Page 95 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
Ryder’s smile brightens his face. “Sprout. That’s cute.”
I flinch. “Don’t call me it.”
“I wasn’t gonna. It’s your parents’ thing.”
“Okay good, I just…”
“I’ve got things with my parents too. Like, things that are only said and done between us.”
There’s a flutter in my stomach. “Like what?”
Ryder sits back, folding his arms and letting his eyes wander to the view outside the window. “Oh man, a memory just came back to me. When I was little, we’d play this stupid game on road trips. We’d make up songs, and whatever the last word someone sang had to be the first word the next person sang. Geez, they were terrible. It always got so out of tune with the most ridiculous lyrics.” He turns his head, his eyes meeting mine. “But we’d always end up in hysterics.”
An easy smile relaxes my body. “Aw. That sounds so nice.”
Ryder points at my copy of ‘What We Carry.’ “Should we move on to studying?”
I breathe out hard, sliding down in my seat. “Do we have to?”
“No, we definitely do not.” Ryder chuckles, relaxing in his seat. “But, just because you threw your food at me, doesn’t mean you’re getting out of eating.”
My eyes fall on the deconstructed sandwich on the table, and my mind wanders to thoughts of Miranda’s fridge. “You know, Ihave an impulse to do something. Do you want to come to the kitchen with me?”
His eyebrow arches, and there’s a softness to his features. “Sure. I’m game.”
Eighteen
“What’sthisimpulse?”Ryderasks, following me into the kitchen after we both changed our sweaters.
I don’t answer right away. The hysteria from throwing food at him has faded, but something better remains. A looseness in my chest I haven’t felt in weeks.
I cross to the refrigerator and pull it open. Cool air washes over my face, and I’m struck by what’s inside. Everything is arranged like a display at a gourmet market. Cherry tomatoes sit in perfect rows. Herbs are bundled with twine. The vegetables look so fresh and pristine they could be fake.
“Has Miranda ever actually cooked anything?” I ask, reaching for a bundle of basil.
“Not that I’ve seen.” Ryder hops onto the counter, settling in to watch. “Mrs. Gallagher does dinner and during the day, I’ve just seen Miranda with protein shakes.”
I bring the basil to my nose. The scent brings a flash of memories with it. Mom’s hands tearing leaves over pasta. Dad taste-testing sauce with a wooden spoon.
My hands start moving before my brain catches up. I pull out a punnet of cherry tomatoes, a tub of marinated feta, and a handful of baby spinach leaves.
“What are you making?” Ryder asks.
After I set the ingredients on the counter beside him, I go back into the fridge and retrieve the carton of eggs.
“Omelet,” I announce. “Are you still hungry?”
Ryder grins. “Are you really going to cook?”
I find a cutting board and a sharp knife. I catch my reflection in the blade, distorted and wavering.
“You okay?” Ryder’s voice is gentle.
“Yeah.” I set the board and knife on the counter and move toward the pantry. “Just getting my bearings.”
I find a whole garlic nestled in a small bowl, and a bottle of olive oil standing on another shelf. I take them back over to the counter and set a garlic clove on the cutting board. I press the flat of the knife against the clove, and the papery skin splits easily. I peel the garlic, my fingers remembering the motion. Then it’s a rough chop, not too fine. Dad always said garlic shouldn’t be paste unless you’re making a marinade.
I find a pan in the cupboard below the countertop and move it over to the stovetop. When it’s heated up enough, I add olive oil to the pan and then the garlic. I grin at the satisfying sizzle.
