6. Monty
CHAPTER 6
Monty
I scooted across the floor to the closed bathroom door and leaned against it. I wanted to give Tasha privacy but also be there in case she needed help. A few minutes later, when a harp rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” drifted out from under the door, I surmised she’d placed the end of her phone next to it, speaker pointed toward me, to mask any sounds coming from within.
Deciding she was probably okay for a few minutes, I got to my feet and plodded to the kitchen. Last night, I’d found her binder of recipes and thumbed through it, selecting one for an everything-free chicken soup she’d tabbed and labeled as “Recovery Option #1.” She had all the ingredients for it in the freezer, most in Ziploc bags with the same label, so I dumped them all in her Crock-Pot, clipped some cilantro and parsley from the pots by the window, and turned the setting to low.
The entire time I worked, Parfait lounged on the bar. He was a counter connoisseur and particular about his flat surfaces. Since he wasn’t near where I was prepping the food, I allowed it. It was a laborious effort for him to jump from the arm of the sofa to the nearest barstool and hop up. He would continue the routine if I put him on the floor. And if I shut him up in my room, he’d mew at a surprisingly loud volume and disturb Tasha, so that was out of the question.
I moved to the sofa an hour later, and Parfy shifted his position to face Tasha’s door. I was able to coax him off the bar with a handful of treats, and I pulled him into my lap.
They didn’t call it a slow cooker for no reason. As the ingredients mingled, the aroma teased my nostrils and airways, and by hour three I was salivating for it. I fed Parfait, washed my hands, and checked on the soup. When I lifted the cover, a cloud of steam hit me in the face.
Should’ve expected that.
I returned the lid over the soup and came to the conclusion I was looking forward to trying it. Usually, the way Tasha described her unusual food combinations sounded weird. But having lived with her for a couple of weeks now, and having snuck bites and tastes of her leftovers, I was discovering they weren’t half bad.
I wouldn’t admit that to her, though.
In a lower cupboard, I found a stainless-steel container with a lid and ladled some soup into it for Tasha to consume when she felt ready. I also scooped some into a mug for myself, my curiosity getting the better of me. I wanted to taste this concoction of bone broth, chicken, carrots, cilantro, ginger, turmeric, egg noodles, and other things I’d never considered to be included in a recipe for this American family staple.
Parfait joined me on the floor next to Tasha’s door, dropping a hair tie onto my fuzzy slipper and curling up into a ball in my lap. Serenaded by another harp melody, I ate the soup, careful not to drip any of the hot liquid onto his fur. He’d already been traumatized once this morning.
Besides checking on Nana, I didn’t have any plans today. I usually took her to church on Sundays, but she wasn’t ready for an outing outside of Mountainview Manor yet. Maybe I’d bring her some of Tasha’s soup if there was any left.
I plucked the soggy hair tie from the slipper and rolled it between my fingers. It was one of those special ones without the metal band that held the two ends together. Years ago, Tasha had switched, claiming they stayed in place better. I’d shrugged. As long as her hair wasn’t in the way of my hands, I didn’t mind what she did with it.
Well, I did like it when she wore her hair down, in soft waves over her shoulders. The competitive, persistent, and perseverant version of her softened. Even her voice changed to a lighter, kinder tone. Less about business and more … human? Tasha was a machine in the gym and a bustling barista behind the counter. When she had time to relax, she allowed the personality traits she masked to come forward.
I liked both versions of her. She was kind and caring but not a doormat. She got things done and always put forth her best effort.
There was no one else like her.
And I hated that she was hurting. I wanted to understand why, what was wrong with her, and how to fix it. I knew about her gluten sensitivity now, and I noticed that she never ate dairy products or drank cow’s milk or used it or real butter in her cooking. But she’d never confided in me why, even back when we were still friends .
I wanted to know more so I could help her and support her. My life was better with her in it, and I wanted her to feel that way about me again.
I had to find a way to get our friendship back.
No matter what the cost to my ego.