Page 18 of Wrecked for the Holidays

Papa kissed my cheek, rolled off the bed, and padded quietly to the bathroom. When the door shut, I leaped off the bed and hurried back to the kitchen. The timer for the rice had gone off at some point, so I turned off the burner but left it on the stovetop so it wouldn’t get cold. Papa followed me a few minutes later, wearing sleep pants and a threadbare Rainier hockey shirt. I wanted to gobble him up. Literally. I understood why he wanted to go slow, but I wasn’t loving it.

“Papa, sit at the table, and I’ll be your server, okay?”

“Can I help you with anything?”

He glanced at the table, but I’d already set it with silverware. His favorite beerwas out of the fridge and sitting next to a frozen glass like I’d seen him use and my sippy cup of chocolate milk was already done. They both would be a little warm now, but surely that was okay. A little warm never killed anyone. Probably.

“Nope, just sit, and I’ll put the food on plates.” I looked at the stove and realized I had forgotten part of dinner. “Well, shoot, Papa. I forgot about veggies.”

“A missed vegetable serving isn’t going to hurt.”

“I guess,” I said the words but wasn’t convinced. Papa liked veggies a lot.

I took the lid off my rice to spoon some out. The grains looked all right but not fluffy like restaurant rice. When I stuck the spoon in farther, I realized the entire bottom of the pan was scorched. There was a burned crust along the bottom and up the sides.Gah. I had no idea if that would affect the taste, but I scooped from the top and middle and hoped for the best, then ladled some meatballs in the sauce on top. I carried the plates—his regular and mine divided—to where Papa sat at the table.

Papa’s smile reassured me, but I wouldn’t breathe easy until he took his first bite. The air stopped moving in my lungs when his fork reached his mouth and the food slipped inside. I watched his facial expressions like a hawk, looking for clues about the taste. He was completely expressionless until he swallowed.

“Thank you for fixing me dinner, love. It’s been a long, long time since I woke up to a home-cooked meal.” With that, he took another bite of the dinner. Satisfied, I took my own bite and—

Oh, fudging hell, what was that shit?

Papa sputtered, grabbed his napkin to spit his food into it, and roared with laughter.

“Oh God, that was out loud too?”

“Yep, but you get a pass for this one. Did you follow a recipe?” Reed asked delicately.

“Well, not quite. It was from a post about it, and it sounded like your mom’s, but it wasn’t super specific.”

“What did it say?”

“It said season the meatballs as you normally would, so I used the stuff I’d heard of with meatballs.”

“Like what?”

Papa sounded skeptical, but now I didn’t want to say because this dumpster fire was inedible.

“Oregano.”

“Oh.” Papa’s eyes were wide. “And the sauce?”

“It said to make a sauce with cornstarch, soy sauce, vinegar, and water. Oh! And sugar, but I only used a teaspoon because I know you don’t like sugar.”

Dammit, I’d wanted to make him a nice dinner to say thank you for everything he’d done for me. True to his word, he’d been with me when I called the insurance company and found out where my car was taken. He’d helped me arrange a rental car, but then I canceled it because Ubering was a lot more convenient and no one honked at the driver like they did when I drove. Reed had even agreed to be my new emergency contact. Not once had he gotten mad or frustrated, and now I’d ruined it.

“Hey,” Papa said as he pushed his chair back, grabbed me by the wrist, and pulled me onto his lap. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. Fixing me dinner was the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in years, and how it tastes doesn’t change that.”

“But you’re hungry, and I messed up your favorite dinner.”

“That oregano got me in the mood for Italian food. Why don’t we order something from Bistro di Nonna? Their lasagna is the best I’ve ever had. Tomorrow, I’ll call my mom for the actual recipe and we can try again.”

“Can we still decorate our tree?”

“Absolutely, love.”

#

“Papa, do you think it looks like a proper Christmas tree?”

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