Page 53 of The Seven Year Slip

I took stock of the apartment. In the past few weeks since I’d been gone, he’d made himself at home. There were dishes drying on the rack, and a few crumbs on the AC outside, where Mother and Fucker nested. He took two floral bowls out of the cabinet and plated them both with some sort of noodles with vegetables and meat. He brought both to the yellow table and didn’t even ask before he took out a new bottle of wine.

“I remembered you liked rosé, so I bought more just in case you came back around,” he said, to my surprise, and motioned over to the table. “We can eat.”

“Wow, are you trying to impress me?” I joked, slipping off the barstool, and joined him at the table. It was so easy, existing with him. Maybe it was his nonchalant smile, the way it disarmed melike very little else did. Whatever it was, the panic that had set into my bones since the meeting with James, and later the lost bid, ebbed away.

“Ha! Maybe,” he relented, and sat down opposite me and poured us both a glass of wine. “Bon appétit, Lemon.”

I hung on the way he said my name, like it was something tender. “Can you say it again?” I asked, before immediately realizing how weird I sounded.

“What,bon appétit?” He made a face. “I know I suck at French, you don’t have to rub it—”

“No, my nickname.”

A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth, and he leaned forward on his elbows and said, “Oh, so you like it now?”

Mortification crawled up my neck. “No. I just—I need to get used to it. Because youclearlywon’t stop.” But, of course he didn’t believe me. I didn’t believe myself, either. “Never mind,” I quickly added.

Suddenly, the sharp ring of a cell phone cut through the kitchen.

“Not mine,” I told him, because my cell phone didn’t work in the past.

“Oh! Sorry,” he mumbled, pushing himself to his feet again, and went to go retrieve an old flip phone from the charger on the counter. He really wasn’t one for technology, was he? He read the caller ID and his nose scrunched—something he tended to do, I realized, when he was confused. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he said, and answered it as he left for the bedroom. “Hey, Mom. Is something up?”

I sat there quietly, looking down at my plate of cold noodles, vegetables, and meat. Should I go ahead and eat or...? I tried not to eavesdrop, really, I did, but the walls in this apartment were paper thin, and the bedroom was just on the other side of the kitchen.

“Yeah, I’m still looking for a place—no, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said with a laugh. “Stop worrying so much, will you? Look, I have a friend over. I’ll call you later? I promise.” A pause. “I’ll let you know. Love you, too. Good night.”

As he returned, I tried to pretend like I was doing something—I folded my napkin, unfolded it, inspected the silverware (I didn’t even realize my aunt had metal chopsticks), and as he sat down, he asked, “Do my dishwashing skills leave something to be desired?”

“No, no, they’re perfect,” I quickly replied, putting the chopsticks down. “I just. Um. My reflection in the... The walls are thin,” I admitted, and he snorted a laugh.

“My mom. She’s worried sick. Like mothers are,” he added with a roll of his eyes, taking a napkin from the table. “Anyway, she says hello.”

“You’ve told her about me?” I asked, surprised.

“I’ve told her I’ve met afriend,” he replied. “And so of course she immediately assumes we’re going to elope to Vegas.”

“Wow, that’s quite a leap.”

“That’s my mother.” He laughed. “Let’s eat?”

“Bone appetite,” I said, making him almost choke on his wine as he went for a drink, wheezing a laugh, and I took a bite of food to keep myself from looking too smug. I was starving, as it turned out. The cold noodles were delicious, and the meat was so tender it almost melted in my mouth.

“A good pork shoulder never lets me down,” he replied, “and admittedly this is kind of a comfort food for me. It’s been a rough few weeks.”

“Oh! Your interview!” I gasped, suddenly remembering. He did look a little worse for wear, come to think of it. His hair was greasy and pushed back, and the white T-shirt he wore looked like it’d gone through a lot today, the collar slouching, revealing thebirthmark on his clavicle. I immediately looked away from it. “Did you get the job?”

He swallowed a mouthful of food before he struck a pose and said, “I amofficiallytheir new dishwasher. I just forgot how grueling it was.” He showed me his hands. They were dry and cracked already, and when I held his hand, his skin was rough to the touch.

“You need a good moisturizer,” I said as he drew them back, and looked forlornly at his nail beds. “Or rubber gloves.”

“Probably...”

“It’ll be okay. It’s not like you’re going to stay a dishwasher forever.”

“No, and cracked hands aside, it’s been so cool. I’ve worked in kitchens before, but there’s something about the Olive Branch that just...”

“Is that the name of the restaurant?” I ask, even though I already knew.

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