Page 35 of Drop Shot
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to gloat about it.”
“I’m not gloating,” I defend.
“You definitely are.” Stifling a yawn, she says, “I have to pee and then I can help.”
I don’t tell her that I’ve got it pretty much wrapped up.
By the time she returns I’ve almost finished plating it.
She eyes the plates. “I’ll grab the drinks then.”
She grabs me the same drink I had before and hands it over. “Thanks.” I pop the tab and take a sip.
“I hate to admit it, but this smells delicious.”
I shake my head in faux shame. “You wound me, Whim. You really do.”
She gives my shoulder a pat. “I think you’ll survive.” She takes a seat in front of a plate and I join her. “When did you learn to cook?”
I give a soft hum as I think it over. “My parents always made sure Ebba and I were in the kitchen cooking with them, so practically forever, I guess. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t helping out.”
“What else can you make?” She spears a bite of salad.
“Pretty much anything. I mean, I’m not a Michelin star chef but I feel pretty confident in the kitchen.”
She swallows her bite. “I can tell. I bought this stuff, and I never would’ve pulled it out and made a meal like this.” She gestures to everything with her fork. “I’m pretty basic when it comes to cooking. The simpler the better.”
We finish eating mostly in silence, but it’s not strained or awkward in any way. Actually, it’s … nice. It’s rare for me to feel comfortable in silence around another person but with Whimsy it feels okay.
“I’ll take care of the dishes. You cooked,” she says, already gathering everything up.
I snag them from her. “You don’t feel good. Rest.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t protest so that’s how I know she’s feeling rough.
“Thank you. Are you planning to stay a while longer?” she asks, biting nervously on her bottom lip.
“I can go if you want me to. We can finish the movies some other time.”
She shakes her head. “No, stay if you want. But I’m going to take a hot shower. It usually helps with the aching.”
“Go for it. I’m fine here. I promise I won’t leave and steal your cat.” I make what I think is the symbol for scout’s honor, but I was never boy scout material so I can’t be sure.
She laughs at that. “Craig would probably walk out with you. You wouldn’t even have to steal her.”
The cat meows in what I think is agreement.
Shaking her head, Whimsy steps into her room and quietly shuts the door.
I rinse off the plates and cutlery, organizing them into her dishwasher. It’s mostly full so I put in a tab and start it.
“Is that to your liking?” I ask Craig, scratching her behind her ears.
The cat that’s stared down every move I’ve made purrs and leans her head into my touch.
I wipe down the counters and scoop Craig into my arms.
I’ve never thought about having a pet. With my job, it’s impossible, but it makes me wonder if it might be something I want down the road when I retire, which will hopefully be a long while from now.
