8. Nate #2
Do I love having her living in our guest room? It’s cut into my alone time with Rory, sure, but Allie is a social butterfly. Despite working remotely, she spends less time in the house than out of it. Dinner, for example. It’s not a mistake that Rory cooked for two instead of three.
I haven’t figured out whether Allie is purposely giving us space or if her workflow really does depend on moving from space to space, like she claims. I’ve known her as long as I’ve known Rory, all of us growing up in town together, but Allie is still a mystery to me in a lot of ways.
“Hmm. She and Stacey were planning to go for their trivia night.” Rory dabs her napkin against the corner of her lips.
Am I a terrible boyfriend if I hope Rory doesn’t join them? I press my fingers against my forehead at the idea of dealing with both a drunk Rory and a drunk Allie after a night at High Times. Fun? Yes. A handful? Absolutely.
“That sounds fun,” I say cautiously.
“Yeah. I don’t think I’m really in the mood to go out, though, so maybe I’ll skip this one.” Rory shakes her head, then takes another bite. “Am I a terrible friend? I’m just tired.”
“Not a bad friend. At all.”
Spam yelps from his crate, where he’s been quarantined after the meatball shenanigans.
We both ignore him. We’ve learned—after a lot of trial and error—that yelling for him to quiet down just makes him think we’re barking back and encourages him.
Sure enough, after a minute or so with no response to his complaints, he quiets down. The little guy has grown on me, but there’s always room for improvement.
From here, I have a view of Ollie, resting peacefully on his bed.
I lift my wineglass and take a large sip of the merlot, swirling the full flavors around my mouth and across my tongue. The wine complements the red sauce perfectly. It makes it taste better, somehow.
I watch Rory as I swallow. She’s pushing her food around on the plate, the scrape of her fork the only noise. She hasn’t touched her wine.
I wonder what’s on her mind, if it’s something about her friends that she can’t share or if it’s something I can help with.
“This is amazing, Rory.” I lift my fork, strands of pasta twirled around the tines. “What’s the secret ingredient?”
“What?” She meets my gaze, but it’s like she’s only halfway here.
Like there’s something else taking up space in her thoughts.
I know Rory well enough not to push, though. “The sauce is fantastic. That’s all. Just wondering if there’s a secret ingredient or something.”
She smiles. “Pumpkin.”
That was not what I was expecting, and at first, I’m sure I heard her wrong.
“Pumpkin? Like orange, Halloween, jack-o’-lantern pumpkin?” I clarify.
I didn’t think there was much cooking to be done with pumpkin outside of pie.
She nods. “It’s hard to taste when it’s mixed in, but it’s sweet. Mom started adding it to the sauce to get us to eat more veggies when we were kids, but now I love the subtle flavor it adds.”
I take another bite and nod, even though that first taste was all I needed to confirm that this marinara is out of this world. “For sure. It’s delicious.”
Rory gives me a half smile, then lowers her gaze to her plate as she twirls a too-large bite of noodles onto her fork and lifts it to her lips. She forces the entire thing into her mouth and chews, cheeks puffed out, gaze still cast down.
I wonder again what’s on her mind. Rory’s normally the chatty one at dinner, telling me all the details of her day as I hang on her every word. Is something wrong?
I study her as I take a slow sip of the crimson wine. Maybe it’s just that the sauce reminded her of her mom. That could certainly put anyone in a somber mood. It’s the first time Rory’s made any of her mother’s recipes since the funeral.
Hell, when my dad died, it was months before I could even consider going back to the things I shared with him. Even after years, I haven’t been able to go fishing. So, I get it.
Grief takes time, and it’s unpredictable. One day you’re fine, and the next, you can’t stop thinking about it. And the smallest things can trigger a memory.
I take another sip of wine, debating where to go next with our conversation. It’s so far removed from our usual that I’m feeling lost.
“The wine is perfect with the pasta, too. There’s something about a good red with Italian food, right?”
Rory hasn’t touched her wine, and until my question, I’m not sure she even registered its presence on the table.
“Oh. I’m kind of tired, so I wasn’t going to have any. Anyway, how was the rest of your day? We talked about the pageant thing, but did anything else exciting happen?”
I don’t miss the change of topic. It’s about as subtle as a freight train. The only thing I haven’t figured out is what’s really on her mind. But for now, I’ll play along.
“My day was good. Nothing too exciting. A disabled vehicle just north of town was the only call, so I had a lot of time to think about this pageant.” I take another bite and chew thoughtfully before I continue.
“I have to figure out what to do for this talent portion. My first thought was that I’d have Ollie do tricks, but Dylan said there’s some rule about how the talent has to be just yours. ”
“Oh, right!” Rory brightens. “That rule happened after Mrs. Alpert’s late husband had his daughter play the piano while he just kind of motioned to her, like a model on The Price Is Right.”
She moves her hands in an impression of the classic show.
The mental image makes me snort with laughter. “That seems shady. How did he think he could get away with it?”
“He did get away with it at the time. The rules just said that the contestants had to ‘present a talent for the judges.’” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Technically, he presented a talent.”
“Did he win?”
Rory laughs and picks up a slice of bread. “No. He did a particularly poor job on the charity event. That year it involved knitting socks for the shelter in Silverthorne. He barely managed to get a few rows of stitches before giving up.”
I laugh, picturing Old Man Alpert attempting to use knitting needles.