Chapter Five - 5. The Confession #2
“Mum,” I groaned. I was extra glad Taylor wasn’t here to hear this.
Mum’s comments made me sound useless, which…
to be fair, I was. When I lived at home, all I had to do was put my laundry in the hamper and keep my room clean and take the bins out once a week.
I never cooked, whereas Taylor clearly had.
Taylor probably knew how to do all the household things. Maybe his parents just expected it of him. I wasn’t sure, though. I’d never met them.
“What are you cooking?” Mum asked.
“Pasta,” I said, angling the camera to show her all the ingredients I’d bought. “I’m cooking for my dumbass roommate, so it has to taste okay.”
“Now, why’s your roommate a dumbass?” Mum asked in her primary school teacher voice. She’d been teaching grades 3 and 4 for as long as I could remember.
“Didn’t I mention?” I said, then realised, no, I hadn’t. “It’s Taylor King.”
Mum blinked. “Taylor King from high school?”
“Yes.”
“Taylor King, valedictorian?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Taylor King, the soccer captain?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Taylor King, the president of the student council —”
“Yes Mum!” I said loudly, then quickly lowered my voice. “Yes, him.”
She was quiet for a moment. “You’re cooking dinner for him.”
“Well he cooked for me first,” I mumbled.
“It seems you’re getting along.”
“He’s still a di—” I cut myself off. “An ass— an annoying person,” I finished. “But I’m stuck with him the rest of the year. They won’t let us change. He tried.”
“Maybe it’s not so bad. You have a lot in common.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“It’s true!” Mum suddenly smiled. “I know you didn’t get along well, but he’s a sweet boy.”
“How many times do I have to tell you,” I said, feeling like a kid again, “he’s only nice to grown-ups, and it’s all fake anyway.”
“Yes, yes, I know, he’s secretly the devil incarnate,” Mum said dismissively, which got on my nerves because as my mother, she was supposed to sympathise with me. “It doesn’t change that he’s very polite. Handsome too.”
I flushed. “Ew, Mum. That’s so gross. You know he’s my age?”
“I’m stating a fact,” Mum said. “He’s handsome, but not as handsome as my son.”
“Anyway,” I said loudly, “I’m calling because I need to make pasta that’s actually yummy, otherwise it’ll give him another reason to make fun of me.”
Thankfully, Mum dismissed the whole Taylor-is-handsome topic and went into serious mode, getting me to show her the ingredients I had again.
I stayed on the video call with her as I browned the mince and onions and chopped the vegetables.
Technically, I could’ve just watched a YouTube tutorial, but it was better being able to ask my mum questions, and if I was honest with myself, I felt guilty about not calling my parents as much as I should’ve.
Besides, I knew it would make my mum happy.
People liked to help out. Especially those they love.
Back in high school, during my more moody years, I’d tell my parents that they didn’t need to watch every soccer game, that Mum didn’t need to fold my laundry and that Dad didn’t need to drive me to school because I could walk there myself.
I guess I didn’t want to inconvenience them.
But sometimes the nicest thing you can do is let people do nice things for you.
“It’s basically done,” I said, flipping the phone camera to show Mum the pasta I was stirring in with the sauce.
“Take a photo when you serve it, and send it to me so I can show your dad.”
After ending the video call, I made up two bowls and sprinkled on cheese, briefly wishing I’d bought parsley or basil to put on top, then thankful I hadn’t, because that would make it look like I was trying too hard. I sent a photo to Mum, which she reacted to with ten heart-eyes emojis.
Outside, the sun was still high in the sky. It wasn’t even six o’clock yet. Cooking had taken a while, but not as long as I expected.
I leaned against the kitchen counter and waited.
Eighteen seconds later, I took out my phone.
Where are u, I texted Taylor.
His response came less than a minute later. Library.
My phone buzzed a second time. Why.
No reason, I replied.
What are you doing? he texted.
Nothing.
I’m heading back now.
Ok. Cool.
I put my phone down and set up the coffee table, then placed down bowls of pasta.
I sat on the couch, then quickly stood up, because it felt too much like I was a 1950s housewife waiting for my husband to get back from work.
I killed time cleaning the kitchenette, even though I’d already cleaned everything.
Oh well. There was nothing to lose from wiping the kitchen counter down another time.
Taylor walked in, his backpack hanging from one shoulder. He looked at me, then at the coffee table.
“Made you dinner,” I said.
“Did you poison it?” But there was the tiniest lift to the corner of his lips.
“Listen,” I said, when we had both sat down and started eating, and neither of us had thrown up or gagged. “I’m only doing this because you cooked me breakfast the other day. I don’t want to be in your debt.”
“What if I want that?”
“Huh?”
“What if I want you in my debt?”
“You’re the type of person who wants everyone in their debt,” I pointed out.
He shrugged, chewing. “It tastes good.”
“Thanks.” It actually did taste nice. I hadn’t burned anything. “I asked my mum to help me.”
“How is she?”
I shot him a suspicious look. “Why do you want to know?” I asked.
“It’s the polite thing to ask?” he said. “Your mum seems nice.”
“She is.” There wasn’t much else to say. My parents were as perfect as parents could be. My mum did way too much for me, and my dad was endlessly chill. The only time I could remember him raising his voice at me was when I was eight and had been about to run onto the road to chase a soccer ball.
“How are your parents?” I asked, because Taylor was right. It was the polite thing to ask.
“Fine.” His tone was flat.
Alright then. I shovelled more pasta into my mouth.
“Your mum’s so nice, it’s weird that you’re related to her,” Taylor said suddenly.
“Piss off. I can be nice.”
He raised his brows.
“Just not to you.”
“Hm.” His eyes seemed to go blurry, like he was reminiscing. “It’s strange, how you weren’t nice, even when we…”
I knew what he was thinking of. How had I spoken to him that night? Just hurry up and fuck me.
I shoved a forkful of pasta into my mouth, felt my throat spasm in protest, and hurriedly chugged down a glass of water so I didn’t choke in front of Taylor like a moron. My eyes were watering. I blinked the tears away.
“How’s your bedroom?” I asked. It was the first thing I could think of.
“The jail cell is still a jail cell, thanks for asking.”
I clicked my tongue. “You know what they say, the early bird gets the worm.”
Taylor finished his meal, and placed the utensils neatly in the middle of the bowl. He gazed at me, blinking slowly like a reptile. “I won’t sleep in that room forever.”
“If you’re asking me to swap again, the answer’s no, so don’t even bother.”
“We could share.”
This time, I was thankful I wasn’t chewing, because I definitely would’ve choked. Heat flashed through me. “W-what?”
“We’d fit.” Another slow blink.
“I — we — w-what are you t-tryna —”
He laughed. “I’m kidding. Jeez. Don’t look so horrified. Are you finished?” He stood up, clearing the table. “I’ll wash up.”