Chapter Thirteen Madison
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Madison
“I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to destroy my kitchen,” says James while hovering somewhere behind me.
“Hush it, you. I’m tired of your kitchen jokes. Especially when I’m about to blow your mind.” I point a clean spoon in his direction. “And no, I don’t mean sexually. Though I bet I’d blow your mind in that area too.”
He swiftly plucks the spoon from my hand. “Okayyy, what ingredients do I need to gather for this meal that will cure my smoking addiction?”
I lean my hip against the counter, balancing on one foot while the other perches against my left like a flamingo. “For legal reasons, I must officially state that this is not a cure for addiction. But unofficially, it is pretty damn comforting and you might crave it more than a cigarette.”
He smiles. “Said like someone who has clearly never smoked a day in her life.”
“I’ve smoked!”
“Weed doesn’t count.”
“Oh.” I go to the dreamy walk-in pantry and grab a loaf of bread. “Just for the record, what you’re doing right now . . . really makes me want to smoke. I don’t like knowing I haven’t tried something. Especially when I’m challenged.”
“Let me try a different approach then.” James twists so his lower back is against the counter now, crossing his arms and ankles. “Madison. My mom called, she says you have to smoke a cigarette tonight or you’ll be in trouble.”
“Reverse psychology?” I poke him in his big shoulder and he tracks my every move with amusement. “Don’t play mind games with me, James, or you’ll make me fall in love with you.”
The moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I don’t even know why—they just seem to have more weight than I expected. Like picking up a paper bag you think is empty, only to find a gallon of milk inside.
“Can you get out the sugar and cinnamon?” I scurry away like a squirrel dodging a car to preheat the oven. Next, I lay a few pieces of white bread out on a plate.
James is back with the cinnamon and sugar containers and sets them near me on the counter.
I spot a butter dish on the other side of the large island and lean over to reach it.
My fingertips are just short of making it, but a second later James’s chest is pressing over my back as he gets the dish for me.
His heat against my spine is warmer than tanning on the beach.
But he’s only there for a millisecond before he slides the dish closer and then returns to an upright position, stepping aside.
“Thank you,” I say, but it comes out like a stupid squeak.
Suddenly I’m having all kinds of fantasies that include me, James, and this countertop.
I’ve known him my entire life, and I’ve never imagined sleeping with him.
So why now? Is it because I’m celibate? Practicing a sexless lifestyle the last year has definitely had an effect on me.
I thought it might dull my senses, but it’s only brightened them.
The touch of a hand, brush of a shoulder, lingering eye contact—it’s all enough to work me up these days.
“Okay, so.” I rub my hands together like a maniacal scientist. “This is one of the first things I learned to make as a kid, and it’s been my go-to treat ever since.”
“Teach me, Chef.”
His words zing down my spine.
I force my attention on my knife, dipping it in the room-temperature butter and smearing it across each piece of bread. “With this dish, you are an artist. The bread is your canvas, and the butter is your paint.”
“That’s a lot of paint.” His eyes are glued to the bread.
“Crust to crust. Don’t leave a single dry spot.”
Next, in a little bowl, I combine the cinnamon and sugar until it’s the right ratio and then sprinkle it across the butter-slathered bread.
Once they’re coated, I take each slice to the oven.
“The trick is to lay them directly on the oven rack so they get toasty all over. And also because it’s like a fun game of Operation when you’re getting them out with your fingers.
You have to try not to burn yourself on the rack. ”
“I like a good challenge.”
A few minutes later our treats are finished and we’re hovering by the oven, each taking a huge bite.
I watch James closely to see how he’ll react.
He chews thoughtfully, jaws working and head nodding.
He’s making the appropriate amount of moaning noises.
But then, all at once, his mouth splits into a huge smile, followed by a laugh.
The kind of laugh that is born of an inside joke.
“What?” I ask, mildly annoyed. “Is it gross or something?”
His laugh is a simmer that slowly builds into a full boil. He’s laughing so hard now he has to set his toast down.
“James! What are you laughing at?”
“You.”
I gasp. “Rude.”
And then he does the most strange, incredible thing. Still shaking with barely restrained laughter, he lazily reaches out his arms until his hands curve behind my shoulders, scooping me to him. He cradles me right into his chest and then wraps me up.
James is hugging me.
I blink and breathe in, dizzy from his conflicting tangle of cigarette smoke, cinnamon sugar, and men’s deodorant. Irish Spring, I’m betting. Nothing has ever smelled better.
“Madison, it’s cinnamon toast.” He squeezes me affectionately.
“I thought you were about to teach me something you learned in culinary school, because you were so serious just now, with a frown between your eyebrows. But then you made cinnamon toast. I kept waiting for the big reveal of a secret ingredient.”
“You’ve had this before?” I sound pouty, arms limp noodles at my sides as he attempts to squeeze a hug out of me.
This really sets him off laughing. I can hear it joyfully knocking around inside his sternum. “Are you serious? I ate this toast before you were alive.”
“Oh my god.” I pull out of the hug that I never really committed to. “You were only four when I was born! Don’t make it sound like you rubbed elbows with Aristotle.”
“Would it make you feel better if I said this is definitely the best cinnamon toast I’ve ever had?”
“A little,” I say, downplaying how his compliment drops into the center of my heart and fizzes like an Alka-Seltzer.
I turn away and busy myself placing the cinnamon and sugar containers back inside the pantry so he won’t see the effect he has on me. No repeats of the towel attraction fiasco. But then I catch sight of something bunched up at the far end of his countertop.
“Hey, what’s that?” I say, pointing to the little contraption.
James sees what I’m gesturing toward, then squints one eye. “I don’t guess you’ll believe me if I tell you it’s a tire inflator?”
I pivot and give him a hard stare. “Let me rephrase my question. James, why do you have a blood pressure cuff out on your countertop?”
His throat bobs as he contemplates what version of the truth he wants to give me. “Because I had an appointment with my doctor this morning, and now I’m supposed to monitor my blood pressure every day for the next two weeks while making lifestyle changes.” I guess he decided on the full damn truth.
Worry creeps up my neck. “Are you okay?”
He looks as relaxed and easygoing as always. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be fine? As in you’re not currently?”
“I am fine. I just . . . I was having some symptoms. So I went in for a checkup. Turns out I have slightly elevated blood pressure.”
“James.”
“Madison.”
“Your dad had a heart attack,” I say, like he isn’t aware.
It happened shortly after I moved to New York. I hated being so far away during it. But Emily kept me up-to-date on how they were doing, and I called Ruth to check in on her and Martin a few times too. I didn’t, however, call and check in on James. A fact that doesn’t sit well with me anymore.
The look in James’s eyes tells me he’s reliving that terrifying day now.
He’s the one who found his dad in the greenhouse right as Martin was falling to his knees.
“I know he did. But I won’t. My doctor thinks it’s just .
. . stress-induced. She wants me to try a few lifestyle changes and see if that helps—Hey, whoa, why the teary eyes?
” he says, coming in close again to rub his hands up and down my arms. Comforting me when he’s the one who owns a blood pressure cuff.
“I really . . . don’t like the idea of you having a heart attack.”
“That’s good to hear.” His hands slide up and down, up and down.
I meet his eyes. “And we’re just now becoming friends. You can’t die at the start of our friendship.” Maybe that’s selfish, but I don’t care. It’s true.
Having already lost my parents at a young age, and then my wonderful grandma who raised me, death is an ever-present monster, waiting around each corner, salivating to claim everyone I love most. I’m terrified of it, always jumping to worst-case scenarios and imagining—feeling—the moment that someone gives me horrible news that changes my life forever. Even if it’s not real.
For the second time tonight, James wraps his arms around me.
But this time I lean into him, quietly, tucking my head against his chest. This hug feels more intimate without laughter acting as a buffer between us.
His hands even seem to hesitate a little before finally splaying against my back and pulling me in firmly against him.
I slide my arms around his waist and knit them together at his lower back, savoring how soft his worn cotton shirt is against my cheek.
There. We’re hugging.
Madison and James: two hugging friends.
I want to say it’s strange—having my head on his upper chest—but it’s not. If anything, I’m now realizing how strange it is that after all my years of knowing him, this is the first time we’ve ever hugged. I like hearing his heart beat right into my ear. It’s a soothing cadence.