Page 110 of Spark

“Laila, I have to brace myself for heartbreak here.”

She scoffs. “You’re not going to get your heart broken. He’s feeling exactly what you are.”

She sounds so confident, I’m suddenly deeply suspicious—and cautiously optimistic. “Do you know that for a fact, or is that merely your opinion, based on observation?”

Laila pauses.

“Laila.”

“It’s my opinion. I don’t know anything for a fact. But it’s so obvious to me, I don’t know why you can’t see it, too.”

I exhale with disappointment. “Listen, I say this with love: keep your opinions to yourself, please. I really don’t want to set myself up for—Fuck! I forgot to set a timer for the chicken! I have no idea how long it’s been cooking. Sorry,sautéing.”

“Have you turned it over yet?”

“No.”

“Do it now. It’ll be fine.”

I look at the clock and murmur. “This is so stressful.” Breathing hard, I turn the chicken. “It’s burned, Laila. Shit.”

“Charred?”

“I don’t think so. But way too dark.”

“It’s fine. That’s called blackened chicken. It’s a delicacy. Are you dressed up, nice and pretty for him?”

“No! Fuck! I was going to change, but then I ran out of time. I’m wearing sweats, and I don’t have time to?—”

“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have said anything. Is the table set?”

I exhale. “Yes. That’s one thing I did right. All I have to do is light the candles.”

“Perfect. Sounds like the meal will be ready at the right time. You’ve got this, Ruby Duby. Take a deep breath.”

“The pine nuts! The timer is at zero, but I didn’t hear a beep. When did it go off?”

“It doesn’t matter. They’refine.”

I open the oven and a plume of smoke greets me, but luckily, the pine nuts look dark brown but not burned. “They look okay. Catastrophe averted.”

“Breathe, babe.”

I pull the pine nuts out, finish up the chicken, and throw the pasta into my boiling water, and Laila talks me off the ledge the whole time.

“Okay, time to make the pesto,” I murmur.

“Home stretch,” Laila says. “You’ve got this.”

I swipe into my recipe for guidance again and my heart sinks. “Shit, Laila. It says I need a ‘food processor’ for this next part, whatever that is. What does a food processor look like? What does it do?” I frantically scan Kendrick’s granite kitchen counter. “I wouldn’t even know one if it bit me in the ass. Does Kendrick even have one?”

“Probably not. But if he does, it’s probably not out on the counter. My mother doesn’t keep hers out. She just grabs it whenever she needs it. Check his cupboards.”

“For what, though? What am I even looking for? Can you text me a photo of one?”

“You can use a blender, instead, for a job this small. You know what a blender looks like, right?”

“Yes! And I know for a fact Kendrick has one to make his protein shakes.” I start frantically opening cabinets, but no dice. So, I drag a chair into the kitchen to check the highest shelves. “I found the blender!” I shout excitedly. “It’s on a top shelf, way, way in the back, but I see it!”

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