Chapter 18 The Picture
The Picture
Laim
The bus ride from the airport back to the Blades' arena always seemed to be the longest part of the trip.
I shifted in my seat, elbow against the window, and let my gaze fall to my phone. The home screen lit up. There it was, top right corner of the carousel. The photo Claire had sent from their kitchen chaos.
Her arm barely in the frame. Sophie mid–jazz hands. Emma smirking. Claire grinning like she'd already surrendered to the mess.
I tapped the screen once. Just to make the photo bigger. My thumb traced the edge of the phone. When the bus finally pulled into the loading zone under the arena, I locked the screen and tucked it into my jacket.
In the elevator, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Not the same reflection I’d seen days ago, when we were leaving, to shop together. This reflection was just me. The doors opened. I unlocked the apartment and stepped in.
Claire. She was mid-step, carrying her mug toward the kitchen. She looked up, surprised.
"Hi," I said and leaned in and kissed her cheek.
What am I doing?
She blinked, eyes wide for a beat.
Sandalwood?
Whatever it was, I loved the way she smelled.
We were standing inches apart.
I should probably drop my hand from her shoulder.
“Congrats on the road trip.”
“Thanks.” My voice came out lower than usual.
I let my hand fall.
She smiled. “It’s good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back.”
And to see you.
I stepped aside to roll my bag in behind me.
I took off my shoes by the bench, hauled my bag to the bedroom, and dumped the laundry straight into the hamper. Hung up my traveling clothes and tugged my hoodie over my head. Then headed for the kitchen.
First stop: the fridge.
Which was nearly empty.
Five days away, and it showed. I scanned the shelves. Some greens hanging on, a few eggs, the remains of a rotisserie chicken I didn’t remember buying.
Time to replenish my culinary arsenal. I grabbed my keys and reusable bags, still half in post-trip mode, and headed out.
After a solid restock run—fridge, pantry, freezer—I came back and unloaded everything onto the counter. I was setting the parsley in a glass of water when I heard Claire coming through the front door open.
She looked like she’d just come from a walk, hair pulled back, cheeks a little pink from the air. She held a familiar white container in one hand.
“I let Brooke have some of the seafood risotto,” she said. “ She says thank you, by the way. And begged me for the recipe.”
I leaned against the counter, drying my hands on a towel. “Yeah, see, that’s the problem. I don’t really have a recipe.”
Claire looked disappointed. “Seriously? She was ready to offer naming rights to her next child in exchange for it.”
I shrugged. “I mean, I have the basics. But I don’t measure. I add things as I go. Taste, adjust. Taste again.”
She sighed, half-smiling. “Brooke’s going to be heartbroken.”
I let that hang for a second. Then nodded toward the kitchen. Then met her eyes.
“What if I show you how to make it?”
“Isn’t that the one you have to stir constantly?”
“You stir gently. With care. Like listening.”
“I don’t listen gently.”
“Then I’ll teach you to chop.”
“Do we have everything we need?”
“Everything. We’re set.”
“Okay. Let me hang my coat up and change. Don’t start without me,” she said over her shoulder as she walked to her room.
Cooking, with Claire.
I took a deep breath and started gathering the ingredients.
She came back into the kitchen and grabbed one of the aprons I had in the drawer. I had to admit it was cute her thinking an apron would make her more suited to cooking.
She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t start yet, did you?”
“No, I wouldn’t dare.” I laughed. “Especially since I’m about to hand you a very sharp knife.”
She looked at me with one eyebrow raised.
“Lesson one is knowing how to chop,” I explained.
She gripped the handle like it might fight back. “If I lose a finger, I’m billing you.”
“Fair.”
I moved behind her, guiding her grip, adjusting the blade. I shouldn’t have been that close. Not with her back warm against my chest and her breath catching just slightly when my hand moved to steady hers.
But I did.
She didn’t move away.
For a second, we were both still.
I looked down, her head just below my chin, her hair tucked behind one ear. She smelled like soap and something woodsy and creamy. I wanted to close my eyes and just breathe for a second.
This would be a perfect time to kiss her.
I froze.
It wasn’t part of the plan. This arrangement was supposed to be temporary. Practical.
But I was still too close, and she hadn’t pulled back, and suddenly the kitchen felt a degree too warm.
She turned her head slightly, like she was going to ask me something, and for one sharp second, I thought she might turn all the way, toward me.
Instead, she cleared her throat. “Is this the part where you lecture me about knife angles?”
I stepped back a beat too fast. Too obvious.
“Right. Yes. Let’s not sever anything on lesson one.”
She didn’t seem to notice the pause. Or maybe she did and chalked it up to something else.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just handed her the cutting board and pointed to the shallots, hoping she wouldn’t hear whatever was happening in my chest.
I dropped the chopped shallots into the pan, listening for the faint sizzle that told me the temperature was right. Claire was standing off to the side now, arms crossed, watching like she wasn’t sure if she was done or still needed instruction.
I stirred, let the rice toast just a moment longer, then added the stock and gave it a swirl.
“Want to taste?” I asked, lifting the wooden spoon toward her.
She hesitated. “Is it safe?”
I laughed. “You’re not allergic to butter, shallots, or garlic, right?”
She leaned forward, lips parting slightly as I offered her a taste. One side of the spoon.
She licked her bottom lip. “It’s good. But… it’s missing something.”
I tasted from the other side of the spoon.
“You’re right,” I said. “It needs a little more brightness.” I reached for the lemon and zested just enough into the pan.
Claire tilted her head. “That’s it. That’s what it needed.”
“Lesson two,” I said. “Always trust your palate.”
Claire set the dining room table. I finished plating the risotto. She arranged the place settings the same way I had before, side by side, not across from each other.
I brought over the bowls, set them down, then lit two candles. She didn’t comment, but I caught the slight tilt of her head as she watched the flame catch.
We sat down, next to each other, to eat.
She smiled and held up her fork. “I will say… it was kind of nice nuking dinner in a judgment-free zone.”
I leaned against the table, pretending to study her expression. Really, I just like looking at her.
She held her fork up to me. “But I did miss this.”
Did she mean more than the food?
I didn’t ask. Just sat and watched her take the first bite. She made that little approving noise that always got me, like good food surprised her every time.
For a while, we just ate. Talked about nothing. I told her about Chappy nearly missing the bus because he’d lost a shoe. She made a face when I told her how much protein powder rookies consume now. It felt… easy. Familiar.
She grew quiet for a moment, eyes drifting toward the bookshelf, but not really seeing it. Her expression softened—somewhere between thoughtful and faraway.
“What?” I asked.
She blinked, like I’d pulled her out of a dream. “Nothing. Just…” She looked back at me, then hesitated. “There’s a photo in your hallway. I noticed it the other day.”
I didn’t move.
“You were in it.” Claire set her fork down. “With a young woman. Who sort of looked like a younger version of me.”
Not this. Please not this.
The room shifted. Just slightly. The candle flickered, or maybe I imagined it.
“That was Nora,” I said.
Just keep it there. Don't say more. Don't say too much.
Claire didn’t reply.
“She was—someone I dated. A while ago.”
I didn’t offer more. I wasn’t lying. But I wasn’t ready to open a door I’d spent years trying to keep shut.
Claire nodded, like she was trying to keep it casual. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just… wondered.”
No, Claire. I did not invite you to tour my apartment that first day, hoping to resurrect my first love.
“She was nothing like you,” I said too quickly. Claire’s brow lifted, just a little. “I mean, you might look a little alike, sure. But you’re completely different.”
I like you for you. All your color coded quirks. Your quick comebacks when I tease you.
She tilted her head.
“She lived on a farm. Grew her own vegetables. Made soup from scratch barefoot in the yard.” I huffed a quiet laugh. “She wore these gauzy shirts that never really fit right. Always had paint or dirt on her.”
Claire didn’t say anything.
“She couldn’t sit still. Took in every stray she ever met, cats, dogs, people. Anyone who wandered too close. She was a lot.”
I sat back, suddenly hyper-aware of how that all might’ve sounded.
How do I explain why she’s still on my wall of fame….