Chapter 19 #2
“I don’t know. I just saw that on the recipe and thought it was funny,” Ali said. “Oof . . . I just realized. I may have added sugar and baking soda to the gravy instead of flour and baking powder. You think that’s okay? Baking soda. Baking powder. Could they make it any more confusing?”
“Sweet gravy? Sure, babe. It’ll be more like a glaze. A total fusion of flavors. I think it sounds delish. You’re a genius,” Misha responded.
I whispered over to Eric as we sat together in the living room, drinks in hand, “When do we intervene?”
He shrugged in response, a pained look on his face.
It didn’t take long for the flurry of kitchen activity to deteriorate into mayhem. Then back to eerily quiet. And finally we heard Misha say, “Fuck it, it’ll do.” Then in a singsong holler toward Eric and me in the living room, “Dinner’s ready, boys!”
We sat down at the table. The first dish was bright purple and gelatinous, and the roast chicken was nearly black with char on the outside, but I could already tell the minute we cut into it, we’d have nearly raw meat.
The gravy simmered in a bowl and looked like glaze for a doughnut, but I could smell bottom notes of the baking soda—bitter and a little like ammonia.
“Hmm . . . that doesn’t look good,” Misha said as he started to carve into the chicken. He paused and whispered out the side of his mouth toward Ali, “Is eating raw chicken bad? That’s bad, right?”
Ali shrugged.
“Oh, yeah, it’s not good to eat raw chicken,” Eric said like he was just remembering something he read somewhere.
Misha and Ali looked up at Eric as if to assess if he was sure. He was.
“Ali, I think it’s safe to say, we did not nail this one,” Misha said as he dropped the carving knife and fork on the platter and slumped into his chair.
“Wait. What? We can fix this,” Ali said. I could hear the emotion rising in her voice. “Can’t we? Maybe just put it in the oven for a little longer? What about the microwave?” Ali started to scoop up the platter with the chicken to take it back into the kitchen.
I hopped up out of my chair. “Whoa, whoa, nah . . . you don’t have to salvage anything on our account.” I saw her bottom lip start to quiver.
“I’m sorry.” Her face dropped as I took the platter from her and placed it on the counter out of sight.
“We just wanted to make you a nice dinner,” Misha was telling Eric. “I thought I got the char just right on the chicken. Not too burnt, you know?”
Eric leaned forward toward Misha.
“Cooking is not my forte. Hosting. And eating. I’m really good at those. I should have stuck to what I’m good at.” Eric was caressing the side of his face.
I was staring. I knew I was. I looked to Ali, and she was too. Did I see a longing in her stare as well? A longing for affection, for support—for the kind of intimacy that meant touching and sharing feelings wasn’t just permissible, it was necessary. Unguarded. Like breathing.
She may not be comfortable with outward displays of affection yet, but I could continue to show up for her until she was.
“Hey, you know what? I have an incredible idea. Kitchen. Sink. Nachos!” I said to the group. I paused, hoping Eric would join me in my efforts to sell the idea.
“Oh my God! I would kill for some kitchen sink nachos!” Eric joined in.
“Well, that doesn’t sound very appetizing,” Misha said, his upper lip peeled back, nose wrinkled so hard it looked like he was plugging it with his face muscles.
“No, babe . . . it’s the best! We used to make them for sleepovers. Everyone loves KSN!” Eric said with a flirty glare into Misha’s eyes.
“Hmm . . . sleepovers, huh?” Misha responded with a crooked smile.
Beside me, I could tell Ali was showing some interest in the suggestion too. She dropped her arms by her side. “Do we even have all the ingredients for that dish?” she asked.
It was cute that she called it a dish.
“I keep everything we’ll need stocked at home.
We can make them together. It’ll be fun,” I added.
“Eric, you’re in charge of getting some music going.
Ali and Misha, take a break while I get everything we need from my place.
This is going to be epic,” I said enthusiastically as I headed out the door.
We had a blast prepping the KSN (as Eric called them). Then we all stood around the counter and ate directly from the sheet pan filled with gooey cheese, chips, beans, peppers, onions, and tomatoes. Salsa, sour cream, and even some fresh cilantro sat in little bowls to the side.
The wine was flowing, and I could sense everyone was a little tipsy. It was probably more obvious since I was staying sober tonight. I was also able to pop over to check on Chic every hour.
I was coming back from my latest check-in when Eric pushed me back out on the front porch. “He wants to spend the night together,” Eric said with a flush. “I don’t think I’ll need a ride home after all.”
“That’s great. Cool. Are you . . . How do you feel about that?” I asked, not really sure how to respond here.
“I’m good. This is big. I think Misha’s asking Ali to find herself a different place to stay tonight, though. Maybe it could be your place?” he asked with an eager expression on his face.
“Um . . . sure. I think I can make that work,” I said awkwardly.
“Great! Thanks, man,” Eric said excitedly.