Page 54 of Man Candy (After We Fall 1)
“I’m not sure that’s it with her,” I confided. “She said she’s never really had a broken heart.”
“Exactly. So why fix what isn’t broken?” Nolan pressed. “She’s gone all this time without being hurt, while probably watching women around her be disappointed by men they care about. Why should she bother?”
“Maybe,” I said, glancing at Alex. “She did mention that your parents’ marriage isn’t her ideal.”
Alex snorted, which totally reminded me of Jaime. “It’s not anyone’s ideal. But hey, it works for them, I suppose. They’ve been together thirty years.”
“Has she ever mentioned wanting a family?” I asked, stirring the ice cubes around in my drink.
“Not that I can think of,” Alex said. “But when Nolan and I have talked about adopting, she’s supportive. I don’t think she feels a family isn’t a worthy goal; it’s just romantic relationships she struggles with. I do agree with Nolan on one thing, though—I think fear plays a bigger role than she’d ever admit, but I also think she just enjoys being unreachable sometimes. She’s my sister and I love her, but I think she gets off on being so cold.”
“That’s her armor,” said Nolan. “She gets off on wearing it, being able to keep everyone out.”
“You guys are going to adopt? I didn’t know that. I think that’s awesome.” I changed the subject, not because I didn’t like talking about Jaime, but I was starting to feel a little disloyal to her.
Only later when I was driving home did I realize that it was the first time I felt I owed Jaime my loyalty, rather than Alex.
On Sunday evening, I pulled my mom’s recipe for pierogi with meat filling from the box. “Sorry about the store-bought dough, Ma,” I said, glancing at the ceiling. “I’ll make yours next time.” To make it up to her, I played the Beatles on Spotify. Always her favorite.
Singing along, I peeled and sliced the vegetables, throwing them in with the meat to cook in the stock. Next, I peeled and cut up the onion, then fried it in butter until it was lightly browned. I never fried things in butter, and the smell reminded me so much of my mother, I felt myself choking up. Between the music and the aroma in my kitchen, it almost felt like she was there.
I took my time with the recipe, enjoying the feeling of closeness to my mother it brought me but lamenting again the fact that I hadn’t thought to ask her more about her childhood. A song came on that she used to sing to me called “I Will,” and I felt my chest get so tight I had to stop and take a few deep breaths.
I was composing myself over the bowl of meat filling when I heard a knock on the living room door. Wiping my hands on a towel, I turned down the music and went to answer it.
My pulse kicked up when I saw Jaime standing in the hall, dressed in jeans and a pink sweater, her hair in so
ft waves around her face. “Hi,” I said, surprised but happy to see her. “Is the music too loud?”
“No, not at all. I like it.” She grinned sheepishly. “And I smelled something delicious.”
I laughed. “I hope it will be delicious. I found my mom’s recipe box yesterday in the attic and decided to try her pierogies, but it’s more complicated than I thought.”
“Can I help?” She rose up on tiptoe, so cute and eager, I nearly kissed her on the nose.
“Sure. Come on in.”
She followed me into the kitchen. “What can I do?”
“Let’s see.” Looking over the directions, I shook my head. “There’s like eighteen steps in this recipe, even though the ingredients are simple. My mother made it look so easy.”
“Well, put me to work,” she said, pushing up her sleeves and washing her hands at the sink. “Can’t promise my kitchen skills are anything close to your mom’s, but if you have any easy jobs, I’m up for them.”
“How about chopping the parsley?”
She nodded. “That I can do.”
We finished the recipe together, laughing at our first batch of strangely shaped pierogies and cheering for our second batch, which more closely resembled my mother’s. We boiled and then pan-fried them, just like she used to, and sprinkled them with cracked pepper. After a high-five for our efforts, we threw together a salad and quickly set the table.
“Let me grab some wine upstairs,” she said once everything was ready. “Be right back.”
A couple minutes later she came down with a large brown paper bag in her hand. Setting it on the kitchen counter, she unpacked a bottle of white wine, a silver bucket, and three glass jars with candles in them that I recognized from her coffee table upstairs. “I thought these would be nice on the table,” she said, grouping them together like a centerpiece. “I think there’s a lighter in the top drawer there. Can you grab it?”
“Sure.” I found the lighter and lit the candles while she poured two glasses of wine, dumped ice in the bucket, stuck the wine bottle inside it, and set it on the table.
She placed a glass of wine by my plate and hers, then turned off the kitchen and dining room lights before sitting.
I returned the lighter to the drawer and sat down across from her. “Candlelight? A wine bucket? Who are you?” I teased. “This is way too romantic for the Jaime Owens I know.”
