10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Ace
“We’re out.” I look over at Jake where he sits at the breakfast island, my hand still on the handle of the freezer. He arches a brow. “Were you looking for a frozen meal to pop in?”
“Yeah. I saw Nolan on the cameras. Didn’t look like he’d be up for cooking.
Not that it’s his job to cook for us. But he’s been cooking.
Because he likes it. But he’s obviously not going to tonight.
I don’t think. Well, maybe I shouldn’t assume that.
I’m not going to ask, though, and it’s past the time we usually eat, so.
Yeah. Frozen meals.” I look back at the freezer that’s still open. “Which you’re right about. We’re out.”
“There aren’t that many of us here. We’ll make do for the night. Restock comes tomorrow. Might as well clean out the rest of the fridge. Sandwiches and whatnot.”
“I can cook.”
His silence has me turning away from the freezer to look at him. His expression screams skepticism. “Can you, though?”
“Yeah. Sure. Why not?”
“I mean…” he shrugs half-heartedly before waving a hand. “Have at it. That’d be great.”
“Cool.”
“Cool,” he echoes, now looking amused. He nods his head toward me, eyes darting over my shoulder. “Close the damn freezer door. You’re letting out the cold.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, daddy.”
“You got an old man that was always bitching about that stuff?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Yeah,” I lie easily. As easily as I just called him daddy, somehow managing to always playfully make fun of his kink instead of remembering all the fucked up monsters who wanted me to use that word for them.
“My dad always bitched about the air getting out. And the heat. Always letting the heat out.”
“Mine too. But I’m the fun kind of daddy, not the grumpy kind that always bitches.”
“Mmm.” I pointedly close the freezer door and give him a look. “Maybe we’ll agree to disagree.”
He lifts his drink to me in a sort of salute and heads out, probably to go find the boy he so desperately wants to be the daddy of. If the way Casey looks at him is any indication, I think it’s safe to say that’s inevitable.
I open the fridge next, staring at the contents.
I sort of… forgot that I can’t cook.
Like at all.
Shit.
I try my best to remember any of Kellan’s many recipes. He used to let me sit in the kitchen while he cooked as long as I followed his three rules. No helping, no whining, and absolutely no choice over the music he played.
We had some of our best conversations in that kitchen.
He may not have wanted me touching the music, but he didn’t mind us talking over it.
He’d let me tell him about the treehouse Keaton was going to build me next time he was home and the experiment I was running on which seeds the birds in the backyard liked best. He’d tell me stories of him and Keaton growing up, always painting Keaton as either the hero or the goofball, never failing to fuel my adoration of the man who saved me.
I learned a lot about the two of them during those conversations. I learned a lot about myself, even. Kellan definitely managed to learn a lot about me.
One thing I didn’t learn in Kellan’s kitchen though? How to fucking cook.
The fridge beeps at me, warning that I’ve had the door open too long. I close it. If Jake were here, I’d make a joke about the fridge being a daddy too.
He was right, though. Not about the door - or, well, yes about the door too I guess - but about everyone still being okay without a proper meal cooked for them. They’ve had worse. Hell, they’ve gone plenty of nights without anything at all, I’m sure. They won’t mind having to fend for themselves.
Except, they’ve had to spend so many years doing that already. So many years of sucking it up and taking what they can get.
I can cook for them. It’s the least I can do.
Besides, how hard can it fucking be, right?
So, cooking is hard.
I try my best. I do. It’s just that - well, the chicken, like, burns? After only, like… fifteen minutes?
And it’s downhill from there, really.
I manage to avoid the smoke alarms going off, catching the scent of it but when I took the pan out the skin was charred black. I try to scrape some of the char off - which reveals pink meat that I’m pretty sure isn’t safe to be pink.
I toss it in the microwave instead.
That ends with a lot of weird sizzling and popping noises, and a chicken that’s still charred and pink the second I cut deeper than the tip of the knife.
I decide to cut it up and try again, since smaller things cook faster. I didn’t realize that raw chicken was so hard to cut with a steak knife, the grooves scraping the meat all jagged and weird. I spread the pieces out on a plate and toss them into the microwave.
There are less angry sounds.
Then I realize that a single chicken breast isn’t going to be enough for everyone.
I cut up more, wincing again at the knifework.
What knife are you supposed to use? Not the big fat ones - those are for, like, onions and stuff.
The super small one is definitely for cheese.
And the long serrated one is for bread. Which means the steak knife must also be for chicken.
I’m probably just using it wrong, which I can’t fix.
I get some more chicken ready for the microwave and start on making mashed potatoes.
That doesn’t go well either.
There’s bread and butter, though - which is a good start for a side dish, right?
Right.
And pickles. I pour a jar of pickles into a big bowl.
Ta-da.
Maison looks a little nervous as I serve it all up. Nolan and Matt are missing, so Jake, Casey, Carter, and Bryce are the only other critics left.
“You didn’t make this, did you?” Maison asks, probably remembering the time I tried to cook for us when we first moved in here.
“I thought I’d try, yeah…” I wince. Maybe I should have tried giving them the mashed potatoes? I could go back and grab them. They can probably eat around the brown bits. If they don’t mind the stubborn chunks of potato and the sticky feel of the successfully mashed ones.
I look at Bryce, who is poking carefully at one of the slices of chicken with his fork, and suddenly realize the situation I’ve put him, Casey, and maybe even Carter in.
The first two have definitely been starved before.
Even when they weren’t being starved at the time, if they chose not to eat something or to complain about their food, they were definitely starved after.
Probably with an additional painful punishment, just to make things worse.
I’m sure Carter didn’t have the best experiences either, even if Travis was trying his best to protect him.
I don’t want them to be afraid to not eat my food.
I don’t want them to be afraid here - ever.
“No pressure to eat. Seriously. I’m… not a great cook.
My feelings won’t be hurt. Like at all. I’m not entirely confident I did any of it right.
There are so many knives in the block, too.
Have you guys noticed that? Like - why so many knives?
I might have used the wrong one? Maybe? That’s why the chicken looks… ”
“Like it has fur?” Jake helpfully supplies.
I glance at the chicken, realizing that’s actually a pretty good description. The texture created by the knife really does make the meat look… furry.
Blackened furry chicken… yum.
“Okay, yeah, probably don’t eat it.”
Bryce glances at me, his face softening in a way it usually does for the other survivors. It makes something inside of me twist and pull. I have to look away as he says, “It might still taste good.”
“Will it?” Carter mutters under his breath.
Bryce is the brave one to take the first bite.
He at least doesn’t spit it out.
He does, however, put his fork down and declare, “Scavenging for dinner. Let’s go.”
It might include mixed fruit, raw veggies, saltine crackers, sandwich fixings, leftover spaghetti, plain white rice, and the original bowl of pickles, but the dinner still turns out to be alright.