Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
MILES
Yet, here I am—barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, wooden spoon in hand, pretending I have the slightest idea what I’m doing.
It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve only known Miranda for six months. It feels like she’s been in my life forever. From the first time we met, we just clicked. We became fast friends, and now that we live together, I get to see my favorite person every single day.
She’s standing across from me, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, wearing one of my oversized Crane Hockey shirts and a pair of leggings that hug her perfect legs in a way I’m trying—really trying—not to notice.
“This is going to be a disaster,” I tell her, eyeing the ingredients she’s laid out like a contestant on Top Chef: Chaos Edition.
She tilts her head, unconcerned. “That’s what makes it fun.”
“Fun?” I repeat, picking up the packet of noodles she dropped on the counter. “That’s one word for it. Another might be hazardous.”
She narrows her eyes at me, pointing a spatula like a weapon. “You agreed to help, so no complaining.”
“I’m not complaining,” I say. “I’m disappointed in myself. Cooking a meal shouldn’t feel this daunting. I blame my mother.”
Miranda laughs. “Why is your lack of skill in the kitchen your mother’s fault?”
“Because she didn’t teach me anything,” I say.
“She made everything for me growing up—she’s the best cook.
Every meal was incredible. Which means my food standards are ridiculously high, but I can’t recreate a single one.
She even made my sandwiches. I didn’t make my first one until college. She didn’t prepare me.”
“Sounds like you have a great mother,” she says, smiling softly.
“Well, yeah, she’s the best. No doubt. I just wish she’d given me a little guidance to help me save face.”
“I think you’re too old to be blaming your mother for your inadequacies.”
I scoff. “I am not inadequate.”
“In the kitchen, you are.”
I wrap my arms around her middle and tickle her. She bends over, laughing uncontrollably.
“Take it back!” I shout over her laughter.
“Never!”
“Say it—Miles Keller is a god in all he does—or the tickling never ends!”
She lifts her arms and lets her body go limp like a fish, sliding out of my grasp. When she hits the floor, she scurries away, stands, and grabs a spatula from the pot of pasta sauce.
“I will fling this at you if you tickle me again.”
I glance down at my favorite sweatshirt, one I definitely don’t want stained with red marinara. “But you didn’t say it.”
She grins, eyes sparkling. “Miles Keller, you are not a god at everything. I’m sorry that I have to be the one to break it to you.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” She giggles. “You suck in the kitchen. Hell, I suck in the kitchen. This is just something we have to accept. I know it’s hard for you to admit defeat, but my friend, just admit it.”
“Fine,” I grumble.
She lowers the spatula, smug. “Lame admission, but I’ll accept it.” She sets it on the spoon holder beside the simmering sauce.
I shake my head, laughing as she turns back to the cutting board.
“What exactly are we making again?”
“Pasta with a homemade marinara sauce,” she says, slicing vegetables like she’s auditioning for a cooking show.
“That seems ambitious. Shouldn’t we have started with grilled cheese?”
“How hard can it be?” she says, dumping the chopped veggies straight into the pot of sauce.
“Famous last words.”
“Relax, Chef Keller. I’ve watched enough cooking shows to know the basics.”
“Yeah, and I’ve watched Shark Week, but that doesn’t mean I should go swimming with great whites.”
She snorts—a real, unfiltered laugh that fills the kitchen—and something in my chest tightens.
God, I love that sound.
I grab her phone and scan the recipe. “I think you were supposed to sauté the vegetables first, then add them to the sauce.”
She squints at the bubbling pot, then back at me, lips pouted. “I don’t think the order matters.”
I laugh. “Then why are the steps numbered? Usually numbers suggest order.”
She waves a hand between us. “It’ll be fine.” She leans in to sniff the sauce. “It smells good. What spices are next?”
I read from the recipe, grabbing the spice jars. “Okay, grab a measuring spoon and start adding.”
I scoop and drop spoonfuls into the pot.
“Is it supposed to be mounded like that or level with the spoon?” Miranda asks.
“I think level, but my mom always said she measured with her heart. She swore more spice was better.”
“That makes sense,” Miranda agrees. “Adding more flavor never hurts.”
The sauce starts bubbling harder, popping like lava. One burst hits my arm with scalding sauce just as I drop in a heap of seasoning.
“Ouch!” I hiss, rubbing my forearm. “Did the recipe say to heat it to the same temperature as the surface of the sun?”
Miranda chuckles and takes my hand, leading me to the sink. She pushes my sweatshirt up past my elbow. “I’m sorry,” she says, still laughing. She turns on the cold water and runs it over the burn.
Her hands are soft, careful.
“You sure you don’t want to order Chinese again? We’ve got their number memorized by now.”
“No, we can do this. It just takes practice.” She keeps my wrist under the stream. “Does that feel better?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
The truth is, I’m more focused on her skin against mine than the burn.
A loud pop from the stove draws our attention. We turn just in time to see a geyser of sauce explode, raining molten red droplets all over the kitchen.
“Oh shoot!” Miranda rushes to turn the heat down and yelps when another bubble bursts near her hand.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she insists, cheeks flushed pink. “Just wasn’t expecting it to… attack.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Yeah, liquids tend to do that when you crank the heat to lava.”
She gestures around dramatically. “This is a safe space for learning, Miles. Less cynicism, please.”
She shoots me a playful glare, then grabs a wooden spoon to stir the sauce. Her brows knit. “Is one of the ingredients supposed to turn black?”
Grabbing a towel, I dry my arm and join her. Sure enough, black flakes float atop the bright red sauce.
I scoop a spoonful, blow on it, and take a cautious taste—instantly grimacing.
“Is it bad?”
I just nod.
“No way,” she says, taking the spoon and tasting it herself. Her eyes water as she covers her mouth. “Oh my God, that’s vile. Why does it taste like that?”
“What does it taste like?”
“Like… char?”
I run the spoon along the bottom of the pot, stirring up more black bits. “Yeah, it’s definitely burnt. But there’s another flavor, too.”
“How much salt were you supposed to add?” she asks.
“I think half a teaspoon. I might’ve done a rounded teaspoon.”
She picks up the measuring spoon and holds it next to me. “No, you added a rounded tablespoon of salt.” She grins.
“Oh shit. Oops.”
We stand side by side, staring down at the pot of destruction.
“So,” she says, “we basically made our own recipe. We can call it Salty Firepit.”
“All we need is some noodles, and voilà—a new gourmet meal,” I tease.
She leans her head against my arm and sighs. “Well, we tried.”
“That we did,” I agree.
“Takeout?”
“Absolutely.”