Chapter 5 - Jade
I'm standing in Eli Cross's kitchen, wearing his clothes, about to cook with him, and I have to stop myself from saying something that will definitely ruin the moment.
Because this is a moment.
This man, this burly, gruff, leave-me-alone man who looks like he could snap a tree in half with his bare hands, just offered to cook for me. Not only that, he asked me to help. Asked me to stay.
He didn't complain about my terrible lasagna. Didn't make me feel stupid for screwing it up. Just told me what was wrong and moved on like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I wash my hands in his sink, looking around the kitchen while the water runs.
It's sparse. Clean. Everything has a place, and everything is in its place.
There's no clutter, no decoration, nothing that suggests anyone actually lives here except for the dog bowl in the corner and a coffee mug sitting by the sink.
It's the kitchen of someone who doesn't want to be reminded of anything.
"You going to help or just stand there?"
I look over. Eli's pulled out a cast iron skillet, the kind that looks like it's been used a thousand times and could probably survive a nuclear blast. He's setting it on the stove, not looking at me, but there's something different about him now.
Less tense, maybe. Like having something to do with his hands makes everything easier.
"I'm helping," I say, drying my hands on a towel. "What do you need me to do?"
"Chop the peppers and onions." He nods toward the cutting board and a knife that looks sharp enough to perform surgery. "Small dice."
"Small dice. Got it."
I grab the onions and get to work. It's been a while since I've done any real cooking.
The last few months have been a blur of takeout and frozen dinners because I couldn't bring myself to cook the recipes Mom taught me.
Every time I tried, I'd end up crying into whatever I was making, and that's not exactly good for the food or my mental health.
But this feels different. Maybe because I'm not alone. Maybe because Eli's moving around the kitchen and it’s mesmerizing to watch.
He's cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them with one hand while he adjusts the heat on the stove with the other. His movements are precise. It's the same way he moved when he was fixing my sink, when he was chopping wood.
Everything this man does looks like he's done it a thousand times before.
"How'd you learn to cook?" I ask, dicing an onion.
"Necessity."
"That's it? Just necessity?"
"Couldn't eat MREs forever." He pulls out a package of bacon from the freezer, starts separating the strips. "Had to figure it out."
"MREs?"
"Meals Ready to Eat. Military rations." He places the bacon in the now-hot skillet, and it immediately starts sizzling. "They'll keep you alive, but that's about all you can say for them."
I finish with the onions and move on to the peppers. "So, you taught yourself."
"YouTube helped."
I laugh. "You watched cooking videos on YouTube?"
"You got a problem with that?"
"No. No problem. I just—" I look at him, this huge man in a flannel shirt with a beard that makes him look like he wrestled bears for fun, and I'm trying to picture him watching cooking tutorials. "I think it's great. I just wouldn't have guessed."
"People don't usually guess right about me."
There's something in his tone. Not bitter, exactly, but resigned. Like he's used to people making assumptions and has stopped trying to correct them.
"What do people usually guess?" I ask.
He flips the bacon with a fork, not looking at me. "That I'm angry. Dangerous. Better left alone."
"Are you?"
"Depends who you ask."
"I'm asking you."
He's quiet for a long moment, the only sound the sizzle of bacon in the pan. Then he says, "I'm not dangerous. Just careful."
"Careful about what?"
"Everything."
I want to push. I want to ask more questions, dig deeper, understand what that means. But something in his posture tells me that's as much as I'm getting right now, and I'm smart enough to recognize a boundary when I see one.
So, instead, I say, "Well, for what it's worth, I don't think you're dangerous."
He glances at me, just for a second. "You don't know me."
"Not yet."
His jaw tightens, and he turns back to the stove.
I finish the peppers and bring them over to the counter beside him. "What now?"
"Put them in this." He hands me a smaller pan. "Medium heat. Little bit of oil."
I do as he says, pouring a small amount of oil into the pan and adding the vegetables. They start to sizzle immediately, and the smell fills the kitchen. Strong and sweet and completely different from the burnt, over-seasoned disaster I created with the lasagna.
Eli's pulling the bacon out now, setting it on a paper towel to drain. Then he's pouring most of the grease out of the skillet, leaving just enough to coat the bottom.
"Stir those," he says, nodding toward my pan. "Don't let them burn."
I stir, watching the peppers and onions start to soften. Eli's pouring the eggs into his skillet now, and I watch as he tilts the pan, letting the eggs spread out evenly.
"You make this look easy," I say.
"It is easy. You just have to pay attention."
"I was paying attention with the lasagna."
"Were you?"
I think about it. Really think about it. "Okay, no. I was distracted. I kept thinking about other things."
"Like what?"
Like my mom. Like the fact that I'm alone now in a way I've never been before. Like the fact that I'm in a new town where I don't know anyone and I'm trying to build a life out of nothing but hope and stubbornness.
But I don't say any of that.
"Just things," I say.
He nods, like he understands that there are some things you don't talk about. Like he's got his own list of things that he doesn't share.
We work in silence for a few minutes. He adds cheese to the eggs, folds the omelet over with ease. I keep stirring the vegetables until they're soft and slightly caramelized.
"Okay," he says. "Turn off your burner."
I do, and he plates the omelet, adds the vegetables on top, then the bacon on the side. He does the same with a second plate, and suddenly we're standing there with two meals that actually look like food instead of a science experiment gone wrong.
"This looks amazing," I say.
"It's just eggs."
"It's not just eggs. It's—" I gesture at the plates. "It's an actual meal. With vegetables and everything."
"You need to raise your standards."
"My standards are fine. You're just really good at this."
He doesn't respond, just carries both plates back to the living room. I follow, and we sit on the couch again, plates balanced on our laps. Ridge lifts his head from where he's been dozing by the fire, immediately interested now that there's food involved.
"Don't even think about it," Eli tells him.
Ridge huffs and puts his head back down, but his eyes stay locked on our plates.
I take a bite, and—
Oh my God.
It's perfect. The eggs are fluffy and rich, the cheese is melted just right, and the vegetables add this sweetness that balances everything out. Even the bacon is perfect, crispy but not burnt, salty but not overwhelming.
"Eli," I say, and I'm not even exaggerating, "this is the best omelet I've ever had."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. It's amazing." I take another bite, practically moaning. "You could open a restaurant."
"I don't want to open a restaurant."
"But you could."
"I'm good out here."
I look at him. He's eating steadily, methodically, like it's just fuel. But there's something in his expression that's softer than it was before. Not by much, but enough that I notice.
"Thank you," I say. "For this. For letting me stay. For not kicking me out when I showed up uninvited."
"You brought lasagna."
"Terrible lasagna."
"You tried." He glances at me. "That counts for something."
This man. This grumpy, isolated, doesn't-like-people man just said that me trying counts for something.
I don't know what to do with that. So, I just eat my omelet and try not to read too much into it. We finish eating, the fire crackling beside us, the rain still pattering against the roof but lighter now. More peaceful than threatening.
"I should check the road," Eli says, standing and taking both our plates to the kitchen.
I follow him, because apparently I can't help myself. "Do you think it's clear?"
"Won't know until I look."
He opens the front door and we step out onto the porch. The air is fresh and clean, that particular smell that comes after rain. The sky is still gray, but the clouds are breaking up.
The road, however, is a mess. Mud and standing water everywhere. My little sedan is sitting in it, looking deeply unhappy about its life choices.
"That's bad," I say.
"Yeah."
"How long until it's driveable?"
He studies the road. "Few hours, maybe. Depends on how much sun we get."
I look up at the sky. The clouds are thick, but there's light behind them. "So, I should probably just... wait?"
"Probably."
We stand there for a minute, both of us looking at the muddy disaster that's keeping me here.
"I really didn't plan this," I say. "I swear I'm not trying to—"
"I know."
"You do?"
He looks at me, those storm-gray eyes steady. "You're not the scheming type."
"How do you know?"
"Because if you were, you wouldn't have brought terrible lasagna."
I laugh, surprised. "Fair point."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. And I realize that this is the most I've seen him relax since I met him. Like maybe, just maybe, he's not hating this as much as he thought he would.
"Come on," he says, heading back inside. "Might as well be comfortable while you wait."
I follow him in, and Ridge immediately comes over to greet us like we've been gone for hours instead of minutes.
"What do you usually do on Saturday afternoons?" I ask.
"Work."
"On what?"
"Whatever needs doing. Firewood, repairs, maintenance."
"Sounds thrilling."
"It's quiet."
"Right. Because that's the goal." I sit back down on the couch, tucking my feet under me. "Do you ever just... relax? Do something for fun?"
He looks at me like I've asked him to explain quantum physics. "This is relaxing."
"Chopping wood is relaxing?"
"Yeah."
"That's very on-brand for you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're exactly the kind of person who finds physical labor relaxing." I grin. "Let me guess, you also enjoy long walks in the woods and communing with nature."
"I have a dog. Walking comes with the territory."
"But you like it."
He sits down in the chair across from the couch. Not beside me this time, I notice. Maintaining that distance. "Yeah. I like it."
"Why?"
"Why do you ask so many questions?"
"Because I'm curious. And because you're interesting."
He looks at me like I've said something incomprehensible. "I'm not interesting."
"You absolutely are. You're like a puzzle. And I like puzzles."
"I'm not a puzzle."
"Everyone's a puzzle."
"Then I'm one of those ones with all the edge pieces missing."
I laugh, but there's something sad about what he said. Something that makes me want to reach across the space between us and tell him that edge pieces can be found, that puzzles can be solved, that nothing is broken beyond repair.
But I don't. Because I barely know him, and because I can see in his eyes that he doesn't want to be fixed.
He just wants to be left alone.
Except, he's not leaving me alone right now. He asked me to stay. He cooked for me. He's sitting here having a conversation instead of finding an excuse to disappear into another room.
Maybe he doesn't know what he wants.
Or maybe, and this thought makes my heart beat a little faster, maybe he's starting to want something different.
"Tell me more about Ridge," I say, changing the subject.
Eli looks at the dog, and his whole expression softens. "What about him?"
"How'd he end up here?"
"Already told you. He just showed up."
"And you kept him."
"Didn't really have a choice. He wouldn't leave."
"You could've taken him to a shelter."
"Could've." He reaches down to scratch behind Ridge's ears. "Didn't want to."
"Because you liked him."
"Because he was already here. Seemed stupid to make him leave when he'd already decided to stay."
I watch him with his dog, and something clicks into place.
He's not as alone as he pretends to be. But Ridge is here. And right now, so am I. And he hasn't kicked either of us out.