45
Chris
Islide the casserole dish into the oven and sit down on the counter, helping the wait along with half a glass of wine. I don’t like cooking, especially when I’m by myself – I do it every day at the café. But tonight, after I got home from the game and Evan decided to go out with some of his friends, I felt a bit lost in the deafening silence of my house. So I decided to pass some time by cooking one of the only meals I make when I’m hungry and I want to slob out in front of the TV, with no one watching me.
I hop down from the counter and head into the living room, looking for a film to watch, but as soon as I’ve found the remote, there’s a knock at the front door. With no idea who it could be, I go to open it, convinced it’ll be one of Martin’s usual appearances, cursing the fact I’ll have to share my dinner with him. But when I open it, I almost choke on my heart, which has leapt into my throat.
“Hi.”
‘Hi’? Just ‘hi’?
He scratches his head nervously and looks at his feet.
“I just popped by…because…”
My God. He might be all marble and testosterone, but boy does he mumble.
“If I’m intruding, I can leave…”
As if.
“It’s just me,” I interrupt him. “Evan’s gone out and I was just cooking.”
“You cook?” he asks, his eyes wide.
“I own a café, remember…?”
“Sure.”
“Come in,” I say, moving aside to let him past.
I lead him into the kitchen, and check that nothing’s exploded in the oven. Then I turn to look at him, feeling a little awkward.
“It’s a pasta bake. If that’s okay with you…?” I ask, as if I couldn’t care less.
“Why not,” he shrugs. “I haven’t had dinner yet.”
I grab everything we need for a dinner for two from the cabinet, and go through to the living room to set it all out on the coffee table.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” I tell him, hearing him open the door and take one. “The bottle opener’s in the top drawer.”
A few seconds later, Ryan appears in the living room.
“Can I help with anything?” he asks awkwardly.
“You can choose a film,” I say, passing him the remote.
“You’re giving me the honour?”
“Well, last time you chose something I liked,” I say, explaining myself.
Last time. It sounds strange enough to my own ears, let alone to his.
Ryan’s only been here a few times, and I’m treating him as if it’s his house. But I’d make him leg it down the road before eating all of my pasta bake.
“I’ll go and check on the food,” I say, gesturing towards the kitchen and turning away, before saying anything embarrassing.
I pretend to check on the pasta bake, as I spy on him out of the corner of my eye. I watch his movements, finding my hand flying over my heart, trying to muffle its noisy beating.
