Laura
I could feel the blood pressure rising. I didn’t like the feeling, and I liked thinking about what’s causing it to rise even less. So I ignored it, because that’s what I’ve always done when Dave Collins is around. This time, I told myself, I was going to keep my wits about me. I wasn’t the same girl I was in high school, and I was never going to let myself get wrapped up in his bullshit again.
Dave stood in the doorway and watched me cook. I could feel those eyes on me the whole time, no matter what I was doing. Even when he finally turned to go back into the front room, and I could finally breathe easy, I still felt the weight of his gaze on me, as if just having been looked at by him was enough to have a lasting effect.
I let out a long, low breath. I had the sense not to fall into this trap again. I wasn’t the same girl I was then. I was an adult, and I knew how to have the sense that God gave a rock. Dave wanted to leave, and in three more days he’d be back on the road again. No need to get wrapped up in his orbit again.
The food was a welcome distraction from my thoughts. If I wanted to, I could cook without thinking at all. I’d been making pasta since I was ten years old, and I could practically do it while I took a nap. I could do it while I had to think hard about something else, in fact—which I knew intimately, because I had to do a surprising amount of my coursework over the stove since I went back to school.
But there’s nothing that says I had to do it without thinking. I took as much care as I could manage, preparing everything I would need and getting it into the right place. Checked the pot. Not boiling yet. There’s still more to be done before the sauce is ready, though, so I didn’t have to stop yet. I didn’t have to face the other room. I guess we were all coping with our own problems in our own ways.
Instead, I test the edge of the large chef’s knife on my thumbnail. It skitters easily across the hard surface without ever even thinking about digging in. I fish out the sharpening steel and start making long, smooth, even strokes up and down. Three out and three back. I tested the edge again. It’s getting there.
Two out, two back, and then one out and one back. Tested it a third time. It’s not sharp enough to shave with it, but I don’t need it that sharp. I’m happy if it will cut instead of just squishing the vegetables under the edge.
So I set the knife aside and picked up the cheese. The feeling of the cheese in my hands is heavy, hard, and dry. Exactly what I wanted to feel. I pressed hard into the grater and started rubbing. On the other side of the grater, a pile of cheese began to form.
“You look different.”
I dropped the cheese on the counter and practically jumped through the roof. I’m not proud of it, but I yelped.
“Jesus! You scared me!”
Dave stepped into the kitchen and the temperature rose ten degrees.
“Need any help?”
“No,” I told him. It wasn’t a lie, even if it did leave out the most important reasons why I didn’t need any help. Reasons like, I didn’t need any help from him before this, and I would go right back to not needing his help after he left.
“You sure? Your water’s boiling.”
I turned to look. He was right. I hadn’t noticed the sound start up, but once I knew to listen for it I could hear the sound of the water hissing under the hum of the television in the other room.
“You’re right.” I poured the pasta into the pot and stirred it for a moment, and then went back to sauce preparations. I didn’t need to pay special attention to it any more to make sure that it kept my attention.
My hands moved quickly to form up enough cheese; I pushed it into a mixing bowl and then moved on to the herbs. My recipe has been evolving since I figured out how to cook boxed store pasta. Usually, I take the time to prepare my own noodles, these days. But on short notice like this, I can make do in a pinch.
What I can’t make do without was some chopped tarragon and parsley. My hands move quickly and efficiently as I worked.
“You look good, you know. Better.”
“Thanks,” I said. I was grateful for the distraction of mis-timing the entire effort because otherwise I’d have to think about a whole lot of history that was better off when it was dead and buried.
“What have you been up to these past years?”
“Started going to Northern,” I answered.
“Oh yeah?”
“I’ll be completing my masters next semester.”
“What in?”
“In being busy,” I said. “I need to deal with this roux before it burns.”
Dave looked at me hard. Like he was thinking about something real hard. If he’d thought real hard sooner, maybe I wouldn’t want to get him out of this kitchen so badly.
“Seems like it.”
“Well, I do my best. What have you been up to? Shacking up with girls in Singapore or something?”
“I’ve never been,” he answered. He leaned against the side of the doorway and watched me moving. I hated those eyes. But I couldn’t tell him that, because it would be admitting defeat, and I’m not going to let him win.
“I hear it’s lovely. Just don’t spit on the sidewalk and you’ll have a great time.”
“I wondered what happened to you.”
“Well, I’m still here.” I was stirring vigorously, or at least as vigorously as I could without risking throwing everything out of the pan. The physical activity made it easier not to lose my temper completely.
“The town’s not the same as when I left it.”
“It’s mostly the same. Well, that’s not true.”
“Oh yeah?”
“We’ve got a Home Depot a few miles down Main, for one. And for another, you aren’t here any more. So I’d say that on the whole, things are looking up around here.”
He scowled. I scowled back at him. “You really can’t stand me, can you?”
I looked up at him. My hand froze in the slowly mixing cheese sauce that might be pretty tasty if I don’t burn the shit out of it.
“That’s not it at all, Dave. You made your choice. You wanted to go, you went. I don’t blame you for that. Just leave me alone, will you?”
“I’m just trying to be friendly,” he scoffed.
“Well, I didn’t ask you to be friendly. I have a life now, and you’re not in it.”
I pulled the sauce off the heat to get a little more stirring in before it finishes cooking. Besides, I’ve still got a few solid minutes of cooking left on the noodles. In front of my face, a digital timer counts down from four minutes.
He stared at me. I didn’t look back at him, in spite of my brain’s best efforts to convince me that it would be different this time, somehow.
I’m not going to fall for this again, and I’m not going to fall for him again. Not even if he has filled out a lot since high school. Not even if he’s giving me his full attention, something I craved since I knew that boys weren’t all cooties and mud.
I added some milk. It started to reduce immediately even with the heat on low. But I’d done this before, and I was past the point where I worried about it going wrong.
The timer goes off for the pasta. I turn and pour it into the strainer, which I’d taken unnecessary pains in preparing in advance. Then the sauce comes off the heat and I poured them both into a serving platter and pushed past Dave.
“Here, Mrs. Collins. You’ve got to finish at least this much, okay?” I dished what would barely be considered a light lunch into a bowl and considered myself lucky if she finished that much food today.
“You sticking around to eat?”
I was until you came here, I think. “I’ll pick something up on the way home.”
Dave looked at me like he knew I’d just changed my plans. “I’ll see you around?”
I pinched my lips together. Not if I had a choice, we wouldn’t. “Someone has to make sure that your mother eats something, and you’re not going to be around long enough to make much difference in that arena, so… I guess we’ll see each other until you get back to whatever it is you do.”