He blinked. “How?”
“Like, actual chains and mini padlocks on the doors attached to brackets she installed. After a few months, my dad stepped in. He usually lets her do whatever she wants because it’s easier that way, but my sisters were embarrassed to bring their friends home. Not to mention pissed that they couldn’t grab a snack when they wanted. I guess my friends were other skaters who weren’t as shocked by it. But she was right that nutrition is important. I’m sure she’d approve of your eating plan.”
He shook his head firmly. “I don’t approve of her approach.”
“Yeah, well. At least Manon and Bill don’t do public weigh-ins. Mr. Webber didn’t either,” I added quickly. “But my Mom insisted on it with my old coach in Chicago, and I guess he agreed. Pavel’s originally from Russia, so he grew up in that Soviet system. If they gained an ounce there was no borscht that night. Do Russians actually eat borscht? Hmm. Did you read that interview with the Russian girl who quit last year? They don’t even drink water some days because they’re afraid they’ll gain. It’s so fucked up. But I’m fine. I try not to obsess about it, but I really do need to get my shit together to buy more groceries and bring my lunches to the rink. I need to plan ahead better.”
After a few moments of silence while he studied me—in his bed—Henry said, “I’ll make dinner now.”
I guess I could have argued and said I’d put him out too much already, but… A home-cooked dinner sounded amazing. So I drank more water and sat up in his bed, still feeling muzzy and tired out after all that talking even though talking was one of my favorite things.
Esmeralda meowed at Henry as he moved around the kitchen. I couldn’t see exactly what he was making because the pass-through was higher than the counter, but I watched him concentrating as he chopped, the rhythmic sound of the knife soothing. He bit his lip at one point, and all I could think about was kissing him.
“Is she hungry?” I asked as the cat meowed even louder. Onion and garlic sizzled in a pan, along with spices. Cumin, maybe? Whatever it was, it smelled amazing.
“Always,” Henry said. He scooped her up, nuzzling her head.
I was officially jealous of a cat.
Wait, what? No. This was only my post-migraine brain being a dick. Definitely not jealous and didn’t want Henry to nuzzle me. But I had to admit I wanted his approval. Which made no sense! Why should I want that?
I was the two-time, current world champion, and most importantly I’d beat him at the last four—no, five!—of our matchups. I was on top. I shouldn’t need anyone’s approval but the judges’.
My face went hot as he approached, still holding Esmeralda. He crouched and released her next to the cat scratching tree at the foot of the bed, then returned to the kitchen.
“Watch,” he said, opening a cupboard. He took out a package of red lentils and crinkled the plastic.
“Okay.” I waited for the punch line. Was this a lentil joke?
Then he slowly picked up a thin plastic pouch. I couldn’t see what was on the label. Looking toward the cat, he crinkled the plastic a tiny, tiny bit. Barely audible.
Esmeralda practically flew back into the kitchen, mewling at his feet. Henry shook out two little beige-brown shapes into his palm and said, “Her favorite treats. She never mistakes any other package for this one. Never.” He bent and disappeared out of sight behind the counter.
“Wow. Impressive!”
Soon, chicken sizzled, and I belatedly asked if I could do anything to help. But Henry said no, so I settled back against his pillows and watched him cook for me. Again belatedly, I said I should get dressed, and he told me my clothes were still in the dryer.
He’d done laundry for me, and I liked it.
We ate at his little table with cork-backed place mats of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” under the white plates. He’d made fajita filling with chicken and peppers, the whole wheat tortillas tucked into a fabric warmer that looked like a big round oven mitt.
I quickly rolled a fajita. “Mmm,” I groaned as I took a bite. “Oh my God, so good.”
He’d set out all the fillings, taking up the rest of the table. As he spooned salsa on top of his fajita, he looked pleased at my enthusiasm, his eyes lighting up. There was no cheese, but he’d included thick, organic sour cream, and I slathered it on my next creation.
We watched a home renovation show and ate delicious food. A sleek, black SodaStream sat on the counter in his kitchen, and even though he didn’t have any of the sugary flavors to add, the plain soda water went perfectly. I mean, an ice-cold Corona would have been great too, but that definitely wasn’t part of a pre-Olympic eating plan.