Gabe

“Stupid, goddamned internet—what do you know anyway?” I smash the mouse button. Hard. Hopeful the internet will understand my frustration and take note of it. Why? Meredith is coming over for dinner tomorrow and I want to show her how capable I am at adulting. How? By making a fancy meal all on my own…obviously.

The one wrinkle in my otherwise flawless plan? Besides chili, steak, or the occasional potluck stew, I don’t know shit about cooking a proper meal. I mean, I can make a great sandwich, but none of those options fit what I have in mind for our date. Chili is great, but it’s seasonal (and a little gas after we’ve eaten wouldn’t set the mood I’m hoping for). Steak and potatoes are a timeless treat, but I want Meredith to unbutton her jeans because she’s interested in a little sexy time, not because she ate too much.

I thought it would be simple. A quick Google search for 'great dinner recipes'—pick one at random and run to the grocery for supplies. Boom. Masterpiece. Instead, with each recipe I got lost in the details. I found a couple ideas I thought would be perfect. One proclaimed to be the 'World’s Best Lasagna' and the other was 'Best Ever Garlic Bread.' Hell yeah, sign me up for both of those.

Okay, if I stop to think about it now, maybe there were signs I was biting off more than I could chew. But it was probably around step three hundred forty-seven when I got really pissed—and that was just for the garlic bread. I mean seriously, mix the dry ingredients in one bowl before adding the wet ingredients? Don’t they all end up mixed together anyway? What the hell? None of it makes sense. Is there some grand conspiracy between the dish soap companies and the dishwasher association to convince people they must dirty every bowl they own just to cook a damned meal?

I sit down with a beer to consider my options. I could order takeout. That’s probably what Meredith expects. Strike one. I could enlist Mom to help. Hell, it worked for Chet’s sorry ass when he wooed Christy. But that doesn’t feel authentic. How can I expect her to see how mature I am if my mother helps me cook dinner? Strike two. Beer number four settles my nerves enough to see what should have been obvious from the start.

I’ll cheat.

I can make the damn lasagna and garlic bread, but is it such a big deal if it isn’t one hundred percent from scratch? I’ll still score points with Mer if it’s only like, fifty percent from scratch, right? Or, worst case, twenty percent? Seems reasonable. I decide to seek Mom’s advice in the morning for a simpler, for beginners' recipe.

* * *

With a grocery bag stuffed to the brim in each arm, I balance on one foot and kick the door closed with the other. I feel much better about tonight after working through the kinks of my plan with Mom. She gave me a straightforward any-fool-can-do-it-even-you-Gabe lasagna recipe and I opted for fresh from the freezer garlic bread. But…I’m adding in a garden salad, complete with farm fresh tomatoes and homemade goat cheese. It’s a decent compromise. Besides, showing that I know my own limitations is part of adulting too.

I glance at the clock on the stove as I set the bags on the counter. Meredith is due to arrive at six which gives me a little more than four hours to make the house presentable, clean myself up, and prepare dinner. I question some of my purchases as I pull items from the crumpled paper bags. Was it temporary insanity? Did I succumb to a brief, yet powerful moment of hysteria while shopping? Why did I think table candles and holders were necessary? And what’s with this wire basket and decorative balls? No clue, but I’ve got some of each now.

The next two hours pass in a blur of sweeping, and dusting, and fluffing of pillows and cushions, all in an effort to make the best impression possible. Meredith's view of this house will affect her view of me and I want my best foot forward. The stakes are high, and I’m playing for keeps. There’s no room for beer bottles sticking out from under the sofa or dust bunnies hanging from the ceiling. When I finally step back to survey the living room, accepting there’s no time to re-paint, I decide I’m satisfied with the look of the place and head upstairs to clean up.

The shower is exactly what the doctor ordered. In addition to the dirt and grime from the ranch, it washes away a good deal of anxiety about tonight. I step onto the mat as I rub the towel through my hair, and catch a foggy glimpse of myself in the mirror. Standing here, still dripping with water, I turn my torso to one side and then the other, evaluating the beast staring back at me. A couple quick poses with flexed biceps and I can’t help but laugh at my stupidity. You are who you are man, and insecurity has never been a part of the equation. She’s gonna fall for you. How could she not?

I go about my routine, making myself ready for the evening, and stop for one last look in the mirror before I shut the light off.

I have to say, I’d fuck me…

* * *

The doorbell rings as I slide the garlic bread into the oven. Shit. She’s early. I swipe the towel from the oven handle on my way to the door, stepping back as I pull it open.

“Wow.” The path between my mouth and my brain is overwhelmed with thoughts fighting to get out. She looks amazing. I hadn’t realized until now, standing in her presence again, how much I missed the sight of her. How much better I am when I’m with her.

Meredith smiles. “Wow, yourself. No shirt, huh? A bold choice.”

I look down at my chest and abs and laugh. “There may have been a problem with the sauce and I figured, why risk ruining another shirt? So, I decided to hold off until I'd finished with the food prep and then, I guess I forgot.”

Meredith squints one eye, giving me a skeptical look. “Uh huh.”

“Anyway, please, come in.” She steps over the threshold and I swoop her up in a hug, her short stature causing her face to be buried in my chest. “It’s good to see you.” I release her from the embrace to kiss her.

“Food prep? You mean like, taking the Chinese food out of the cartons and putting it onto plates or something, right?” She surveys the house as she walks through the foyer.

“Ye of little faith.” I help her with her jacket and lay it across the back of a chair as I pull on my shirt and work at the buttons. “I hope you like lasagna.”

“Is that what I smell? How did you manage to…?” Meredith’s words trail off into an indiscernible mumble as the interior catches her attention. “This is incredible,” she says as she looks around. “Remember when we used to sneak in here to—you know? Oh my God, it was like our secret place back then. It's so different. Did you do all this yourself?”

When we were young, this house was nothing more than an empty leftover from the days of full-time ranch hands. Dirt caked the old, drafty windows. The odds and ends my parents couldn’t find a home for covered the dusty floors and counters, put aside ‘just in case’ and then forgotten. Mer and I took the liberty of letting ourselves in if we need some, ahem…private time.

I nod. “I did. It took a couple years remodeling in the evenings and weekends. That was kind of my thing for a while after college. Construction and building and what not. I had a nice little business going…until Dad passed, anyway.”

Meredith takes my hand. “Yeah, I'm sorry about your dad. Is that what brought you back to ranching?”

“Yep. I put that part of my life on hold to come home and help Chet get his arms around it all. Time passed, and it stopped feeling like the thing I'd get back to one day and started feeling like the thing I did once upon a time. So, when I decided to remodel, it was like reconnecting with an old friend, or flexing a muscle I forgot I had. I don’t know. That probably doesn’t make any sense, but I got caught up in the process and went a little overboard, considering it’s just me.”

Mer bobs her head in understanding as she continues to investigate. “Makes sense. It’s all so different than I was expecting.”

I strain my neck in mock surprise. “What did you think? That the place was going to be nothing but lawn furniture and beer bottles?”

“No, not exactly. I might have anticipated at least one beanbag chair, but…I mean…travertine tile in the entry? Crown molding? And look at that big, open kitchen. Are those cabinets cherry? It’s all so…so nice.” Meredith wanders through the kitchen, running her hand along the finished surfaces.

I’m almost speechless. “Well, look at you. I don’t which to react to first, your utter amazement that I live in a nice home, or how impressed I am that you know so much about home improvement. Did you and—what’s his name—Jeff, fix up your house, or something?”

“I wish. More like countless nights at home alone, binge watching episodes of ‘Fixer Upper.’ Jeff and I never quite made it to the whole, buy-a-place-of-our-own, thing. I really wanted to, but I suppose the way it all ended up, it’s for the best that we never did. We rented a house for a year or so, but I got tired of mowing the lawn, and having to do all the other maintenance stuff by myself.”

“By yourself? Where was he?” I ask, placing my hand on the small of her back as I guide her through the kitchen highlighting my handy work.

Meredith glances at me. A tiny frown tightens the space between her eyes before she gives her attention back to the renovations. “Oh, I love the subway tile backsplash. What color green is that? You wouldn’t think it works, but with the gray countertops it really does. What are they, anyway?”

“The counters? They’re slate. But don’t change the subject. What was the deal with your husband? Err, ex-husband?”

“Slate, huh?” she asks, continuing to avoid my eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that used on counters. It sounds like it would be very masculine, but looking at it now, it’s nice.”

I clear my throat. “And the ex?”

Meredith sighs and drops her head, leaning against the counter. “We had different priorities, that’s all.” She turns her attention back to me as she climbs up on a barstool on the other side of the kitchen island.

“Not so fast. How do you mean?”

Meredith continues to avoid looking me in the eyes when she answers. “He wanted a babysitter and a punching bag. I got tired of being the first and wasn’t interested in becoming the second.”

The timer on the stove beeps, reminding me about the garlic bread. “Shit…the food is ready, if you’re hungry, that is.” I grab an oven mitt and retrieve the toasted garlic bread. “But I want to hear more about this douche. Like, his current address, and if he has any roommates I should be aware of before stopping by. The look on Meredith’s face says she isn’t ready to talk about it, so when she changes the subject again, I drop the issue.

“Lasagna and garlic bread? I am impressed. And I promise not to go looking for the Stouffer’s box.”

I scoff. “That’s just the start, Doll. There’s freshly tossed salad in the fridge, and if you have any room left, a surprise dessert to boot.”

Meredith rubs her hands together. “Then, what are we waiting for?”

I swipe a lighter from the junk drawer next to the stove and take Meredith by the hand. “This way, if you please.” In the dining room, I pull out her chair, allowing her to sit while I light the candles standing proudly in their crystal holders on the table—all of them, approximately four hours old. “I will return momentarily with your salad, madam,” I say in my best, bad French accent.

The meal is good. So good, lasagna just made it onto the list of things I can totally cook the shit out of.

Meredith, for her part, could never be trusted to tell the truth about what she thinks of food. She’s the kind of woman who would eat a small amount of shoe leather and then proclaim herself not very hungry, if she thought it might save someone’s feelings. Thankfully, her asking for seconds and wiping her plate clean with the last bite of garlic bread is recognition enough for me.