15. Burnt, Dirty Water
Chapter 15
Burnt, Dirty Water
“A nd that’s pretty much it. There’s a pool, a gym, and a courtyard downstairs. Are you satisfied now, Mom?” I joke.
Her lips quirk. “I’m sorry, you’re a twenty-four-year-old male living with another male the same age. I just wanted to ensure you were living in a nice, clean environment, and not a cesspool with pizza boxes and chip bags everywhere.” Mom had a day off of work, so I left the shop early to take her to lunch before bringing her to Sam’s for a tour.
“No, you raised me better than that.” I’ll admit, I tend to overlook dust and dirty underwear on the floor without the threat of flying shoes from Mom if I didn’t pick up after myself.
But since Cori moved in, she has kept the apartment clean from what I suspect is a desire to keep Sam happy. From my own desire to pull my weight around here instead of relying on her to do everything for me, I try to get to chores before she does. And it’s become a game between us. Several times, she’s opened the microwave to clean it or gone to vacuum the carpet, only to find it already completed. As payment, I’ll come home to find my laundry already switched to the dryer or folded. So I’ll retaliate by cleaning the coffee machine or wiping the shelves in the refrigerator.
Instead of being thankful, she reprimands me and views it as a challenge to be faster. Sometimes, I wonder if I truly want to help out around the apartment, or if I simply want to irritate her.
“I know I did. I just wanted to make sure you knew it, too.” She opens the refrigerator. “We should have gone by the store on the way back from lunch. You need groceries.”
“No, we don’t need anything.”
“All you have in here are vegetables. Where’s your cookie dough or cheese or sweet tea?”
I laugh. “Yeah, well, Sam has become a stickler about almost anything with calories. Unless he’s the one eating it. Speaking of, do you want to wait around for him to get home?”
“I’d like that. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen him, does he look any different?”
“No, he just wears suits now.” We walk into the living room and take seats on the couch. “Oh, did you want a drink? Water or coffee? Cori has all kinds of flavors in there. There’s a pecan one that’s pretty good.” I head to the kitchen, but we can still hear each other over the bar counter separating the two rooms.
Mom waves her hand. “Oh, I don’t want to drink her coffee.”
“She won’t mind.” I grab the bag of coffee grounds and start working the machine. When I moved in, it took me forever to learn how to use it. There are knobs and levers and a hundred different spouts for different things, but I finally got the hang of it. Now I try to have it made for Cori every morning when she finally emerges from her bedroom, if only to rub in my ability to wake up on time.
“So it hasn’t been awkward, then? Having her here?” she asks, admiring the knick-knacks and photographs on the shelf by the TV.
“It is a little. I still don’t have her quite figured out. One moment, it’s like pulling teeth trying to get her to have a conversation. The next, it’s like you’re friends after all. Then she gets all awkward again. She doesn’t like help because she doesn’t like owing people. She’s constantly worried about bothering me, to the point where she asks if it’s okay to enter a room I’m already in. And she’s always stiff. But if you ask her why she’s shy, she doesn’t mind getting testy.”
“But you’re being nice to her, right? She sounds a little anxious, maybe insecure,” she asks as if I’m in Kindergarten and Cori is the new kid in school.
“Am I being nice to her?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “I’m only asking because I know what it feels like to be insecure that you act… scared to…”—she moves her hands around, searching for the right words—“bother or burden people.”
Because of my dad. My dad did that to her. “How did you get over it?”
She lifts a shoulder before speaking, her words slow and stiff. “You never really get over something like that. And, you know, everyone feels that way to some degree about something. But some people lie to themselves about it and some are honest. And some take those insecurities out on other people, while others take them out on themselves. I think with time, most of us learn to live with our insecurities, or at least not let them get in our way.”
I think back to my past conversations with Cori. There were times that my words might have come across more gruff or harsher than I intended, but I’m not going to coddle her. She should learn to stand up for herself.
Once the coffee is done, I add cream and bring it to Mom. She studies the mug for a moment before saying, “Classy, Nick.” But her lips tip up in a grin as she takes a sip.
I smile. “It’s Cori’s.” I could have served Mom’s coffee in any one of the mugs in the cabinet, maybe the white one with bluebonnets or the souvenir from The Alamo. Instead, I’m feeling devious and serve it in one that says, “Here we fucking go again. I mean… good morning!”
“I think I might like her.” She takes another sip. “This is really good.”
Someone walks through the front door, and the sound of sweet, feminine humming almost has me rising from the couch in alarm. Cori doesn’t hum, so who could that be?
But it is Cori who appears around the corner wearing her uniform—a black t-shirt with the diner’s logo and jeans.
She stops in her tracks, eyes widening just slightly when she sees Mom and I sitting on the couch.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Hey. Did you have a fight with the gravy again?” I say, pointing to a large stain on her thigh.
“Yes, it seems to happen every day.”
I chuckle. “Mom, this is Cori. Cori, this is Mom.” We both stand up and Mom playfully slaps my arm.
“My name is Elaine, you goof. It’s nice to meet you, Cori.” Cori steps forward and shakes Mom’s extended arm.
“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Mom and I share a look at Cori’s tense shoulders.
“I made Mom a cup of that pecan coffee.”
“Yes, I hope that’s okay,” Mom says.
“Oh, of course. That’s what it’s there for.” She grins timidly. “Do you like it? It’s one of my favorites.” Her fingers pick at each other.
“I love it. Nick, you’ll have to show me the label before we leave, so I can buy some for home.”
I nod and Cori hooks her thumb over her shoulder. “Well, I should go shower and change. It was nice to meet you.”
“You too, hon,” Mom replies. As Cori walks away, Mom asks how Callum is doing and if Tyler is behaving himself.
I’m answering her when the front door opens again. There’s a thud, probably from Sam dropping his briefcase, and he lets out a long sigh as he walks around the wall.
“You’re home early,” I say in greeting.
“Yeah, Cori’s car is finally done. Had to pick it up from the shop before they closed.” A grin spreads over his face when he notices Mom.
“Elaine, what a nice surprise.” He walks over to where she sits on the couch and takes her hand in his, kissing the back of it. “You look amazing. Much too young to have a twenty-four-year-old.” He’s right. She’s only in her early forties, hair still her natural dark blonde, and skin still mostly smooth around her eyes and mouth.
But I stand for better leverage as I lightly punch his arm. “Dude, don’t kiss my mom.”
“Oh, stop it. He’s being a gentleman,” Mom says.
“Would you like one too?” Sam asks and starts towards me, lips pursed.
I escape towards the door, calling out to Mom, “Alright, you’ve seen him, let’s go.”
* * *
“W hat are y’all doing?” I ask once I come back inside from walking Mom to her car. Cori, hair wet and curling from her shower, sits next to Sam on the couch, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of her phone screen.
It’s the phone that answers, “Who was that?” in a woman’s voice.
My eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”
“That was my roommate, Nick. A guy I went to college with. I told you about him, right?” Sam asks while Cori mouths, “Run! It’s my mother.” She shoos me off with her hands, but it’s too late.
“Oh, yes. Hi, Nick. I’ve heard a lot about you,” the woman says.
“I’ve heard a lot about you as well, Ma’am.” I shrug at Sam and Cori’s shared looks of confusion because neither of them has ever mentioned this woman to me.
“Do you have plans tomorrow night? The kids are all coming for dinner, and we’d love to have you as well.”
A family dinner? “Oh, are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.” I’m praying she changes her mind as I rub the back of my neck.
“The more, the merrier. Besides, I need some furniture moved around upstairs, and you and Sam would be perfect for the job.”
“Oh okay. Can I bring anything?” A free meal in exchange for manual labor is a fair trade. Besides, it might be fun to learn more about Cori, maybe see a chubby baby picture or two.
“No, Cori will bring mac and cheese, you and Sam just bring yourselves. I have to run, but I’ll see you all here at four.”
“Well, I guess I’m making mac and cheese,” Cori says as she hangs up. “Did you not understand what I was telling you?”
I breathe out a laugh and take a seat in an armchair. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”
“Have you ever had your nails pried from your fingers while someone drilled screws into your shins?”
Sam rises from the couch. “Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“My parents,” she answers with emphasis.
“So, anything I should know before dinner with your family?”
She considers her answer for a moment. “I have an older sister who’s married with a baby. And you’ve met Sage. I also have two younger brothers who will probably inhale their food, then bolt to play video games or something. My dad will ask you a million questions about your job because it’s not just me he’s critical of, so try to stick to one-word answers. And my mom really likes compliments. Also, she often comments on my being fat.”
A cough escapes at the discrepancy between her direct words and nonchalant tone. “Oh.”
“I’m hungry, what’s for dinner?” Sam asks, resuming his seat on the couch with a cold beer now in his hand.
Cori stands, but I ask, “Why don’t you make him cook for a change?” Normally, she cooks on the nights she’s off of work, but only because she beats me to the stove, and I cook on the nights she works. It’s usually something easy and burnt, but honestly, not much different than anything Cori makes for us. We’d all benefit from a cooking course.
“Because I’m the king of this apartment and I let you homeless people live in my castle.” I can’t help but wonder if any seriousness lurks behind the joke.
Cori and I exchange a long look and I try to send her a message, telepathically. In case she doesn’t understand, I widen my eyes and jerk my head in Sam’s direction as if to say, “ Stand up for yourself.” And if that doesn’t work, I plan to race Cori to the kitchen and battle for cooking rights.
She’s not weak by any means. I’ve seen firsthand how riled up she can get and heard her demand better for herself, but she doesn’t do it often enough.
Cori clears her throat and starts scratching at her wrist. “Umm… you know, it would be nice to know you could feed yourself if something ever happened to me.”
“I fed myself just fine before you and Nick moved in.”
She crosses her arms over a baggy t-shirt with a band name I don’t recognize. “Eating take-out that your assistant ordered before you left work doesn’t count. But you could practice while I’m here, in case you have questions or need help.”
“I did that with my mom before I moved to college,” I tell him.
“So your mom’s to blame for your inability to not burn food? Noted.” He takes a long sip from his can before setting it on the coffee table and stretches his back. “Don’t tell her I said that.”
“No, I’m calling her right now. She wouldn’t have driven too far, she can turn around and come kick your ass.”
I get my phone out, but not to call Mom. I need the camera handy because, to my utter surprise, he’s removing his tie and walking to the kitchen. Cori moves around the other side to meet him by the pantry, and he opens the door.
“Okay, so what am I making?”
She moves a bag of rice and a can of something around on the shelf to peek behind it, so I intercept. “You have to decide. And do all the prep yourself.”
“Fine. I’m just warning you, though—you’re going to love what I make. It will be one of the best meals you’ve ever tasted and you’re going to want me to cook every night. But that’s not going to happen. We all need to pull our weight around here.”
Cori and I both roll our eyes.
“Now, go to your rooms, I’ll call you out when dinner is ready.”
“What if you have questions?” Cori asks.
“I’ll come ask. Now, go. I don’t want to be filmed”—he points to my phone, then to Cori—“or watched by Anxious Anderson.”
Cori and I head for our separate rooms, sharing a look of apprehension before walking through our doors. I take out my phone again and tap on her contact.
Me: What do you think we’re going to have to eat?
Roommate: Take-out. That’s why he sent us to our rooms-so we wouldn’t see him order it.
I wonder if she hears my laughter through the walls.
Me: What are you doing to pass the time?
Roommate: Blog stuff.
Me: I still haven’t gotten the name.
Roommate: I’m aware.
Me: …
Roommate: Fine.
Roommate: Coffee Break
I take out my laptop from my backpack and type Coffee Break into the search bar. I find a website that’s nice and easy to navigate.
I’m impressed and I send her a text telling her so before signing up for her newsletter; I’m promised a “Printable recipe booklet” for doing so. After clicking through to her social media accounts and scrolling through the cozy, neutral-themed photos, I have an overwhelming desire to curl up in a blanket with a cup of coffee and read a book. She never shows her face in the photos or videos, but I recognize Sam’s countertop and some of the mugs used in the most recent content. I hit the follow button on each account, figuring I could support her by sharing, liking, or commenting on stuff she posts.
I hate the taste of coffee; it’s burnt, dirty water to my taste buds, and only manageable with a cup of sugar mixed in. But most of these recipes, except for the weird berry-flavored ones, sound pretty good, and I send a few to Sam’s printer. I head there now to fetch the papers, stepping out of my door at the same time as Cori.
She stills at the sight of me as if caught in the act of something she didn’t want witnessed. She’s so odd. She gestures down the hall for me to pass by her, but I tell her I’m going to Sam’s office across from their bedroom.
“Oh. Me too.” We remain where we stand, each waiting for the other to go first. She’s unsure of me once again, like any comfort she may have found around me is fleeting. It seems like we take steps backward any time we aren’t around each other, and I have to repeat any reassurances I’ve already made to help her not feel anxious.
Finally, she opens his office door. She walks with quiet steps to the printer and takes hold of the papers, looking for the ones she printed. Holding up the recipes, she raises her brows.
“They look good. I want to try them,” I answer simply. There’s one for a Churro Latte, Oreo Frappuccino, and a peanut butter coffee creamer that sounds weird, yet intriguing.
Sam pokes his head inside and Cori jerks her hands down, still holding the stack of paper. The movement makes her look guilty. Of what, I’m not sure, and I give her a questioning look as Sam announces that dinner is ready.
“I’ll be right there,” she says. Sam goes back out and Cori hands me the recipes without a word before taking whatever she had printed to Sam’s room.
A few minutes later, we all meet in the kitchen, where Cori and I take in the scene. The kitchen is spotless, with no pans or cutting boards in the sink, and light granite countertops gleaming as they did before. Then we see the plates on the table, two of which have pasta with shrimp, and the third has a bed of dry greens topped with a naked chicken breast.
“Francesca’s?” Cori asks. It’s a restaurant a mile or so down the road.
“Yep,” Sam answers, not bothering to lie. “You’re welcome.”
She clicks her tongue and pulls out the chair in front of the salad. “Well, I guess you’ve got the money to eat out for every meal, so there’s no real need for you to know how to cook.”