Chapter 7
Luke
Aculinary prodigy I was not, but I could make a decent breakfast from a skillet when it counted.
The pan hissed with the butter. I cracked the first egg, then the second, careful not to rupture the yolks.
Over easy wasn’t difficult in theory, but it demanded focus.
A task that would serve me well while Oliver’s story settled in me.
I wanted nothing more than to hold him close, to fix what had been broken. But he didn’t need fixing, he needed room. Room to breathe. To decide. To be.
“Chef Luke reporting for duty,” I announced as I returned to the living room, setting the breakfast tray on the coffee table before him.
“Two over-easy eggs, and in true millennial fashion I’ve included a piece of toast with avocado, and lastly the finest coffee this humble establishment has to offer. ”
Oliver sat up, the pain evident in the way he moved, all slow and stiff, a grimace on his face. He took the plate and mug, settling both in his lap. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied, settling into the rocker chair I’d dragged back out from his bedroom.
His bedroom. It might be strange to call the guest room his already, but it seemed right.
I didn’t want him thinking he was squatting.
While he stayed here, however long that might be, this would be his home as much as it was mine.
“Now, I have an extremely important question. One that will determine the fate of our legacy as housemate buddies.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Ultra serious, the most serious.”
“Okay?”
“If you had to replace your dominant hand with a kitchen utensil, which one would you choose?”
“Uh . . . I have no idea.”
“Take your time.”
After several moments of his eyes pointed to the ceiling he said, “I think a melon baller.”
“Oh! My mom used to make her famous fruit salad with a melon baller as a kid. Carrie and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I’d forgotten those exist.”
“Yeah, they’re not super common, I guess.
I took culinary arts as an elective in high school.
Several of our projects required using one.
I sort of fell in love with it. It’s far more versatile than people think.
Sure, there’s the standard of making decorative fruit garnish, but it has so many other uses.
You can use it to deseed and hollow out vegetables, scoop ice cream, make butter balls, portion out cookie dough. You can even use it to make meatballs.”
As he talked, Oliver’s hands were flying all over the place, and hell if it didn’t make me stupidly happy to see.
It made me wonder how much of this, of him, Vincent and his family had tried to squash down.
Well, that wouldn’t happen here on my watch.
“So, if you had one for a hand, you’re tellin’ me you’d get like way more cool features out of it than people think? ”
“Partially. You’d also be able to do the impossible, and hold water in your hand. There would be magic in that, I think, the ability to carry something that usually slips through your fingers.”
My heart tightened at the wholesomeness of his answer. “That would be pretty special.”
“But more than that, melon ballers create something beautiful and fun. Who doesn’t love little spheres of fruit or balls of butter and cute little scoops of ice cream?
Not everything needs to be sharp or hard to be worthy of praise.
Sometimes, the gentlest tools make the sweetest and most memorable things.
I want to do that. I want to shape my softness into something fun, something people admire, that some might want and see as beautiful. ”
“Okay, wow. That was hands down the most beautiful answer to a random kitchen prosthetics question I’ve ever heard in my life.”
He shrugged.
“You deserve good things, alright?” I said. “You deserve softness. People might’ve stomped on your sweet nature before, but I promise you there are people who’ll see it and love the hell outta you for it.”
A little crescent formed on his lips. “Thank you.”
“It’s only the truth.”
Staring down at his coffee, he ran his thumb across the rim of the mug. He flicked his eyes up at me, but the second our eyes were about to make contact he bailed, looking right back to his mug.
“What’s your answer?” he blurted, chucking the spotlight at me like a hot potato. I got it. Being seen was risky for him, compliments looked like booby traps, and deflecting was his safety button. So I caught the redirect and rolled with it.
“Me? I’m all in on the C-shaped dough hook.
Useless as a prosthetic; paperwork would be wrecked, texting would be a disaster, and the state might not be keen on renewing my security credentials with that thing.
But looks? Legendary. I’d be like a modern Captain Hook, minus the villain vibe and the whole crocodile beef.
And honestly, it’d make a killer intimidation move for anyone dumb enough to mess with our clients.
Less Neverland, more never again on my watch. ”
Another smile spread across Oliver’s face, larger this time, teasing, bright enough to shine even through the bruises.
“Somehow, I’m not surprised by that answer.”
“I’ll take my predictable clichédom as a compliment,” I said.
“Predictable? Maybe. But something tells me never boring.”
“Speaking of boring, and sorry to drag it back to practical stuff, but I want to make sure you’re covered. Have you talked to your job about time off? I’m guessing you’re missing work?”
“Crap! No I haven’t.” He began to move again, planting his feet on the ground.
“That’s okay. No need to get up. The logistical side of things is where I come in.”
“I don’t want to seem irresponsible by having someone communicate on my behalf.”
“It won’t be like that. In my position, I’m authorized to notify employers in cases like this.
I can draft a formal letter that states you’re receiving confidential services due to personal safety concerns, and you’ll need a temporary leave of absence to address those matters.
You can tell me where to send it, or I can give it to you to forward.
No pressure. Just throwing it out there. ”
“I have a remote job as a marketing manager. It’s low-key, and not labor intensive, so I shouldn’t need too much time off.”
“You cool if I offer a suggestion?”
“Yes.”
“I think you owe yourself at least a week. I know it feels indulgent, but I promise it’s not. You’re healing. Let the work sit. It’ll still be there when you’re back.”
“You’re good at this,” he said, taking a bite of his egg.
“Eh, I’m only passable in the kitchen, but I’ll accept the compliment, especially coming from someone who took culinary arts,” I said, hoping to get him to smile again, pleased when he huffed an amused breath. “Wait. You meant how skilled I am at unsolicited pep talks, didn’t you?”
“Given that you did, in fact, expressly request permission to offer a recommendation, I’m afraid I cannot, in good conscience, evaluate your unsolicited advice credentials.”
“Shame. I had grand ambitions, plans to launch an entire social media empire called ‘Unsolicited Life Advice with Luke Skylar Walker.’ My slogan would be ‘May Emotional Support Be With You Always.’ You were my beta audience.”
“If you’re posting on social media, isn’t the unsolicited part a bit redundant? Like saying ATM machine.”
“Valid point. Go figure the marketing manager would be the one to spot the fatal flaw in my branding strategy. Guess you’ll have to be in charge of the rebrand.”
He quirked an eyebrow at me, challenging. I liked seeing that expression on him. It told me he hadn’t been lost to his trauma, even if he didn’t recognize that fact right now.
“Didn’t you just finish telling me I should take the week off?”
“I most certainly did, and I don’t recall hearing your answer.”
“I’ll take the week.”
“Good, I’ll have the letter ready this afternoon. Let me know how you’d like to handle the delivery. We got email, or printed copy via fax—from you, or even a trained carrier pigeon.”
“Do you have one of those?”
“A carrier pigeon? Not yet. Though I’m confident I could hire one with the right credentials and a competitive benefits package if you preferred that method.”
Oliver bit back another smile. “Standard email method of delivery should be fine I think.”
“Done, but if you change your mind, say the word.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, it’s what I’m here for.”
We made it through breakfast in companionable quiet. He finished one whole egg, a part of the other, most of the toast, and all of the coffee. Victory, if you asked me.
“I can take your plate,” I offered, half rising.
“I got it,” he said, gathering our plates. He moved slowly, as if wading through molasses, but I didn’t step in. Sometimes dignity lived in the doing.
“Can I ask you a question now?” he said when he returned to the couch.
“Absolutely! By the sacred rules of the Housemate Agreement established in the year of now and open to renegotiation, new residents are not only allowed but encouraged to ask anything. Deep questions, ridiculous ones, whatever. It’s all part of making sure we line up on the personality, values, and overall universal weirdness scale. ”
“Well, my question doesn’t reveal much weirdness, but I think I’m morally obligated to ask how old you are.”
“A fair question. In the official records, I am thirty-four.”
“Oh,” he said, tone flat.
I had a hunch where his mind went. Thirty-four lived next door to thirty-five, and I knew who rented that place in his memory. Not a neighbor I wanted to be compared to.
“Alright, give me the vibe check here, Ollie. Is that an ‘oh cool’ or an ‘oh yikes’ or an ‘oh, give me a minute to process?’”
“Uh . . . no . . . I mean, it wasn’t a bad oh, maybe more of a surprised oh. You don’t seem thirty-four. That’s all.”