Page 27 of A Me and Him Thing
“What? I can’t hear you.” Ren flashes me his half smile.
Man, I love his unique smile. “What arewemaking?”
“Weare making chicken fried rice.”
“Why couldn’t we just start with tuna fish sandwiches? Gourmet cooking is not my thing.” He has no idea.
“Number one: Chicken fried rice is not gourmet. Number two: Do you really not know how to make a tuna fish sandwich?”
“I know how to eat it out of the can.” I see nothing wrong with that.
He stops in place. “Are you serious?”
“What happens if I say yes? Will a trapdoor open and make me fall into some sort of punishment basement for the cooking impaired?”
Ren laughs aloud. I’ll attempt to cook just to hear him laugh again. Even if he’s laughing at me. Which he will be.
“Aw, Bree. You crack me up.”
He still thinks I’m kidding. He’s about to find out how hopeless I am. “Why so many groceries if we’re just making chicken fried rice?”
“Because someone doesn’t have a single staple in her cupboards,” Ren says as he unloads the contents of the grocery bags.
“You looked in my cupboards?” How embarrassing.
“Last week I thought I might whip up omelets while you were showering after our run, only to find out no one actually lives here. Except a cat.”
“I eat out. It’s just me. Who wants to cook for one?” It’s so much effort.
Ren leans in close. “Today you will learn about the magical world of cooking at home.”
He holds my gaze for a few beats too long. For a moment, I think he’s going to lean even closer and kiss me. I’d rather spend this time kissing than cooking anyway.
Then he backs away rather abruptly. Maybe I should tell him I’m done with the friend zone.
Except we both know I’m still on the rebound. Jumping into a new relationship wouldn’t be smart. But it sure feels right.
It’s at that moment I realize I’m needy. Case in point, look how quickly I latched onto Ren.
The thought makes me sad.
Ren pulls a whole precooked chicken out of the fridge. “Normally, I would bake my own chicken, but this will speed up the process. The first thing we need to do is cut up the chicken.” He hands me a knife. “Can you do that while I get everything else prepped?”
“Sure.” I can handle a knife. Sort of.
“I would also normally use fresh peas and carrots. But our time is short. So canned peas and carrots it is.”
While Ren’s opening the scandalous cans of peas and carrots, measuring out rice, and cracking eggs, I stare at the whole chicken. I always order boneless chicken. Ripping it off the bone is so barbaric. I grab the drumstick with one hand and start to cut. When I hit bone, I stop. Ew. Maybe the top of the chicken will be easier. I plunge the knife into the top of the chicken, push, and hope for the best. My knife slips and hits my other hand, which was trying to hold the chicken in place. Blood seeps out onto the cutting board—and onto the chicken.
I’m hopeless.
I rush to the sink to put my hand under the water. The sink is turning red.
“Bree, did you cut yourself?” Ren says, taking a look at my hand.
“No, I decided to make fruit punch.”
Ren half laughs and half scoffs at my humor. “Where’s your first aid kit? Looks like you just sliced your finger. It’s not too bad. These types of cuts just bleed a lot. I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
