Page 52 of What We Break
Aw fuck. He couldn't have left the grumpy asshole at home. Wait. Shit. We are at home.
Laine's shoulders relax and she grins thank fuck. "I make a pretty decent marinara, and I brought everything we need." She looks between us. "Unless you'd rather order pizza and avoid the risk."
Blake snorts. "Home-cooked beats pizza. Neither of us can cook worth a damn." He raps his knuckles on the wall. "Gotta finish up in the workshop. Try not to burn the place down."
I glare at him, but he just smirks at me.
And then it's just Laine and me, standing in my living room, and this is the first time we've been alone in my space. It should feel awkward or nerve-wracking, but instead it feels... right.
"So," she says, clapping her hands. "Ready to see if I can actually cook? I'm a little rusty."
"I guarantee it's going to be better than anything that's come out of our kitchen in the last two years."
In the kitchen, Laine immediately starts unpacking her bag. Fresh tomatoes, garlic, basil, a bottle of wine, good parmesan cheese. She moves around the space naturally, opening cabinets to find a cutting board, testing the weight of my knives.
I lean against the counter and watch her, because I can't not watch her. She's got this easy confidence in the kitchen, like she's done this a thousand times in a thousand different places. Which, knowing her history, she probably has.
"Nice kitchen," she says. "Good counter space. Though I might have done something a little different with the floors." She runs her toe along the peeling laminate, eyebrow raised, fighting a smile.
"Yeah, that's..." I laugh. "That's temporary. We found a supplier clearing out the cabinets for cheap, and we did the counters, but we can't agree on the floors. I want stone, and Blake wants wood and neither of us wants to back down."
"So you're living with lino out of stubbornness?"
"It's a matter of principle. One of us will give in at some point, but who the fuck knows how long that'll take."
She laughs, and the sound fills up the kitchen in the best way. "I respect the commitment."
"Blake insisted on changing the layout when we renovated. He said any kitchen worth having needs room for two people to work without getting in each other's way."
"Smart man." She starts washing the tomatoes. "Want to help, or are you one of those guys who thinks cooking is woman's work?"
I gasp and press a hand to my chest. "I would never! I will be your... whichever chef is the one not in charge. Fair warning though, I'm shit at chopping pretty much anything."
"How do you guys not cook? Do you eat takeout every night?"
"No. Not often. But there are a lot of frozen meals. Blake makes three recipes on rotation, and I've perfected grilled cheese and tomato soup. We don't starve."
"What recipes?"
"Chili, shepherd's pie, and tacos."
There's that little smile again. "That's a lot of beef."
Laughing, she hands me a knife and shows me how she wants the tomatoes chopped. And I appreciate her hiding her smile when she sees how slow I am. It's so comfortable being with her. Whether we're talking or not, it just feels good.
"You're not regretting skipping the fancy restaurant to slave away in my kitchen?" I ask.
"This is better than any restaurant." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "Besides, I wanted to see where you live. You can tell a lot about someone from their space."
"What can you tell about me?"
She looks around the kitchen, considering. "You're neat but not obsessive. You've got good knives, which means you care about doing things right." She pauses. "And you've got pictures on the refrigerator, which means you value the people in your life."
I follow her gaze to the fridge, where there are photos of all three of us—me, Blake, and Jared—from before deployment, and a few shots from fire crew barbecues.
"Very observant."
"Occupational hazard. You notice things when you spend your life taking care of people."
