Page 86 of This I Know
To our left, she opens a closet so compact it could pass for hidden.
“There you go.” She watches me hang it up and stick it inside amongst her family’s things. She closes the closet door, then turns to me and whispers, “And relax, Ethan. Believe me, this isn’t a big deal.”
Relax.The word flutters out of her mouth as though it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. If only she knew. If only she knew the truth of what hides within me, what I have to keep from her.
I give her a small nod, then I glance nervously further into the house.
She takes my hand and leads me down the hall. “Don’t worry. My mom won’t be here for a while. There’s a few things she needed to pick up after work.” When we reach the kitchen, she spins around. “But … I thought while she’s gone, we can get dinner ready.”
My eyes widen. “You cook?”
The kitchen is dim, but I can see an array of utensils surrounding us. There’s a large knife block flush against the corner of the marble counter top and a pair of double ovens near the fridge. The area is impeccably clean, except for some dirty dishes piled in the sink. Someone here knows how to cook.
“I’ve dabbled.”
I walk to the counter and pull open a few of the drawers closest to me.
Avery fumbles with the countertop before leaning against it. “Do you like to cook?”
I’m holding a wooden spoon from the drawer, one that’s almost entirely the length of my forearm. “A little. I used to more than I do now.”
“Why’s that?”
I set it back in its place. “I’m not sure.”
Despite the tension of the moment, I’m reassured by both the environment of the kitchen and Avery’s presence. We lock eyes. Her soul comforts me, and I can relax in her.
She breaks away from my gaze. “Dinner,” she says. She moves toward the stove. “We’re having burgers. Is that okay?”
I lean back. “Sounds great.” The hamburger meat has already been laid out to thaw on the cutting board. Avery goes to the fridge and pulls open the drawer, stuffing her arms with various ingredients and toppings.
“My mom likes tomato,” she says, setting one down in front of us. “Do you?”
I shrug. “It’s okay.” And when she doesn’t react to my answer, I ask, “Do you?”
“Not really.”
Honesty. I like that. I’m afraid she was worried about offending me with her answer, but without even knowing, she’s done quite the opposite; that raw honesty of hers is one of her best qualities, and the most precious thing about her.
She slips the largest chef’s knife out of its slot in the knife block and hands it to me handle side forward. I pause a moment before wrapping my fingers around the handle of the massive blade. A feeling of guilt sweeps through me, and it’s such an overcoming sensation that my fingers almost tremble.
How long can I keep this up? If Avery knew the truth, the idea of a knife in my hand would terrify her. Indeed, I know the truth – I know whose hands these are – and it scares even me.
“Well, Ethan,” she says with a careless smile, totally naive, “put yourself to use.”
The knife slides through the skin of the tomato with barely any pressure on my part. The motions of the knife rocking against the cutting board bring me back to the familiarity of all of this, back to the time before chaos.
Avery finishes setting her ingredients out on individual plates, organizing each one delicately and with care. When she notices me watching, she looks up from her work and exhales a laugh. “I like my food neat, okay?”
“I’m not complaining.”
And she resumes her pointless organization. Her fingers move intricately, pushing and re-doing her previous attempts at perfection. I watch them work, and take in the delicate creaminess of the skin of those fingers, and I’m struck with the realization that in her hunt for perfection she’s overlooked the perfect way in which she works.
She lifts her body up, examining her work. “There.” She takes two plates in her hands and walks them to the dining room table.
I pick up the remaining ones and follow close behind. “Your mom will be happy,” I say.
“She doesn’t usually notice this kind of stuff.”
