Page 93 of Seal the Deal
Though Andrew would never acknowledge it to anyone but himself, he likes this stripped down version of Nicki best.
“Thought you’d sleep in since it’s game day.”
“Food,” Nicki grunts, plastering himself across the kitchen island.
Turning the heat down low so it won’t burn, Andrew gives the food a good stir before moving to the cupboard to get a cup. He’s memorized Nicki’s favorite coffee, easily since he takes it surprisingly simple—three shots, steamed whole milk and one sugar. That, and Nicki’s fancy coffee machine does it all for you if you know what you want.
In only a minute, he’s sliding a steaming latte in front of Nicki, rewarded with a surprised smile when Nicki opens his eyes to look at the coffee then at Andrew.
“You can stay forever.”
“Gotta earn my keep somehow,” Andrew jokes, and though he laughs, a part of it feels true. He doesn’t want to add stress or inconvenience to Nicki’s life. Sure, their deal might be for Nicki’s benefit, but Andrew’s the one invading Nicki’s home and changing his schedule.
“Don’t gotta fucking earn nothing,” Nicholas gripes, grumpy as ever.
His behavior is comforting to Andrew. It’s probably weird that he likes how cantankerous Nicki can be, but not only is the predictability something Andrew appreciates, there’s nothing false in it. Nicki doesn’t do passive aggressive or hide his moods, and it’s nice to know what to expect. After several days living with Nicki that means expecting that he isn’t human until he’s had his first coffee.
Sure enough, Nicki’s posture relaxes once he takes his first drink and with every drink after, he awakens more until his eyes are fully open, and he’s standing at Andrew’s back peering into the skillet as Andrew turns over any bits of eggs that look too wet. Alec would probably tell him he was overcooking it, but Andrew’s sensory issues mean eggs must be fully cooked, sometimes overcooked, or he will get the ick and be unable to eat.
“What is it?”
“Food,” Andrew replies.
“Fucking smart ass,” Nicki laughs, leaning over Andrew’s shoulder to peak at the stove. Andrew isn’t exactly a small guy, but Nicki makes him feel it, his extra four inches of height and considerable bulk dwarfing Andrew from behind.
“It’shuevos en tortillas,” Andrew offers. “Not to be confused withchilaquiles.”
“I don’t know what either one of those are.”
“Chilaquilesare tortillas simmered in some kind of salsa. It should be simple, it sounds simple, but I fuck it up every time. My brother Alec though—his are out of this world. These are easier because it’s literally just fried tortilla with egg, pretty hard to fuck up. Charlie’s done it so not impossible but—” Andrew trails off, shrugging.
“Where did you learn to make it?” Nicki asks, sipping his coffee. He hasn’t moved away from Andrew’s back, which is surprisingly not as annoying as it might be with any of his brothers. Usually he hates feeling watched because his fear of judgement, even when he knows it’s unfounded, triggers panic in him. There’s nothing judgmental about Nicki’s behavior right now, just a sleepy curiosity that is unexpectedly nice.
“From Alec. Neither of my parents can really cook. My mom, bless her heart, is so incredibly talented at so much but a disaster in the kitchen. She’s who Charlie takes after. My dad is almost as bad, not because of any inherent disaster tendencies but because his mom—myabuela—wouldn’t teach him when he was growing up. When she came here, she wanted to assimilate, to make sure her son didn’t face the same setbacks and discriminations she had. She got it in her head that American men didn’t cook. It’s why she wouldn’t teach our dad, or even me or Charlie or Jason, Spanish. She wanted our English to be perfect, so that no one would have any reason to discriminate against us.”
Flipping off the burner, Andrew takes two plates from the cupboard, having made more than enough to share.
“In some ways, Alec had very different parents and grandparents—or one grandparent since my grandpa passed when I was little—than me and my brothers got. Our parents were more established in their careers when they had Alec, so they were able to spend more time with him than they could when me and Charlie were little, and at that pointmiabuela’shealth was declining, too. She missed her home country and language, and the only person still at home often was Alec, since me and Charlie and Jason were all away at college. Alec got to know a version of ourabuelaI never did. A version I’m not sure anyone else did.”
Staring at the steaming plates ofmigras, it occurs to Andrew just how much he shared. Especially without being prompted. It’s been a long time since he let himself think these thoughts, since he acknowledged the slight envy he feels that Alec had more present parents, that he got to experience a richer connection to their Mexican heritage and a side of hisabuelahe was never granted. The kind he has to try and claw together with Spanish lessons on his phone and second hand recipes from his little brother.
The fact that Alec had a different experience with the same family isn’t something Andrew likes to dwell on. He hates feeling jealous of his little brother or resentful of his parents. His parents worked so hard to build a comfortable life and future for them, it wasn’t their fault that they often shifted burdens onto Andrew’s plate. And it sure as shit isn’t Alec’s fault he got more involved, emotionally in touch parents and anabuela. He’s a great kid—man, really—and he deserves it.
“Well, your nanny seems to have done a decent job with you while all the adults who should’ve been there for you were busy.”
“Nanny,” Andrew scoffs, passing a plate and fork to Nicki. “There was no nanny.”
He snags a new can ofjalapeñoshe bought for Nicki’s place—La Costeno,the only decent brand—and pops the lid open, pouring a bit of the juice over his eggs and tortillas. He can’t stand the texture of pickledjalapeñosbut he likes the flavor. Once he’s finished, he slides the can across the kitchen island in front of Nicki, not surprised when he copies Andrew and covers his food injalapeñojuice.
“If there was no nanny,” Nicki starts, scooping up an obscenely large bite of food then shoving it into his mouth. Thankfully, he chews and swallows before finishing. “Who raised you?”
“I mean, my parents andabuelawere around sometimes, but once I was old enough to be left home alone or in charge—I was. I was the one who kept Charlie and Jason and Theo and Alec out of trouble, kept them on track, made sure they did their homework, kept the chore list on the fridge and a running grocery list so we never ran out of everyone’s favorite foods.”
“Who did that for you?”
“Huh?”
“Who did that for you?” Nicki repeats, inhaling his food at record speed. If Andrew thought Jason could eat fast, it’s nothing compared to Nicki.
