Chapter 18
Eighteen
“What’s this impulse?” Ryder asks, following me into the kitchen after we both changed our sweaters.
I don’t answer right away. The hysteria from throwing food at him has faded, but something better remains. A looseness in my chest I haven’t felt in weeks.
I cross to the refrigerator and pull it open. Cool air washes over my face, and I’m struck by what’s inside. Everything is arranged like a display at a gourmet market. Cherry tomatoes sit in perfect rows. Herbs are bundled with twine. The vegetables look so fresh and pristine they could be fake.
“Has Miranda ever actually cooked anything?” I ask, reaching for a bundle of basil.
“Not that I’ve seen.” Ryder hops onto the counter, settling in to watch. “Mrs. Gallagher does dinner and during the day, I’ve just seen Miranda with protein shakes.”
I bring the basil to my nose. The scent brings a flash of memories with it. Mom’s hands tearing leaves over pasta. Dad taste-testing sauce with a wooden spoon.
My hands start moving before my brain catches up. I pull out a punnet of cherry tomatoes, a tub of marinated feta, and a handful of baby spinach leaves.
“What are you making?” Ryder asks.
After I set the ingredients on the counter beside him, I go back into the fridge and retrieve the carton of eggs.
“Omelet,” I announce. “Are you still hungry?”
Ryder grins. “Are you really going to cook?”
I find a cutting board and a sharp knife. I catch my reflection in the blade, distorted and wavering.
“You okay?” Ryder’s voice is gentle.
“Yeah.” I set the board and knife on the counter and move toward the pantry. “Just getting my bearings.”
I find a whole garlic nestled in a small bowl, and a bottle of olive oil standing on another shelf.
I take them back over to the counter and set a garlic clove on the cutting board.
I press the flat of the knife against the clove, and the papery skin splits easily.
I peel the garlic, my fingers remembering the motion.
Then it’s a rough chop, not too fine. Dad always said garlic shouldn’t be paste unless you’re making a marinade.
I find a pan in the cupboard below the countertop and move it over to the stovetop. When it’s heated up enough, I add olive oil to the pan and then the garlic. I grin at the satisfying sizzle.
The sound transports me back into my ten-year-old body.
I’m standing on a stepping stool, next to Mom as she teaches me the basics.
I can’t quite make out what she’s saying to me.
I wish I’d paid more attention. What if I start forgetting the things she told me at sixteen? What if I forget her completely?
“Alice?”
Ryder’s voice pulls me back. I realize I’ve been standing frozen, watching the garlic turn golden.
“Sorry.” I grab a wooden spoon and stir quickly before it burns.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sure.”
I clear my throat and quickly cut the cherry tomatoes in half. When I add them to the pan, I’m quick to turn down the heat and ask Ryder, “Can you find me a whisk and a bowl?”
Ryder leaps off the counter and starts checking cupboards and drawers.
I scold myself. “I should have whisked the eggs before turning on the pan. You’re supposed to be prepared when cooking.”
“Give yourself a break, Ally,” Ryder says, retrieving a whisk from a drawer. “It’s your first time back in the kitchen. I’d say you’re killing it.”
He plonks the whisk into a bowl near the carton of eggs. “Do you want me to whisk the eggs?” he asks, flipping the carton open. “I can be your sous chef.”
I grin at the fact he knows the term and then move over to the counter. “Actually, can you keep an eye on the pan and make sure it doesn’t burn? I really want to crack some eggs.”
Ryder gives me a knowing smile and then moves over to the stovetop. Did he visualize Miranda’s head as quickly as I did?
I crack four eggs and begin to whisk. I look over to the fridge, wondering if there was any cream inside, and then dismiss the thought.
I roughly chop the baby spinach with the basil leaves.
I move back to the pan and slip my hand in front of Ryder to reach the dial.
Ryder takes a step back, watching as I give the ingredients a quick stir, just enough to wilt the spinach leaves.
“It’s looking good,” Ryder comments as I retrieve the whisked eggs from the counter.
I pour in the eggs and am quick to follow it with the feta. The pan is filled with color, and on instinct, we both take a big whiff.
Ryder smiles and gives me a gentle nudge. “Smells good, too.”
I can’t help smiling back at him, finally feeling my parents’ presence and not shutting it out.
It smells like home.
My vision blurs.
“Alice,” Ryder’s voice is soft. “You’re crying.”
I sniff and wipe under my eyes. “I know,” I murmur. “But it’s good.”
His strong hand rubs a circle on back. “They’d be proud of you.”
I find a spatula and dig it around the sides of the hefty omelet. “I hope so. All I’ve been doing is shutting them out.”
Ryder leans against the counter, folding his arms. “I don’t know how you’re making it through. I don’t know how I’d survive losing my parents.”
I swallow hard and look up to meet his mournful eyes. “I don’t know if this is the right thing to say, but I’m glad you feel that way. I’m glad you’re so close with your parents.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me or were jealous of me for it.”
I shake my head, dissecting the omelet in halves and then flipping it out onto two plates. “It wouldn’t bring my parents back.” I hand him a plate. “Here.”
“Thanks.” He takes it and moves over to a stool at the island bench.
I move over and take the seat next to him. “You were a good sous chef.”
He laughs. “I’m good at watching food being made, that’s about it.” He takes a bite. “Mmm. Alice, this beats those breakfast sandwiches hands down.”
I take a bite too and really taste the freshness of the food.
It doesn’t make me want to hurl.
I relax into the seat and smile at him. “I actually taste it.”
“And it’s okay?”
I nod and stab at another cherry tomato. “Mm-hmm. It’s good.”
We eat in silence, although I feel Ryder’s eyes on me. I bet he’s skeptical about me continuing to eat. To be honest, I feel the same way about myself. Like, any second now, my body’s gonna freak out and I’ll toss the freshly prepared omelet across the room.
Thankfully, my composure wins, and I almost finish the entire plate.
Ryder taps the side of the plate. “Maybe you should cook your own meals now. You did better than any of Mrs. Gallagher’s meals.”
“It’s one meal. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” Ryder shifts on his stool. “It’s just good to see you eating something besides junk.”
I purse my lips as something sour leaps onto my tongue. I press my hand against my sloshing stomach and hold my breath tight.
Ryder flinches. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I close my eyes, swallow hard, and my back goes rigid. Inside me, my brain, heart, and stomach are at war.
“Alice?”
I groan and suck in a much-needed breath. I slip off the stool and stomp along the side of the island. “Can you stop?”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “What did I do?”
“Just stop.” My hands cover my puffy eyes and exhaustion curves my back. “Don’t commentate on me. Don’t tell me I’m doing good.”
“I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong.”
I lower my hands. “Why would you? That’s my point. Stop acting like you know me.”
Ryder’s expression stiffens, and his frame looms taller and broader.
“Is it really like that? You want to push me away? If so, fine. I’ll be so far away from you, you may as well be on Antarctica.
But…” He pauses, taking a measured breath.
“But since yesterday, I didn’t think we were hating each other. ”
I sniff back my tears and hug my middle. My chin wobbles as I manage a quiet, “I don’t hate you.”
He steps off the stool but doesn’t step toward me. “And can you acknowledge we’re still getting to know each other?”
“Ryder.” It wavers out of me, and I stare at the floor tiles, scared of the words about to come out of my mouth. “Ryder, this is hard. I’m scared. I’m alone. And you weren’t nice to me when I arrived here.”
“I know.” He takes a step closer. “I’d grown so fed up with the rich kids at school, I couldn’t stand the thought of one living under the same roof.”
The sentence is so surprising, it jolts me out of my sadness. “Wh-what was that?”
He shakes his head, turning his body away. “I said I wasn’t going to get involved in this, but you know Miranda told me about your family before you got here.”
My head pulses with confusion. “And she told you I was rich? Ashworth Academy-level rich?”
“Well, the hefty loan kinda sold it.”
“Loan? What loan?”
Ryder sighs, turning back to meet my eyes with defeat. “That’s what the fight was about. Money.”
I rub my temples, questions popping up in every corner of my mind. “My mom loaned Miranda money?”
Ryder shrugs. “That’s what she said.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t know that. But then again, Mom refused to talk about her sister.”
Ryder takes another step forward, pleading in his eyes. “I really don’t want to get in the middle of this. Miranda is my manager, and I don’t want to tick her off. She just told me, maybe you’d have an entitled attitude because your parents spoiled you.”
My jaw almost hits the floor. “Spoiled me? The woman doesn’t know what love is. Probably the fact my parents gave me hugs is spoiling me in that evil woman’s eyes!”
Ryder’s in front of me, grasping my arms. “I don’t think you’re spoiled. I don’t think you’re entitled. But I was mad at you before I met you.”
“Mad at me?” I force myself out of his grip. “You heard about me because I lost my parents!”
“You’ve met Miranda. That’s not exactly the headline she used.”
Tears pool in my eyes. “She was never going to love me.”