Page 19 of Cool for the Summer

“Smells good. What are we having?”

“Steak salad.”

“Perfect.” I help myself to one of the few beers in the door of the fridge. Beer didn’t make it into our cart earlier, so we’re stuck drinking what’s on hand. Luckily, Pete and Jack have pretty good taste in alcohol and this brand of pilsner is one of my favorites.

Beck takes two fragrant steaks off the cast iron pan on the stove and cuts them into strips. The salad bowl is already on the island, but I don’t see any place settings. “Want me to set the table?”

“Actually, I set us up outside.”

“Oh. Good idea.” The sky’s still light and there’s a big outdoor dining table on the patio just outside the kitchen’s French doors. “Won’t be too buggy?”

“If it is, we can come in,” he says. “And I thought I’d take a stab at the molasses cookies after dinner.”

“What do you mean?”

“I looked up some recipes online and I’m going to see if I can get close to your aunt’s recipe.”

I freeze. He wants to replicate my aunt’s cookie recipe? Seems like a weird goal, but I don’t know how to ask what his motivation is without seeming like a jerk.

He seems to sense my unease because he says quickly, “Cookies are my thing. I’ve been wanting to find the perfect molasses cookie recipe anyway, so you can be my taste tester. If you want.”

“Sounds good,” I reply stiffly. It’s not like he’s asking me for anything. They’re just cookies. And the guy’s making me dinner. The least I can do is try not to be an asshole.

Beck carries the steak outside and I follow with the salad bowl and my beer.

After my first bite of salad—crisp lettuce mixed with the perfect amount of creamy dressing and livened up with radishes, snap peas, and tomatoes—I moan my approval. “Damn, this is good. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

He looks pleased, but only says, “Swimming works up an appetite.”

“I’ll say.”

We eat for a minute and I can’t think of anything to say. I’ve gotten used to Beck jumping in and kicking off conversation by being nosy, but he’s quiet.

I take a sip of beer and cast about for a topic. “So, I feel like you know everything about me, but I don’t even know what you do.”

“Do?”

“Like, do you have a job?”

“Oh.” He wrinkles his nose. “Not at the moment.”

Huh. I think about the thick black credit card Beck used to pay for the groceries this morning. “What did you go to school for?”

He laughs at that. “What haven’t I gone to school for?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, undergrad was a mess. First, I thought I wanted to be a film major, then there was the semester I thought I’d be the next great choreographer and switched to dance. Thank god I sprained my ankle and changed my mind before I got around to telling my parents about that particular flight of fancy. Then I considered pre-med. But my science grades were shit.” He shrugs, and I wonder if his casual attitude is a put-on or not. “History was the only area I had enough credits in by the time I had to declare a major or risk not graduating.”

“A lot of people don’t end up using their degrees,” I say, trying to be supportive.

“What did you major in?” he asks.

“Uh. Drama.”

He grins. “It’s okay. You knew what you wanted to be when you grew up. I still don’t.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that. Knowing what I wanted to do was never the problem for me—it was breaking in. I feel like I’m starting all over again with playwriting, with no clue what I’m doing. But we’re talking about Beck right now. “So what did you do after you graduated?”

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