Page 78 of The ABCs of You & Me

“I think I’m good with water.”

“You don’t even want to try it?” He waves the bottle in my direction.

I take it from him and swish the liquid back and forth, feeling queasy as the bits bob around, suspended in the liquid. “Maybe another time.”

He grins at me, making me want to say or do anything that keeps it on his face. “Flat or sparkling?”

“Let’s go wild and have sparkling.”

“If this is you going wild, we need to get you out more.” That grin is still there as he opens the can and hands it to me.

“If you get me out anymore,” I say, taking the can, our fingers brushing as I do. Chills spread up my arm.The can is cold, I tell myself,that’s all. “My house is going to forget I exist.”

“Your house? You’d rather remind your house about you than spend time out and about with me?”

I’d never go home if it meant spending more time with you.“I didn’t say that.” I take a sip of the water but maintain eye contact. “So, what are we making?” I ask, redirecting the conversation.

“Apricot-glazed pork, mashed potatoes, and chili green beans.”

“Sounds spicy.” I wince.

Foster shakes his head as he pulls ingredients out of the fridge. “The beans are more garlicky than spicy, don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that to you, sunshine.”

The things I’d let you do to me.

What the fuck is it about this apartment?

He stops midway to the counter, staring at me, and I’m filled with dread that I vocalized that very internal thought.

Panic sets in. “What? Is there something on my face?” I stammer, lifting my fingers to my cheek, watching his eyes track my hand. Trying to ignore the way the muscle in his jaw ticks.

He clears his throat. “No, sorry, you looked…” He blinks rapidly and looks away. “How do you feel about cleaning up these beans?” he asks, his back to me.

I take the bag he holds out. “I think I can do that without cutting or burning myself.”

“If you do either of those things, I will be incredibly impressed,” he teases as he begins mincing garlic.

Foster moves seamlessly around the kitchen, prepping and cooking while I meticulously trim the beans. We work side by side for a while, chatting easily about our day, the blip of awkwardness fading and eventually disappearing completely. It feels incredibly domestic, like we do this every single night. When he moves around me, his hands rest momentarily on my hips, innocent, purpose-driven movements that feel like more in this confined space.

“Pete leaves the Tooth Fairy a thank-you note,” Foster tells me after I finish the story about Cooper.

“Does she ever write back?” I ask, throwing the final bean into the steamer.

“Apparently she writes very lengthy replies.” He laughs as he forms the pork into patties. I watch his hands work, gently packing the meat before he shapes it and places it on a parchment-lined tray. “Soph?”

I snap my head up and see he’s looking at me, his brow furrowed the tiniest bit. He was definitely talking while I was being hypnotized by his hands. It’s not my fault. “Yeah?”

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah. I was totally expecting you to make balls.” I feel the burn in my cheeks when that grin I like so much reappears.

“I find patties are better for this recipe. Balls work for some things, but not all.”

Oh my god, we need to stop talking about balls when he’s grinning like that.

“Good to know. What did you say after the part about the long replies?” I’m not doing a great job of showing I can pay attention while in the kitchen. But to be fair I’m still not prepared for how distracting his hands are. Or for how the tattoos shift as he flexes. I’m not lost in my mind, I’m lost in him.

He hands me a jar of apricot jam and a spoon. “Put two heaping spoonfuls into that bowl and stir in the leftover garlic.” He walks by me and sets a frying pan on the stove. “I was saying that when I was a kid, there wasn’t any pressure to do anything aside from losing a tooth. And parents certainly didn’t go above and beyond.”

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