Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Matteo
Saturday morning, I wake up, thankfully, not to a smack on the forehead, but to a knock on my door.
Friday nights are late at the restaurant, and I prefer slow Saturday mornings. It’s hard to jump out of bed on the weekend when I know I have to go in and do it all again.
Which is why I’m not quick to answer the incessant knocking.
In the three years I’ve lived in this building, nobody has ever knocked on my door, unless they’re delivery people or maintenance people.
Which is how I know, even before I look, that it’s Iris.
I haven’t seen her since Tuesday, but I had a feeling that even my little “we’re not friends” speech wouldn’t really deter her. Something tells me that if Iris decides to make you her friend, there’s really no escaping it, even if you’re a big, fat jerk to her.
And I was.
I knew it as the words were coming out of my mouth, but it was confirmed when I walked back into the private room at the restaurant and she was gone .
Nicola let me have it. And rightfully so.
I drag myself out of bed, pull on a pair of sweatpants, grab a T-shirt from my dresser, and plod through my apartment to the door. The knocking never stops the entire time.
A part of me is relieved she didn’t write me off. I think I’ve got the kind of personality that needs a second chance. Oddly, I want one with her.
What am I supposed to do with an intrusive thought like that?
“I’m coming,” I say as I pull the door open, half-dressed and a little frustrated to be up this early on a Saturday. “What?”
Iris lets out a slight gasp and takes a step back, eyes dropping to my bare chest, before quickly looking away. “Were you asleep?”
“Yes.” I pull on my T-shirt. “It’s not even eight.”
Finally, she looks at me. “Oh. Shoot. I’ve been up for two hours.”
I can’t even think about cracking 8 a.m. after Friday night service.
“Sorry,” she apologizes. “I wasn’t thinking.”
I stare back, waiting for her to tell me what she wants. When she doesn’t, I turn and walk away, leaving the door open as an invitation for her to come in.
She just stands there.
“I’m getting coffee,” I call toward the hallway. “You can come inside.”
Eventually, I hear the door close, then see Iris walking cautiously into the kitchen. She looks around the apartment, which I mostly left the way it was when I moved in. I got rid of the clutter, and my grandpa cleared out all his personal items, but this place felt pretty familiar already, so I left it alone .
It’s unnerving, not knowing what she’s thinking as she studies my space.
While I grind coffee beans, Iris walks into the living room, taking in the open floor plan and the large windows that flood the space with natural light. “Is this the apartment they use when new people need a tour?”
I pour boiling water over the ground coffee in the French press, pausing for a second to frown at her.
“No photos. No personal items. No clutter,” she explains. “It’s like the model they show to people who are thinking about moving in.”
“I get it.” I do a slow nod. “You’re mocking me.”
She walks over to the kitchen island, smirking. “Oh, no. I would never . I only tease my friends .” She hangs an oversized bag on the back of the tall stool and sits.
I wince at the memory of my coldness. “About that?—”
She holds up a hand. “I accept your apology.”
I frown.
“You let the spaghetti and meatballs say you’re sorry. I get it,” she says. “Did Val make you do that?”
“No, I actually felt bad.”
“Well, you should’ve felt bad,” she says, matter-of-factly. “What you said stunk and made me feel like a loser.”
I wince again. “You’re right. It was uncalled for.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re lucky I don’t dwell.”
“Yes,” I say, “I am.”
“We don’t have to, like, have sleepovers and braid each other’s hair or whatever, but I meant it when I said I don’t have many friends here. I thought since we, you know, have something in common . . .” A shrug.
The admission surprises me. Shames me. But if she’s looking for friends, she’s in the wrong place. I’m just not in the business of letting new people into my life. “Sorry, it’s just?— ”
“You don’t like people, I know.” Her eyes drift over to the refrigerator. “Are those your grandparents?”
I follow her gaze to the photos stuck to the front of the fridge. “Yeah, and then that’s my grandpa in Italy. His new wife, Elena, took that photo.”
I open the refrigerator and pull out a carton of eggs.
“That must’ve been hard for you,” she says, but she doesn’t press the point.
Instead, she lets me sit with her observation, and I realize that yes, it was hard. Partly because it felt like he was betraying my grandma by moving on.
Or maybe because he figured out a way to move on—when I can’t.
Or won’t.
I take two mugs out of the cupboard and pour us each a cup of coffee, then set cream and sugar out on the counter so she can make hers however she wants.
“Thank you,” she says. “You’re actually a really good host.” A pause. “When your attitude doesn’t screw it up.”
I shoot her a look and start assembling ingredients—vanilla, nutmeg, heavy cream. “I’m guessing you haven’t eaten.”
“It’s not even eight,” she says. “Of course I haven’t.”
“I’m starting to think you keep showing up for the free food.” I take a glass mixing bowl from one of the drawers.
“Well, shoot, I was hoping you wouldn’t figure that out until next month,” she says.
I chuckle at that, despite myself. I can’t help it. Iris surprises me. Most people are so put off by me that they keep their distance. Iris was obviously hurt when she left the restaurant the other night, but she’s clearly decided not to hold a grudge. There’s something refreshing about that.
“But it’s not just the insane food.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a rolled-up newspaper, setting it with reverence between the two of us. “It’s also this. And before you ask, yes, it’s addressed to you, so you’re not off the hook yet.”
Somehow, I’m not as disappointed by that as I thought I’d be.
She glances at the ingredients I’ve pulled out onto the counter. “Are you planning to feed the entire building?”
“Planning to make the best French toast in the city.”
Her eyes brighten. “You’re making me French toast?”
I feel the corner of my mouth tug at her excitement, and I do a bad job of hiding the smile. “I’m making me French toast.”
She smiles back. “Can I have yours, then?”
I chuckle again, shaking my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see she looks pleased with herself.
“Did you make the bread?” she asks.
“Nicola made this. I bring a loaf home every week.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “Can I smell it?”
“How in the world have you been surviving all these years?” I ask, handing over the bread.
“You’d be surprised how long you can exist on straight sugar,” she says, inhaling the fresh bread. “This smells insane. It should be illegal.” She breathes it in again.
I remove my bread knife from the magnet strip on the wall above the counter.
“Okay, before we open this, I want you to know that what you said to me? At the restaurant? I heard you.” Iris pushes the bread back toward me and folds her hands on the counter. “I won’t ask anyone anything personal about you, and I will stay out of your space.”
I look around my kitchen, and she gets my meaning.
“Your work space. Plus you invited me to come in, so . . .”
“You wouldn’t stop knocking,” I counter.
“Pssh. I never let facts get in the way of my point.”
I smile again. Under different circumstances, at a different time in my life, I could see us being friends. And in another lifetime, maybe even more .
“Ah.”
“From now on, we will keep things all about the magic,” she says. “Aaand the food. Can we keep the food in there? Because I can’t be expected to turn that down.” She nods toward the counter.
“You do have a knack for showing up at mealtimes,” I say.
Her face goes sheepish for a second, then turns serious. “Honestly. I’m sorry if I overstepped.” Her gaze falls. “I can be . . . a lot.” A pause. “Too much, really.” And then, under her breath, she adds, “Or so people have said.”
“You aren’t, and no apology necessary. You didn’t overstep.” I want to take back everything I said the other night. Her presence in my kitchen was distracting, and it was an unfamiliar feeling for me.
I liked it so much that I didn’t like it.
That’s why I acted the way I did, which wasn’t fair because it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. Not that I can tell her that.
“I did,” she says. “You told me you didn’t want me asking questions, and I asked questions.” She squints at me. “You’re just so mysterious .”
I turn away to grab the vanilla and cinnamon from the cupboard, mostly because she’s still studying me and I know she’s going to find a way to slide the pieces in place if she keeps it up.
I turn back to find her still watching me. “But if you ever do want to tell me all your deep, dark secrets, I’m a really good listener.”
I make a face. “Don’t hold your breath.”
She shakes her head but looks amused. “See? So mysterious. ”
I glance down and indicate the newspaper, anxious for a change of topic. “Should we open it?”
Iris tears off the plastic sleeve. “I thought you’d never ask.”
I watch her, marveling at how excited she is to unroll that newspaper. It’s always been such an inconvenience to me, but Iris is treating it like a gift. It’s like she’s a kid and this is exactly what she wanted for her birthday.
“Let’s see whose life we’re going to change!” Her tone reminds me of a game show announcer. She opens the newspaper and lays it out on the counter. Her eyes flick to mine, and I busy myself by pulling the griddle from the cupboard.
“I’ve never made French toast,” she says. “Is it hard?”
“Eh, I think it’s hard to get right,” I say, considering. “Most people use white bread from the store. The trick is to use a thick slice that will absorb the maximum amount of liquid. And to treat that liquid like a custard.”
She gapes. “A . . . custard ?”
It’s been so long since anyone’s made me feel like what I do is special. It’s just food. Big deal. But not to Iris.
It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen someone react to my cooking like this.
“You have no idea what you’re in for,” I say, gaining confidence that this will be the single best breakfast she’s ever had.
I also find myself wanting to cook for her. Wanting to see her response.
“You like things neat, right?” The question catches me off-guard. “Have you always been this way?”
I almost knee-jerk a “No,” but manage to hold it in. My tendencies toward order and control intensified after I lost Aria.
I know Iris is one or two questions away from uncovering the truth, but I don’t talk about what happened with anyone. Not even Val and Nic—and they knew Aria. Sure, her name comes up sometimes, but I don’t have to tell the story. It would be exhausting—emotional—to explain it all.
“I like an efficient workspace,” I finally say. “It’s difficult to cook things, especially things that sometimes have to be timed down to the second, if you’re constantly working around mess or trying to remember where your knife is.”
She nods, considering. “You’d hate my place, then.”
My eyes dart to hers, then back to the loaf on the counter.
“My place looks lived in.” She looks around. “It’s not like a dorm room. In here, you’re definitely leaning in to a minimalist vibe.”
I can feel her searching for common ground. A certain kind of person would take the hint, offer up something—anything—as a point of connection.
A kind of person who’s not like me.
I cut the bread in thick slices and lay them out on a cookie sheet, then stick them in the oven. I glance at her, find her watching. Observing. “You want to know?—”
“Why you put it in the oven, yes.”
“Have you ever cooked anything?”
She shrugs. “Pasta. Scrambled eggs. Toast.”
“Making toast is not cooking,” I say, dryly.
“Tell that to the toast,” she quips. “Sometimes I even burn it.”
I let out a small laugh. I can feel myself relaxing—but part of me has been so closed off for so long, the relaxation borders on uncomfortable.
“So, tell me what you’re doing,” she says.
“Aren’t you here about that?” I nod at the newspaper, and she quickly folds it and tucks it away.
“We’ll do that after you give me a cooking lesson,” she says.
I squint at her. “You’re kind of bossy. ”
She shrugs, as if to say “Your point?” and then a smile spreads across her face.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “I was so rude to you the other day.”
“You’ve been rude to me every time we’ve met,” she says.
“And yet, here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“Right. Why?”
She steels her jaw, but the question seems to stump her.
And I realize in her silence that I don’t know if I want to know the answer. I don’t want to be the subject of her interest. If she’s trying to figure me out or get my whole life’s story, we’re going to have a problem.
I’ll teach her about the magic—but that’s it.
We need to stay focused.
Which makes me wonder why I don’t say so. Why instead I say, “If you want to make great French toast, the key is thick bread that’s a little dried out. And lots of flavor in the liquid.”
I add the heavy cream, vanilla, nutmeg, cinnamon, and orange zest into the bowl, then push it toward her. “Crack four eggs in there.”
Her eyes go wide.
“You can’t screw it up. Just keep the shells out.”
She grimaces. “So, do you remember when I said I’ve made scrambled eggs?”
“When, three minutes ago? I was here for that, yeah.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smirk on her face remains. “I sometimes get shells in there. And then I just cook them with the shells and pick them out later.”
I stare blankly.
“It’s why I mostly eat things that, you know, come in a package.”
“We’re fixing that. Right now. ”
I take out an egg on the counter, crack it with one hand, then toss the shell into the garbage.
“Show-off.” She smirks as she picks up an egg and goes to tap it on the side of the bowl.
Instinctively, I reach out and cover her hand with mine. “Not on the bowl.”
She freezes, and I pull my hand away.
I inch back and cross my arms. “Do it on the counter and the shells won’t get in the bowl.”
“Oh!” She glances at me, but I don’t meet her eyes. “That’s genius.” She taps it gently on the counter.
“Don’t be precious with it,” I say. “Crack it.”
“Now who’s bossy?” She widens her eyes at me then hits the egg against the edge of the counter, and it explodes in her hand. She bursts into laughter, and I can’t help but join.
The liquid spills out onto the counter, but there’s a good amount on the floor too. I quickly swipe the mess away and toss her the towel.
She flicks the shell off her hand, wipes the egg away, and picks up another one, a determined expression on her face. She cracks it, this time, with more success than the first.
“So, I’m basically a chef,” she preens. “You should plan on coming to my new restaurant where we serve only raw eggs.”
I notice that I’m not tense. I’m not squinting. I’m not hunched over, looking for detail.
I’m . . . enjoying myself.
Once she’s finished with the eggs, I pull out the immersion blender and plug it in.
“Whoa. Is that really necessary?” She gives me a look. “I feel like we could stir it with a fork.”
“We could,” I say. “But with dry spices like nutmeg in there, they’re not going to distribute evenly.” I shoot her a look. “Is the Pop-Tart Princess really questioning my methods here? ”
She laughs and holds her hands up in surrender. “That’s fair. Although Pop-Tart Princess isn’t a bad nickname.”
I hand her the blender and show her how to turn it on.
“Just, stick it in there? Mix it?” she asks.
“Yep.”
She turns it on and sticks it in the bowl while I pull the bread from the oven.
Once everything is blended, I hand over a pair of tongs. “Time to soak it. Just take a few slices of the bread and dunk it, but make sure to coat it really well.”
She does this, gingerly, like she’s afraid she’ll mess something up. She really is clueless in the kitchen.
It’s kind of adorable.
She looks up, hands limp and dripping. “Now what?”
I pull out a timer and set it for twenty minutes. “Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“For all the liquid to soak into the bread.”
She frowns. “Oh, so this is, like, a process.”
I laugh. “Good food takes time.”
She sighs. “It better be worth it.”
I pick up my coffee and catch her eyes over the edge of the mug. She’s smiling. Teasing. Looking at me like she doesn’t mind being here. Like maybe she even likes it.
And it hits me then that maybe I like it too.
Crap .