Page 151 of We Can't Be Friends

Chloe lets out a soft moan. “Was it the best food?”

I nod. “Yeah. He picked up cooking for them. My grandparents also believed that cooking wasn’t only the woman’s responsibility; men should know how to cook, know their way around the kitchen.” Along with other things.

A smile forms on my face, a tug that comes from old memories, fond memories. A lingering ache ebbs as it stretches from cheek to cheek. Cooking with my grandparents. My brothers intentionally ruining and throwing the food I would make for my family. Learning with my dad. Cooking for a girl at primary school I had a crush on, but she hated it.

“Did your dad teach your brothers too?”

“They had zero interest.” My shoulders tense. I pivot our conversation away from me. “Where did your mom learn to cook?”

“Her family in Colombia. They moved to Boston when she was in high school.” I keep working on two other sauces, a Colombian aji picante and chipotle aioli, while Chloe continues. I nod and ahh as needed, but I don’t interrupt, enjoying the soothing sound of her voice. “When I was younger, Miller and I loved making these with her. We were required to help make dinner. I loved cooking with her, even though I was terrible at it.

“What was your favorite dish to make with her?”

“That’s tough. Definitely these.” She smiles again and it makes my heart hurdles. I swear every time she smiles, and I don’t even know how this is possible, but she becomes even more beautiful. “We’d make all sorts. Usually stuffing whatever was in the fridgeinto them. Leftovers from taco night, a teriyaki chicken, or my favorite mac and cheese empanadas.”

“We’ll have to do that next time.”

“Next time.” It comes out as a whisper. As a promise that this isn’t a one time thing. A promise of more evenings, more time like this together.

“These smell too good for there not to be next time.” I have her try the other sauces with the same reaction as before.

She jumps off the counter as the oven timer buzzes. Chloe pats the side of my butt. “Move your fine ass. I need oven mitts.”

I slide to the right, opening the drawer for her. She slips on two floral mitts, pulling out a tray of empanadas. Chloe told me she prefers baked over fried when we stuffed them. I had a hard time watching her hands without getting hard thinking about what else she could do with her hands.

Chloe puts the pan on the top of the stove. Letting them cool, she spoons the sauces into tiny ramekins for us.

“They need to cool for five more minutes, then we can eat.” Chloe slides herself up onto the counter again. “Will you hand me my water?”

“Want it topped off?”

“Yes, please.”

I top each of our glasses off. Walking over to where Chloe is sitting, I hand her the glass.

“Thank you for making me dinner.”

“I should be the one thanking you. I barely did anything. You did all the real work.”

After spilling on her tank earlier, Chloe changed into her uniform. ‘COMMUNITY CHEST’ printed across the front tonight in a font you’d find on a Monopoly board.

I set my glass on the counter beside her, placing my hands above her knees. Pausing for a moment, I wait to see if she tells me to remove them. Her skin is warm and silky under my touch, and I know the further I work them up her legs, the silkier it’ll get.

“No one has made me dinner before.”

“Attempted–” she tries to get out, but I place a finger over her mouth, immediately bringing my hand back to her thighs.

“Take the appreciation, Dais.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. “You’re welcome, Pretty Boy. I hope you enjoy them.”

“I’m going to love them.”

“You haven’t tried it yet.” She rolls her eyes.

“I don’t need to. If you love them, I’ll love them. . . especially because we made them together.”

Chloe rolls her eyes again, taking a sip of water.

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