boil the kettle by myself.
“Did you have a chef in New York?” she asks when I’ve managed that feat.
“No,” I say, not raising to the bait. “I either ate at the office or got takeout. And when Tyler was there, Tyler cooked.”
There’s silence as I root around the drawer for a peeler.
“I can’t imagine him cooking,” Louise says eventually.
“He was a good cook. He was nuts about nutrition, so he kind of had to be.”
“Ah. One of those.”
“One of what?”
