“Dear, would you like more brown bread?” Deirdre asked, eyeing my empty plate like she was a mama bird fattening her chicks. She placed a slice on my plate before I could respond. Deirdre, Connor, Jaime and I sat at the small wooden table, my belly filling with Irish cuisine.
“Mm-hmm, this is delicious,” I mumbled between the crumbs in my mouth. “Did you make this?” I took a bite of Irish Stew, still steaming from my bowl.
“It was my ma’s special recipe. She left me her recipe tin, God rest her soul.” Connor and Deirdre turned toward the crucifix above the door and signed the Sign of the Cross.
I dropped my spoon, held the hot potatoes in my mouth like a tiger trapped in a cage, and did the same. The gravy scalded my tongue. It should have hurt more, but the earlier cuppa had already killed my taste buds. Jaime took another bite of lamb.
“Brown bread is lovely with Irish Stew.” Deirdre placed another slice on my plate.
I reached across Jaime and cut a pad of butter off the brick.
“Do you like it?” Connor asked. His dirt-stained flannel shirt smelled like the outdoors, and his weathered hands aged him. He took another bite of bread, and his intense eyes bore a hole into mine. Deirdre’s presence comforted me, while Connor put me on edge. He reminded me of my grandfather, who my father said changed after returning from World War II. “It was like the war took a piece of his soul, and he could never find himself again,” my dad used to tell me. My grandfather never laughed or smiled, and I could see that Connor had the same indifferent presence. It made my knees quiver, not knowing what he was thinking, or if I was welcome for the night.
I dipped my bread in my stew, fully melting the butter. “I’ve never had anything like this. It’s delicious. Thank you for dinner,” I said to Connor and Deirdre, wiping my lips with my napkin. My knee shook under the table and I forced another bite, even though I was full.
After dinner, I helped Jaime clear the table, and we cleaned the kitchen. His cottage didn’t contain American luxuries, like a dishwasher, and I questioned my hand-washing skills.
“Do you want to scrub or dry?” he asked.
The pile of dishes haphazardly leaned toward the counter beside the sink basin, and I imagined bumping the tower and sending all their plates crashing to the floor. “I’ll dry.”
Jaime tossed me a towel, turned on the radio, and squeezed soap onto a sponge. He washed quicker than I dried and I struggled to keep up. For every dish I placed in the cabinet, two more dripped in the dish drain. I felt like Lucy in the chocolate factory.
“Jaime, have you ever seen I Love Lucy?” I asked, rubbing the towel along the basin of a glass cup.
“Nah, I don’t think so. Is it an American show?”
“Yeah, it’s old. We’ll have to watch it sometime.”
We chatted amicably about nothing in particular. I questioned him about his life before college, and he asked me about my life back home. Maybe I overreacted on the airplane. He’s not that bad. He’s actually kind of cute, in that Irish way.
Distracted by my revelation, a small cup slipped out of my hand and tumbled to the ground, shattering at my feet. “Oh no, I’m so sorry!” I squatted down to pick up the pieces. My hands shook as I scooped up the tiny fragments.
Jaime bent down to help me as I stood up to throw away the glass, and my lips brushed past his scruffy beard. My body stiffened, and I watched him stand, requesting whatever pieces I still held. I smelled beer from dinner on his breath and my stomach quivered. Our hands touched, as I carefully placed the glass in a napkin in his hand, and my heart stuttered. These unexpected feelings terrified me and my muddy brain couldn’t process my body’s reaction. “Um, Jaime? You weren’t my favorite person when we first met, and I’m sorry I judged you,” I confessed.
Jaime turned the water off and tossed the sponge in the sink. Only dirty silverware in a soapy basin remained. “What do you mean?” he asked. His amber eyes looked green under the dim lights.
My chest thumped twice and then slowed down. I felt the blood rushing to my ears and I swallowed. He appeared genuinely hurt, and I regretted saying anything at all. I picked up the last cup and stuffed the wet towel into the cylinder, careful to twist. “I thought I would have a middle seat to myself.”
A smile pulled against his lips. “Yeah, I squeezed in right before they locked the doors.”
“And then you made a gigantic mess with my dinner. You’re lucky you didn’t ruin my bag!” I said, laughing. I threw the wet towel at him, and he caught it with one hand.
“It was an accident,” he replied, still grinning.
His positive response to my criticism encouraged me to continue. “And you know nothing about personal space. I couldn’t move because you were practically sitting on my lap.”
Jaime stepped closer, and I counted the freckles scattered across his nose. “Practically. You haven’t been the easiest flatmate either,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the craziest flatmate I’ve ever had. You color code your calendar and schedule out every day in fifteen-minute intervals. You try to micromanage everyone. You even have Zoey and Marissa’s schedule taped to your wall.”
The corners of my mouth dropped slowly, and I pulled away. “So?” It was the best rebuttal I could form from his unexpected personal attack.
“So, you need to loosen up. Live a little.”
I crossed my shoulders over my chest and widened my stance. “I live a little. I live a lot, thank you very much.” I poked him on the shoulder, asserting myself.
