Page 27 of King of Justice

Stepping into the kitchen, I felt disoriented, like someone who had just been hit on the head with a blunt object. I went straight for the coffee machine and grabbed a cup.

“No breakfast?” I heard him ask.

“Not right now, thank you.”

Out on the terrace, I closed my eyes and let the winter sun try its best to warm me up. The ringing of my phone ushered in a call from dad.

“Hey,” I greeted him.

“Morning. Your aunt Bella’s disappointed that you turned down her brunch invitation.”

“I told her I had plans.”

“And how are they going?”

Leaning back, I looked up at the sky. “At least it’s not raining.”

“That bad, huh?”

I sighed. “Exaggeration for the sake of drama. How is it over there?”

“The usual. Your uncle Bert is outdoing himself.” He chuckled. “What’s going on with you?”

“Also the usual. I think I’ll take it easy today.”

“Alright. Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I’ll let you know. Thanks, dad.”

“Suit yourself. Have a good one, Nate.”

Hanging up, I launched one application on my phone after the other, losing myself in a rabbit hole of emails, texts, and news articles. Before I knew it, it was one o’clock in the afternoon.

I stepped back inside to see Gunnar and Kenneth working around the apartment. Gunnar looked up and smiled. “You’ve got to be hungry now.”

“I am.” I walked over to the kitchen. “And I’m adamant on getting rid of that ziti.”

“Really? It looks good, you should try it.”

Why would she make me a casserole if she wasn’t ‘looking for more’? “Fine, let’s all share.”

“Happy to.” He shrugged, putting it in the oven.

A while later, Gunnar, Kenneth and I stood around the bar, each with a fork in hand. Our plates were equal portions, and we decided to have fun with it.

“On three?” I lifted up my fork, readying to dig in. “One, two, three.”

We bit at the same time.

While Kenneth’s face took a while to reveal a reaction, Gunnar’s eyebrows slowly rose as he chewed, following with a nod of appreciation. I, on the other hand, had to climb over the dam of resentment and plant my feet on the solid grounds of pure taste and texture to properly evaluate the dish.

“Verdict?” Gunnar asked after the second bite.

“I like it,” Kenneth volunteered for a head start. “It reminds me of the one my mom used to make.”

Gunnar then looked at me, and as much as I wanted to give an unbiased opinion, I wanted to put it off. So I tossed the question back to him, “What do you think?”

“I think she has the skills of a classic housewife.” Gunnar never flattered without need, so I found his critique intriguing. “The pasta is evenly covered, not a single one has dried out, and… not many use provolone cheese in baked ziti. She knows what she’s doing.”

---