I need to get out of the kitchen before I embarrass myself any more.
“I think we'll both work better on a plan this morning if you get some food in you. I know you probably didn't eat yesterday. You can't help me if you pass out."
I brace myself to argue and then change my mind. He’s right. I need to get over my awkwardness with him. He’s just a person. A person who most likely has any girl he wants and definitely has no interest in a freak like me.
I rub my hand along the countertop, searching for something to say. "Can I help?"
"Can you crack an egg?" he says.
"I think so. I’ve watched chefs on television do it. I mean, how hard can it be?"
"Ah, I detect a hint of doubt. Allow me to impress you with my culinary skills. I'll show you kitchen tools. Things like a spatula and frying pan."
Ace moves around the coffee machine, examines knobs, and proceeds with making coffee here like he's done it every day. I inhale deeply and the smell of coffee makes me think of JT. Maybe it won't taste like an ashtray this time.
After pouring the black liquid into a cup, I take a sip and wrinkle my nose.
"That's why it tastes like an ashtray." Ace moves to the counter. "You have to doctor it up. See, you need some cream or milk…" He searches in the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of milk. "And you need some sugar."
"Sugar," I repeat. I open and close cabinet doors until I find it.
"You sure you live here?"
"Ha ha," I answer. I place a plastic container of sugar on the counter.
"This is how I like mine. I put about this much milk in and some sugar—I don't like the artificial stuff—and you'll see the color resembles cocoa now." He holds out the cup to me. "Taste."
I take the tiniest of sips, expecting it to be a bitter abomination. Then I take a bigger sip. "Can this one be mine?"
"That one is yours." He pulls another cup from the cupboard. "This is the most important part of starting any day."
"I think I can see why JT did this every morning. Thanks." I sit in a chair angled where I can still watch Ace. He's opening cabinet doors and drawers.
"Oh, sorry. I almost forgot. You wanted to show me spatulas."
"I was kidding. Stay there." Ace removes a cartoon of eggs from the fridge. He pulls butter and milk out. He moves with an ease that makes me understand he has this relationship with a kitchen somewhere else—maybe his own place. He grabs a bowl and cracks eggs into it.
I watch him like he’s some master chef. "I don't cook."
"I guessed that."
"How did you know?"
"You don’t know how to crack eggs and you don't know where anything is in here." He smirks. "How do you live here and not know where the sugar is?"
"We have a cook." I shrug, a little embarrassed and then angry because I have no reason to be embarrassed. It's not like JT let me do it myself or I would have. “She comes in and makes meals for the week. They’re frozen. I use the microwave and oven a lot.”
The table is positioned near a row of windows looking out onto the east lawn. I stare at a squirrel that runs up the side of a massive oak trunk.
Ace stirs the eggs. "Lots of people don't cook. I mean, really cook. I don't count nuking in the microwave as cooking."
"That counts me out then. Nuking is my specialty."
"It's understandable. You're a kid."
I bristle. "No, I'm not. I'm eighteen."
"A kid." Ace nods and pours the scrambled yellow liquid into the frying pan.
"And you are how old?"
"Twenty." He raises his eyebrows and points the spatula at me. "But I've lived like I'm thirty-five."
"Well, Old Guy, who taught you to cook?"
Ace pours the eggs into a skillet on the stove. "I taught myself. My parents got divorced when I was a kid and my mom always worked a couple of jobs. I had a brother a couple of years younger." He says this and shrugs. "Cook or starve. So who makes sure you have stuff to nuke?"
"There a lady named Gertrude who comes in to clean and do laundry. But that changes sometimes. She's been with us for two or
“I think we'll both work better on a plan this morning if you get some food in you. I know you probably didn't eat yesterday. You can't help me if you pass out."
I brace myself to argue and then change my mind. He’s right. I need to get over my awkwardness with him. He’s just a person. A person who most likely has any girl he wants and definitely has no interest in a freak like me.
I rub my hand along the countertop, searching for something to say. "Can I help?"
"Can you crack an egg?" he says.
"I think so. I’ve watched chefs on television do it. I mean, how hard can it be?"
"Ah, I detect a hint of doubt. Allow me to impress you with my culinary skills. I'll show you kitchen tools. Things like a spatula and frying pan."
Ace moves around the coffee machine, examines knobs, and proceeds with making coffee here like he's done it every day. I inhale deeply and the smell of coffee makes me think of JT. Maybe it won't taste like an ashtray this time.
After pouring the black liquid into a cup, I take a sip and wrinkle my nose.
"That's why it tastes like an ashtray." Ace moves to the counter. "You have to doctor it up. See, you need some cream or milk…" He searches in the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of milk. "And you need some sugar."
"Sugar," I repeat. I open and close cabinet doors until I find it.
"You sure you live here?"
"Ha ha," I answer. I place a plastic container of sugar on the counter.
"This is how I like mine. I put about this much milk in and some sugar—I don't like the artificial stuff—and you'll see the color resembles cocoa now." He holds out the cup to me. "Taste."
I take the tiniest of sips, expecting it to be a bitter abomination. Then I take a bigger sip. "Can this one be mine?"
"That one is yours." He pulls another cup from the cupboard. "This is the most important part of starting any day."
"I think I can see why JT did this every morning. Thanks." I sit in a chair angled where I can still watch Ace. He's opening cabinet doors and drawers.
"Oh, sorry. I almost forgot. You wanted to show me spatulas."
"I was kidding. Stay there." Ace removes a cartoon of eggs from the fridge. He pulls butter and milk out. He moves with an ease that makes me understand he has this relationship with a kitchen somewhere else—maybe his own place. He grabs a bowl and cracks eggs into it.
I watch him like he’s some master chef. "I don't cook."
"I guessed that."
"How did you know?"
"You don’t know how to crack eggs and you don't know where anything is in here." He smirks. "How do you live here and not know where the sugar is?"
"We have a cook." I shrug, a little embarrassed and then angry because I have no reason to be embarrassed. It's not like JT let me do it myself or I would have. “She comes in and makes meals for the week. They’re frozen. I use the microwave and oven a lot.”
The table is positioned near a row of windows looking out onto the east lawn. I stare at a squirrel that runs up the side of a massive oak trunk.
Ace stirs the eggs. "Lots of people don't cook. I mean, really cook. I don't count nuking in the microwave as cooking."
"That counts me out then. Nuking is my specialty."
"It's understandable. You're a kid."
I bristle. "No, I'm not. I'm eighteen."
"A kid." Ace nods and pours the scrambled yellow liquid into the frying pan.
"And you are how old?"
"Twenty." He raises his eyebrows and points the spatula at me. "But I've lived like I'm thirty-five."
"Well, Old Guy, who taught you to cook?"
Ace pours the eggs into a skillet on the stove. "I taught myself. My parents got divorced when I was a kid and my mom always worked a couple of jobs. I had a brother a couple of years younger." He says this and shrugs. "Cook or starve. So who makes sure you have stuff to nuke?"
"There a lady named Gertrude who comes in to clean and do laundry. But that changes sometimes. She's been with us for two or
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