“Can I get in there?” Sean says at my back and I startle, not expecting him to be there.
“Yeah, sure.” I shuffle out with my dirty clothes, surprised to find the area empty. Laughter and the murmur of voices come from outside the bus, but I don’t feel like joining everyone yet. Blowing out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, I try to relax. I reach one hand over my shoulder and rub at the back of my neck. The shower clicks on, the rush of water heard through the wall.
“Hey.” Trent bounds up the steps and back inside the bus. “Shower free?”
“Sean’s in there.”
“Cool. Everyone’s outside.” Trent gives my back a pat as he passes through to his room in the back of the bus.
My fingers tap at my side, and my stomach grumbles loudly. God, I hope we go somewhere good. The fine dining and cuisine San Francisco has to offer is outstanding, but I can’t say I’ve wandered the city past midnight before. All my prior trips here were with my parents.
Walking over to the kitchen, I pull open different drawers and cabinets. I’m hungry. I’m irritable. I’m coming down from the stage high, and if we don’t leave soon I’m going to eat this entire box of crackers and then pass out from the carb overload. “God! What’s taking so long? I’m starving!” I mutter to myself.
“You hungry? I can whip something up.” Opal’s sweet voice interrupts from behind, simultaneously kicking up my excitement and slowing my racing thoughts.
I turn to meet her stare. “Cinnamon buns?”
She laughs and though it’s still guarded, her smile lights up her face. “Those take a while. Something else?”
“Honestly? I could eat my hand right now and it’d taste good.”
“Worked up an appetite, huh?” she says with a soft grin, careful to slide past my body without brushing against me. I try not to dwell on the disappointment at her guardedness. “Hmm. . .” She stares at the rows of ingredients. “How about biscuits?”
My stomach rumbles loudly. “That’s a yes.”
She giggles, and I swear the sound does something to me, because instantly my lips pull into a grin. Without another word she busies herself, dropping flour, milk, and a few other things into a ceramic bowl.
“These won’t take too long.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course.” She mixes the ingredients with an ease and practice that cannot be faked. She doesn’t look at her phone or reference a cookbook either. I admit I haven’t spent much time watching anyone prepare meals, but it’s clear she’s done this often enough that it comes naturally.
A roar of laughter and boisterous conversation from outside draws her attention. Opal glances at the door, and then at me with an entertained smile before setting the bowl to the side and dusting the counter with flour. “I had a hankering for these myself; gives me an excuse to make them. Sorry, I won’t have time to make gravy, too.”
“I don’t know how to make toast,” I deadpan but it’s the truth.
She laughs, a sound I realize I’m eager to hear again. With the dough flattened, she cuts out circular shapes and sets them on a pan.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I don’t know anyone my age who can cook.
Her lips pinch together before she answers, and if I hadn’t been staring I wouldn’t have noticed. “My Grams.”
A real family. For the second time today my heart pangs for a life I never had. One with nurturing grandparents, family gatherings in which the hired caterer wasn’t the greatest priority. One with laughter and love. I shake my head at my own ridiculousness. No one feels sorry for the rich boy who wasn’t hugged enough, and I’m not about to start.
Opal places the pan into the oven. “Okay, these’ll only take a few minutes.”
The sight of flour spread on the counter, a small mess compared to yesterday, kicks my hands into action. Here she is making me food, and I’m standing around like an idiot. I should at least clean up.
I reach for a towel and wet it from the sink.
Down the hall the shower shuts off, doors bang open and shut, and then the shower clicks on again, but neither Trent nor Sean emerge. I’m not ready to share my time with Opal, and secretly delight at their distance. Squeezing the extra water from the towel, I wipe it along the counter.
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
I lift my gaze to Opal, her voice halting mid-sentence at my raised eyebrows. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Okay,” she says, almost breathless.
