Page 34 of Yours Temporarily

Maybe he’ll be ghosting me again.

My hands tremble as I fumble with the key, struggling to fit it into the lock. I could knock, but I need to regain my composure before encountering my house companions. Nothing about today felt like pretense. It had nothing to do with getting our stories straight for Jeremy’s mom. His presence at church today, alongside Damien and my friends, and then his spontaneous invitation to join him and his friends for golf—all this was remarkably real. It shouldn’t be a challenge to convince his mom or anyone else that we’re a couple in love. If this isn’t a sign of us opening up to each other’s worlds, then what is it?

***

As February blends into March, my interactions with Jeremy unfold into an exhilarating whirlwind that defies our pretended romance. It’s as if we’re navigating the brink of something real. Each shared experience draws me deeper into his world. I’m thrilled when he expresses interest in joining me for my next weekly volunteer commitment at Crina Medical. Aware of the necessity for a background check, I ensure he completes the forms two days in advance, securing his approval by the time we’re scheduled to volunteer.

On Thursday afternoon, Jeremy and I find ourselves in the rehabilitation center’s cafeteria area, standing with two patients. The air is fragrant with simmering foods, and the sound of clattering pots emanates from the kitchen through the open doorway.

I observe Donna as she pours a cup of flour into the mixing bowl, her hands trembling. Across from us, at the round card table, Jeremy assists Greg with the same task. Yet, Jeremy’s attention seems more focused on catching any stray flour, diligently cleaning up after Greg’s minor spills.

“What next?” Donna’s inquiry draws my attention back to her. She’s now playfully running gloved fingers through the flour. Each week, I meet different patients, as only a few are brought out at a time, and their participation varies based on their condition and interest in cooking.

A warmth spreads through my chest as Donna delights in the simple task. I reach for the baking soda and a measuring spoon and place them beside the plastic bowl of chocolate chips. “Now, we add baking soda.”

“Okay.” Excitement tinges Donna’s voice as she shakes the remaining flour from her hands into the bowl, her face glowing beneath the fluorescent lights.

“What’s your favorite thing to bake?” I pass her the spoon.

She shrugs, a slight smile on her lips. “Anything, really. It’s nice to do something… to not be cooped up.”

As she scoops the baking soda from the container, half of it spills from the spoon. I’ll need to sneak more into the recipe to ensure our cookies turn out well. Normally, a simple batch of chocolate chip cookies takes me five minutes to mix, but here, it could take double that time, depending on the patient’s condition. This is precisely why we stick to straightforward recipes.

Soft chatter and gentle movement surround me. Each volunteer, including Jeremy and me, has donned blue aprons embossed with the Crina Medical logo. Given the need for close supervision, volunteers are paired one-on-one with patients when possible, ensuring both safety and the therapeutic benefits of the cooking process. We keep it simple: no knives and uncomplicated tasks.

While some volunteers prepare dinner, others, like us, focus on desserts—mostly baking, which is deemed highly therapeutic. We concentrate on pouring, mixing, and sometimes decorating.

More workers and volunteers weave in and out of the kitchen, carrying trays of food or setting up tables beyond our room. Deep laughter from our table snaps me back to the present. Jeremy is laughing heartily, thrown back by whatever Greg, the middle-aged man across from us, is saying. Greg, caught up in the fun, tosses a handful of flour into the air, punctuating his joke.

“And then I told him, ‘You can’t trust atoms—they make up everything!’” Greg chuckles, the flour dusting down like snow.

While Donna meticulously measures her ingredients, I can’t help but smile at the sight of Jeremy, so engaged and lighthearted. When his gaze meets mine, my heart skips a beat, fluttering with a warm tingling sensation. The kitchen’s warmth, the laughter surrounding us—it all melds into the perfect backdrop for this moment.

Greg’s question about the next ingredient pulls Jeremy’s attention away, but not before our eyes share a silent conversation. Observing Jeremy, so out of his usual element of spreadsheets and reports and so genuinely relaxed, I realize he’s the missing ingredient that my life had been lacking.

In the end, Donna and I move to help Jeremy and Greg finish mixing their dry ingredients. While Donna and Greg add the eggs and melted butter, Jeremy and I get the cookie pans out. The four of us work together, scooping spoonfuls of cookie dough onto the baking trays. I move each tray back to the cart between our tables.

A chef comes by to collect the cookies and transfers them to his cart to wheel into the kitchen for baking. “Dinner is ready whenever you are,” he says.

“I’m starving.” Greg tosses his gloves into the trash can. Donna follows suit, and they both head over to the dining area.

Jeremy and I stay behind to clean up the workspace.

“Can you believe I pulled off the recipe without reading it?” Jeremy comes up beside me, his warm breath against my cheek sending tingles throughout my body.

“Without Donna and my help, you and Greg wouldn’t have managed it.” My cheeks ache from smiling. Standing next to him, I’m reminded of our height difference.

“That’s why I always need to be on your team in the kitchen.” He brushes a kiss on my cheek before lifting the white plastic bowl of flour. “Where do we put all this?”

Right. We have to clean.

I work with Jeremy to dispose of the leftover flour. It’s not much, but it’s always easier and more sanitary to have things poured from the bag, rather than having patients dig into the bags themselves.

As we clean, he asks about the process of dinner. “We sit with them during dinner and engage with them.” I wipe down the sticky flour on one end of the table while he takes the other end. “Patients who don’t want to interact usually don’t come to these events.”

“I never knew how much cooking could mean to someone,” Jeremy admits as he collapses and folds the table.

“And the interaction that comes with it.” I follow him as he carries the table to the back room where others are storing theirs.

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