Page 8 of The Kiss Principle

He shook his head.

That ought to have made me laugh. “I thought—” But I had to stop because my throat tightened. I fought to get the words free. “I thought, you know—” I had to stop again, and I choked the last words out. “Wow, I am really fucking everything up today.”

He stared at me. He shifted his weight. I blinked to keep the tears from spilling. Tears, I had learned a long time ago, didn’t help.

The weed started to hit me, and that helped. The familiar waves of warmth rolled through me, and I could feel myselfgetting heavier, like my body was more solid. When I had myself under control again, I managed a rough “All right” and cleared my throat. “I’m sorry about that. About all of this. I’ll, uh, pay you for your time.”

He pushed back some of his hair, and his lips curved in a half-smile. “It looks like you need help.”

I barked a laugh. “I bet.”

“When was the last time you got some sleep?”

“Does it count if it’s when I’m in the shower?”

This time, I got the full smile, unrolling lazily across his face. “When was the last time you ate something that didn’t come out of the microwave?” He must have seen the question on my face because he shrugged. “I looked in the fridge.”

I shook my head.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll make you something.”

“Huh?”

“You need to eat something.”

“No. You don’t—huh?”

Hands on my shoulders, the touch light but confident, he steered me into the kitchen. After settling me in a seat at the table, he went to the fridge. He didn’t limp, not exactly, but each step seemed cautious. He rummaged around and came up with the bag of kale Mom used for her smoothies, some of those precooked strips of chicken Mom keeps around the house when she goes keto, and a bottle of lemon juice.

“Olive oil?”

“You don’t have to make me something to eat. I’m fine.”

He waited.

Eventually, I pointed.

After washing his hands, he went to work. He stripped the kale, and then he added olive oil and salt. He worked each piece of kale between his fingers. He had strong hands, the knuckles defined and prominent, and the oil glistened on his skin.

“What are you doing?”

“Massaging the kale.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s worked hard all week.”

“Ha.”

A smile turned the corner of his mouth as he continued to work. “It breaks down some of the fibers, makes it tender. And less bitter.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

When he finished with the kale, he washed his hands again. The sound of the water was pleasant, but it felt startling loud after nothing but the scrape of the bowl across the counter and the rustle of the kale between his fingers. He added some of the precooked chicken. Then lemon juice. Then more salt.

“It’s better if the lemon is fresh,” he said as he brought the bowl over to the table.

I took a bite. The lemon juice was a bright note against the richness of the olive oil, and although the kale was still bitter—he’d said less bitter, I reminded myself—it still tasted better than any kale I normally ate. The chicken tasted like refrigerator chicken, and all in all, it wasn’t a masterpiece of culinary invention. But it tasted clean, if that made any sense, and the simplicity was actually part of what made it so good. It probably didn’t hurt that the weed was working now—I wasn’t high, or not very, but every bite tasted so goddamn good.

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