Page 96 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
The sound transports me back into my ten-year-old body. I’m standing on a stepping stool, next to Mom as she teaches me the basics. I can’t quite make out what she’s saying to me. I wish I’d paid more attention. What if I start forgetting the things she told me at sixteen? What if I forget her completely?
“Alice?”
Ryder’s voice pulls me back. I realize I’ve been standing frozen, watching the garlic turn golden.
“Sorry.” I grab a wooden spoon and stir quickly before it burns.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sure.”
I clear my throat and quickly cut the cherry tomatoes in half. When I add them to the pan, I’m quick to turn down the heat and ask Ryder, “Can you find me a whisk and a bowl?”
Ryder leaps off the counter and starts checking cupboards and drawers.
I scold myself. “I should have whisked the eggs before turning on the pan. You’re supposed to be prepared when cooking.”
“Give yourself a break, Ally,” Ryder says, retrieving a whisk from a drawer. “It’s your first time back in the kitchen. I’d say you’re killing it.”
He plonks the whisk into a bowl near the carton of eggs. “Do you want me to whisk the eggs?” he asks, flipping the carton open. “I can be your sous chef.”
I grin at the fact he knows the term and then move over to the counter. “Actually, can you keep an eye on the pan and make sure it doesn’t burn? I really want to crack some eggs.”
Ryder gives me a knowing smile and then moves over to the stovetop. Did he visualize Miranda’s head as quickly as I did?
I crack four eggs and begin to whisk. I look over to the fridge, wondering if there was any cream inside, and then dismiss the thought. I roughly chop the baby spinach with the basil leaves. I move back to the pan and slip my hand in front of Ryder to reach the dial. Ryder takes a step back, watching as I give the ingredients a quick stir, just enough to wilt the spinach leaves.
“It’s looking good,” Ryder comments as I retrieve the whisked eggs from the counter.
I pour in the eggs and am quick to follow it with the feta. The pan is filled with color, and on instinct, we both take a big whiff.
Ryder smiles and gives me a gentle nudge. “Smells good, too.”
I can’t help smiling back at him, finally feeling my parents’ presence and not shutting it out.
It smells like home.
My vision blurs.
“Alice,” Ryder’s voice is soft. “You’re crying.”
I sniff and wipe under my eyes. “I know,” I murmur. “But it’s good.”
His strong hand rubs a circle on back. “They’d be proud of you.”
I find a spatula and dig it around the sides of the hefty omelet. “I hope so. All I’ve been doing is shutting them out.”
Ryder leans against the counter, folding his arms. “I don’t know how you’re making it through. I don’t know how I’d survive losing my parents.”
I swallow hard and look up to meet his mournful eyes. “I don’t know if this is the right thing to say, but I’m glad you feel that way. I’m glad you’re so close with your parents.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me or were jealous of me for it.”
I shake my head, dissecting the omelet in halves and then flipping it out onto two plates. “It wouldn’t bring my parents back.” I hand him a plate. “Here.”
“Thanks.” He takes it and moves over to a stool at the island bench.
I move over and take the seat next to him. “You were a good sous chef.”
