14. Kieran
KIERAN
I thought that having Roderick as a roommate would be super weird. But it turns out that when your life is hellaciously busy, you don’t have time to feel weird. After our awkward dinner at the kitchen counter, I don’t see much of him for a while.
The next two weeks are a blur of coffeemaking, Photoshop, and driving to Hardwick for farm labor. Every night I stop at a store on my way home to pick up things I need for the house. I buy a set of plain white plates and bowls. I buy towels and more sheets. A king-sized quilt and blanket.
I buy a couch that’s discounted by half because one of its feet is missing. That’s an easy fix, because we have all kinds of wood scraps in the barn. It only takes me a few minutes to find one that’s the right thickness, and to cut it to size. Nobody looks at a couch’s feet, anyway.
Climbing into bed every night knowing Roderick’s in the house hasn’t been as strange as I’d thought it would be, either. His light is usually off by the time I stagger upstairs after another busy day.
Roderick still sleeps on a sleeping bag in the middle of his empty room.
The only thing between him and the wood floor is the camping mattress I lent him.
He seems perfectly happy with this arrangement, though.
In fact, he looks much better rested than he used to.
The circles under his eyes are gone, and he doesn’t fall asleep at work anymore.
And I’ve been grateful he’s kept his promise not to mention the high school incident again.
One Friday night I come home from the ad agency to find Roderick reading a book on my new couch. “Hey!” he says, slapping the book shut. “I was waiting for you. It’s time for your first cooking lesson.”
It’s embarrassing how much I like hearing that he was waiting for me. “What’s on the menu?” I ask, tossing my coat onto a doorknob. I really need to hang some hooks in the entryway. Soon.
“Roast chicken with herbed butter and garlic,” he says.
“That sounds…complicated.” Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
“I know!” he says, leaping up and looking gleeful. “It’s not, though. That’s why I chose this recipe. Come on.” He practically gallops into the kitchen.
There’s a whole chicken lying there in the center of his skillet, and some other ingredients on the counter.
He lifts a sprig of an herb off the counter. “This is…”
“Rosemary,” I say.
“And…”
“Parsley,” I say, beating him to the punch again. “I grew up with farmers. And even if my mom can’t figure out how to put flavor in food, my Aunt Ruth sure can.”
“Well.” Roderick sniffs. “I guess you’re going to do just fine. See this butter? I left it out on the counter to soften.” He pokes the stick, and his finger leaves an indent. “Open that sucker up and dump it in a bowl.”
I follow this simple instruction, and then he hands me a fancy chef’s knife. “Now you’re going to learn how to get the skin off of garlic quickly.” He puts a clove of garlic on a cutting board that I’ve never seen before. It must be a new acquisition. “Smack it with the side of the knife. Go on.”
Whap . I smack the garlic, and now it’s flattened.
“Nice!” He chuckles. “Now take the skin off. That’s easy when you’ve crushed it a little.”
He’s right. I flick the skin out of the way.
“Slice it thinly, okay? Then overchop it in the other direction.”
I slice the garlic into fine slices, but then I’m stuck. “What does overchop mean?”
“Like this,” he says. He actually reaches around my body and pivots the knife, and my concentration goes haywire. I’m too focused on the heat of his chest at my side and the brush of his thumb on my hand. “Okay, a little finer,” he says.
I squint down at the garlic and give it a few clumsy chops, but my attention is still on him. He’s standing so close to me that I feel a puff of his breath when he talks. And I like it way too much.
“Good enough,” he says. “Now do another one.”
I force myself to concentrate. The minced garlic gets tossed on top of the butter, along with parsley and rosemary that I chop, too. Then Roderick hands me a wooden spoon and has me mash it all together.
“Time to preheat the oven,” he says. “Use four twenty-five. Four fifty is even better, but sometimes it makes the house too smoky. Always cook a chicken hot and fast,” he says with a chuckle. “What’s good for sex is also good for roasting chicken.”
Now my neck and face are on fire .
“Last step,” he says. “Using your hands, you’re going to shove half of that butter under the chicken skin, over the meat.”
“What about the other half,” I ask, my face still red.
“We’ll freeze it for next time.” He grabs a piece of waxed paper and plops half the butter onto it. He shapes it into a log and rolls it up before I can blink.
I get to work buttering the chicken, but I might have gotten more of it on me than on the bird.
“It’s a messy job,” he concedes.
“Not nearly as messy as gutting and plucking the chicken,” I point out.
“You’ve done that?” he yelps.
“Many times. Next time you need a chicken, give me three days’ notice, and I’ll bring you a really fresh one and show you how.”
He puts a hand on my back, and I feel the warmth through my T-shirt.
“I think I’m happy to let the store handle that for me, farmer boy.
” That hand disappears, but I can still feel it after it’s gone.
“Last step,” he says, grabbing a cardboard container of kosher salt.
“Salt and pepper the fuck out of everything. That’s a technical term. Memorize it.”
I laugh again. That’s twice in one day.
We let the bird roast for an hour. I shower and call my brother, then Roderick makes rice.
“For brown rice or basmati, try two cups of water to one of rice. That usually works.” He lifts the lid off the saucepan of rice, and a homey scent fills the air.
“That smells delicious.”
“I just threw in some turmeric and cumin.” He shrugs. “We ought to have a vegetable, too. But we’re out of pans, and we’re out of time. So maybe I’ll tackle that at your next lesson.”
“Good plan.”
He opens the oven door, and the chicken is gorgeous, like something on a magazine cover—golden brown and sizzling everywhere.
“Jesus,” I murmur.
“I know, I’m hungry, too,” he agrees. “Move your big self out of the way so I can get this.” With a dish towel in each hand—my mother gave me those from her stash—he lifts the skillet onto the stovetop. “It has to rest for five or ten minutes, then we feast.”
I can barely stand the wait. But when I finally get my first bite, it’s delicious .
“Your cooking rocks,” Roderick says, biting into a thigh. We’re standing at the counter side by side, because there’s no table.
“Don’t flatter me, it’s your recipe,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. I have that happy glow you get from eating something amazing. The garlic and butter have turned an ordinary thing extraordinary. “But what I don’t understand is this—if cooking is so easy, why do so many people do it badly?”
“I’ve always wondered the same thing,” he says, licking his fingers.
The sight of his tongue reminds me of something else, and I look away. Jesus . Even if Roderick has been good about not bringing it up, the memory is obviously still there, lurking in my psyche.
And I have no idea how to make it go away.