9
DALTON
If someone told me I could find onion chopping sexy, I’d have told them they were crazy, but that’s before I had the pleasure of watching Gabriella cook for me.
Her slender fingers handle the knife with an expert quality, chopping everything fast and small. “It’s better if the onions are small,” she says. “A lot of people don’t like them, but you need them to add flavor. This way, they practically disappear into the sauce. Here, you try.”
She holds out the knife and I hesitate, knowing my thick fingers are going to struggle to accomplish the same thing. She doesn’t back down, though. “You won’t learn if you don’t try,” she says softly.
I take the knife, focusing all my attention on the half-sphere of white onion left on the wooden board. The blade is sharp and cuts without much effort. I go slow, keeping the distance between cuts the same as Gabriella’s. “That’s it,” she says. “You’ve got it.”
When I finish, I hand her the knife again. “It’s harder than it looks.”
“Everything in life just takes practice,” she says. “If you can build a house, you can make a meal.”
I nod, agreeing with her sentiment. My dad always told us that the only difference between successful people and bums was that successful people are prepared to make mistakes, learn, and try again. They aren’t put off by challenge and adversity, and usually I’d take this kind of thing in stride. But today’s task is laced with two parts that are unsettling. The first is that Gabriella is watching me and the second is that Mom used to make this same dish for us when we were kids. That’s probably why Kain bought these ingredients. It used to be his favorite meal. He didn’t stop to think about how I would feel watching Gabriella recreate the past in this way.
“Right, you want to put some oil in first and set it to medium heat. You want the onions to cook through but not burn.” She shows me how much, and tips the onions in. “You can stir these while I chop the garlic.”
We work side by side in a way that feels companionable. My mom and dad didn’t have this kind of relationship. He was the grafter, and she was the housewife. They were happy fulfilling their very different roles, but that isn’t the kind of relationship I want.
I want this. Working with my woman to create a life together. I want us to have each other’s backs through all of our experiences. Dad would probably tell me it’s a recipe for disaster. Their generation wanted very clear roles, but our world is different. Most women work now. They can’t be expected to still fulfill all the home duties too.
I glance down at Gab, who’s chopping three tiny cloves into miniscule pieces. With her long hair tied up in a loose bun and tendrils falling around her face, she’s just perfect. “Here,” she says, scraping the garlic into the sizzling pan. “Keep stirring. I’ll get the meatballs.”
She disappears behind the door to the large old fridge that has probably served this family for over twenty years, emerging with the monster packet that Kain provided. My mouth waters and, more embarrassingly, my stomach growls. Gabriella laughs. “Poor Dalton.” She touches my arm. “I made you hungry and didn’t feed you. Do you want a cookie?”
“I’ll wait,” I say. “I want to savor this meal.”
She nods, smiling, and I stir the pot more vigorously, not wanting anything to catch on the bottom. One by one, Gabriella tosses the meatballs in and they sizzle noisily. “Brown, them all around. Try not to break them up.”
“That seems like a lot of responsibility.”
“I know you’re up to it.”
She’s cheeky, which is cute. While I’m battling to fry the meat, she’s gathering herbs and cans of tomatoes. From the fridge, she snags a half-finished bottle of wine. “Two cans of tomatoes,” she says, adding them. “Basil. Salt. Black pepper. A little oregano. Red wine. Oh, and a squeeze of tomato paste. You can turn down the heat now and we’re going to leave this to simmer.”
It smells amazing.
“Now for the pasta.”
“I know what I’m doing with that,” I say.
“Okay. Show me.”
I fill a big pan with water and salt it like the ocean, setting it to bring it to a rolling boil.
“Perfect,” Gabriella says.
“Now the pasta.” I add the spaghetti, lowering it slowly so the water doesn’t splash.
“Now stir it.” She hands me a slotted spoon and I swirl the water, trying to make sure nothing sticks.
As the water boils, the air fills with moisture and Gabriella’s hair curls around her face. I touch a strand, mesmerized by her natural beauty. She touches the same place, grimacing.
“It wants to be curly,” she says. “I’m always fighting against it.”
“Why? Curls are beautiful.” I drop my gaze to the apex of her thighs, and she laughs softly.
“You’re starting to sound a little obsessed with my pubic hair, Dalton.”
“There isn’t a man on this street who wouldn’t be obsessed with your pubic hair if he had a chance to see it.”
“Your dad lives on this street,” she says, and wheezes with laughter when I grimace.
“Don’t bring Old Man Nowak into our sex talk,” I say. “I have to work with that dude, and his ear hair is out of control. The thought of him thinking anything sexual is gross.”
“What about Mr. Grady?”
I stuff my fingers into my ears and sing la la la because that’s almost worse. The dude must be eighty-five.
Gabriella embraces me, laughing so much she struggles to catch a breath.
I push her arms away, shaking my head. “Don’t start with the affection now. I’ll get a boner and all this food will burn.”
Holding her hands out, palms towards me, she grins. “Okay, D. I’ll focus on the food.”
“That’s good. Perfect.”
She begins to assemble a large salad, filled with leftover chicken, sweetcorn, croutons, and olives. It looks delicious and I take mental notes about the quantities and her technique and file away the information for another day. I stir the meatballs in sauce gently just to make sure they’re not catching on the bottom. The pasta is still cooking but has swelled to almost twice its original size.
“Time to drain that,” she says, peering into the pan.
“Okay.” I walk it over to the sink and create a gap between the glass lid and the pan, allowing the water to spill out slowly. The steam warms my face and settles against my skin. Glancing to the side, I catch Gabriella watching me.
“You’re not a total idiot in the kitchen, are you, Dalton?”
“I’ve watched some cooking programs.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows shoot up in an adorably surprised way.
“Yeah.”
“So you really want to learn?”
“Sure.” When I place the pan back on the stove, Gabriella grabs a spoon and tastes the sauce.
“Mmmmm…that is so good. Now all you need to do is combine.”
With a ladle, I begin to move the sauce into the pasta pan, and when both ingredients are combined, I stir it slowly to spread the tomato sauce evenly through.
“Your mom was a good cook, wasn’t she?” Gabriella says.
“She was. I have her recipe book in the kitchen at home.”
“Maybe we should cook something from there next time?”
I stare at her earnest expression, so unbelievably touched that she’d think of something like that. Mom’s lasagna was my favorite, and I’ve never had one as good since she passed away. If Gabriella could recreate that masterpiece, I know I’ll never be able to let her go.
“Okay. That sounds good.”
“We should get this into the dish you brought with you so I can tackle the washing up.”
“No way. That’s my job. You’ve done more than enough.”
Gab beams at me, something as simple as an offer to share the burden of a task lighting her up. In the end, I wash, and she dries, and after, I carry the dinner she helped me make to the front door.
“This was nice,” she says softly.
“You’re amazing,” I say, and she beams again.
“I hope the rest of the Nowaks enjoy their dinner.” She leans against the wall, watching as I fasten my sneakers, long legs gleaming, tempting me to throw her over my shoulder and take her back upstairs. But her mom will be home soon.
“They will. I know they will. And I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“You will,” she nods.
I want to kiss her goodbye, but the dish is in the way. It doesn’t matter though because I know this isn’t the last time we’re going to spend time alone together. There will be more.
As I stroll toward my house, the urge to whistle with happiness is overwhelming.