I appreciate the sentiment. I do so love a little s’mores with my arson.
“You should have invited Sol,” I offer. “Having him there would have been just like having me.” Because. You know. My brother, who moved to West Virginia in an effort to leave me lonely and alone and all by myself and, oh yeah,freaking alone, is definitely an adequate replacement for me. A better replacement, even, being practically perfect and all.
“As much as I love Sol,” Lyra cuts into my not-at-all-bitter thoughts, “he’s no Elodie. Plus, I did invite him. He stopped by for a little bit.”
Do I want Sol to be isolated and without companionship in his new town? No. Does it absolutely kill something inside of me that, after abandoning me, he is happily working and getting invited to things and living a life that has nothing at all to do with me? Yes.
This is why everyone loves Sol more than me. Sol would never be half-wishing a sad, lonesome life on me. Sol would, instead, push me into said life with anI love you, please come visit.while believing with his whole heart that I would be fineon my own, because that’s what I told him when he brought up movingsix hours away, because he looked so hopeful about the possibility that I couldn’t bear to let my selfishness ruin his promotion opportunity.
Stupid, Elodie. Get over yourself.
“You should come visit us,” Lyra says into the space where I should have been responding but am not, because it’s hard to respond when you have a giant, Saturn-sized lump in your throat.
“Um,” I say now, unwilling to commit to a trip out. I’d love to, but I’m not exactly overflowing with free time between school, work, and wedding planning. Spare moments? What are those, the silly blonde girl asks, looking around in confusion. The audience laughs, points, and says how very dumb she is, scheduling herself in such a way that a single moment cannot be found.
“Whenever you can,” Lyra assures me. “We’ll be ready for you.”
Behind me, the lock on the front door jiggles, slides, then clicks.
Saved by the giant ginger jerk.
He walks in as I wrap up my conversation, hitting Lyra with a quick, “Gotta go, love you, bye!” before clickingEnd Callon her response. The last thing I need is for Lyra to hear more of Roman and get any more sillyideas.
“Your mysterious cousin?” Roman asks, eyeing me as he drops his keys into the bowl by the door. “Who, for reasons unknown, you don’t seem to want to know that I exist?”
“Lyra isn’t mysterious,” I respond, choosing to ignore the half-curious, half-accusatory tone in the latter part of his communication. “Lyra is adorable, and sweet, and kind, and beautiful, and all things lovely. A romantic little thing who creates fairytales out of life, befriending butterflies andshowering the world in flowers. I couldn’t think of a less mysterious person, unless you consider romance and whimsy to be mysterious.”
Roman, who had paused mid-shoe removal to raise skeptical eyebrows at me around the “befriending butterflies” portion of my description of my dear cousin, blinks. “She sounds…” he pauses, for why I could not say. The only possible ending to that sentence isperfect, which I helpfully supply for him.
“I know. Don’t get too excited, though. She’s married. To a man whose shoulders outdo yours and who thinks slashing tires and bleaching people’s yards is a worthwhile way to spend his time.”
His eyelashes, so light against his freckled skin, flutter at a speed I did not know men were capable of fluttering. “Does youradorable, sweet, kind, beautiful, all-things-lovelycousin need a rescue?” he has the audacity to ask. “Because that does not exactly sound like a good man.”
Affronted, I glare. “Jove is the best man on earth, after Sol. He protects her and loves her better than anyone else could ever dream to. How dare you.”
“You just told me the guy slashes tires for fun!” he protests, brows furrowing as he finishes kicking off his shoes. “In what way could that possibly translate tobest man on earth?”
“In every way, obviously,” I sniff.
He opens his mouth, clearly working up something else ridiculous to say, but my stomach rumbles, cutting him off. He glances at it, scowling. “Elodie,” he says, tone… off. “When’s the last time you ate?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know. Earlier. Lunch, probably.” Or, actually, it was more like brunch, but I’m not telling him that. The last time I didn’t eat for longer than he felt appropriate, I was hand-fed. I would very much like to avoid that scenario ever happening again.
“And what did you eat at lunchtime?”
My nose scrunches. “Bread and cheese,Dad.” Bread and cheese in the form of Cheez-Its, but I’m not telling himthateither.
He sighs, put out by my very existence, I can only assume. “I’ll make something quick,” he tells me. “Bison pasta, maybe.”
Bison pasta being buffalo chicken pasta, one of my favorites, and not even remotely “quick” to make when one is making it Roman’s way. I, just barely, have convinced him to stop making his own elbow macaroni for it, but he still makes the mac and cheese from scratch, baking it with a breadcrumb crust on top before topping it with fried strips of chicken tenders he also makes from scratch, green onion, and buffalo sauce he, you guessed it,alsomakes from scratch.
The process, start to finish, takes an hour. When I make my own bison mac, it takes thirty minutes, and that’s just because the oven takes a year to preheat for the frozen chicken strips I buy. A box of mac and cheese, a swig of buffalo sauce, andmaybesome green onions if I feel like cutting them up, and my meal is made. It doesn’t taste anywhere near as delicious as Roman’s version, but for a weeknight after work, it’s all the energy I’m willing to put in.
Roman considers my version to be sacrilege to kitchens everywhere. I made itonetime after moving in, and he banned me from cooking henceforth in this home. Which was… oh so sad. Real bummer. Poor me, cannot cook anymore, must be fed by the professional chef who makes the best version of everything he attempts. A tragedy, that.
“I would love some bison pasta,” I tell him, beginning the process of picking up my scrapbook clutter. “Thank you.”
Ooo, look at me. Being mature and polite and everything. Because of character growth, for sure, and not at all because I have buffalo sauce dangling from a string in front of my face.That would be silly.
