“I like to do it, and I’m in love with this kitchen,” she smiles and waves her arms around at all the stainless appliances I’ve never used. “There’s no food in this apartment, though. What do you eat?”
“Liam brings meals in little containers once a week.”
Her face wrinkles up. “You can’t live on that. When’s the last time someone made you a home-cooked meal?”
I rub my neck and think about it. The sperm donor never cooked, and my memories of Mom, mostly her screaming that she hated me, and she never wanted me, were not exactly a scene out of Leave it to Beaver. “Never?”
“What do you mean, never?”
I shrug. Emily looks like someone has kicked her dog.
“No one’s ever made you breakfast?”
“No. I usually just make a protein shake.”
“Dinner?”
“I nuke one of the containers from Liam.”
Something about this concept seems deeply offensive to her.
Who the hell would I cook for, myself? I’m not home seventy-five percent of the time, and all this work for one person’s meal sounds like a miserable endeavor. No thanks.
She slides the last banana pancake out of the pan, which, I have to say, looks like a pretty legit normal pancake. “Thanksgiving. Surely you had a turkey and stuffing and cranberr…”
“Nope,” I interrupt her and sip my coffee.
She turns the stove off and rounds the counter, putting her hands on my thighs. Sh
e’s actually upset about this.
“It’s not a big deal, makes me appreciate you cooking all the more,” I try to kiss her but, she pulls back.
“Cole,” her eyes are searching mine. “Christmas dinner?”
“Em,” her eyes are growing glassy, and now she’s looking at me like I am the dog who’s been kicked. “It’s fine, let’s eat.” She lets me pull her in closer by the backs of her thighs, and I nuzzle her neck. “Or I could just eat you,” I try to lighten the mood, but also, fuck food, I could sustain life on Emily in my bed.
“It’s not fine,” she pulls back. “I should have made you come to my house for the holidays.”
“So the Major General could rip me to shit? Yeah, that would have gone over well.”
Fuck. There’s a tear ready to spill out of Em’s eye at any moment. I didn’t mean to ruin this sweet thing she’s done this morning, and I wasn’t vying for sympathy. It’s really not a big deal.
“He would have let you.”
“He would have poisoned me.”
I think she forgets how much her father hated me then, and his opinion of me has not improved any over the years. It’s gotten infinitely worse.
But she doesn’t know that.
“What have you done on all the holidays since you left?”
Stalked your social media then drunkenly fucked nameless women until I passed out, mostly.
“Nothing,” I answer, instead.
Her hands circle my shoulders, and I feel her tears hit my skin. “Don’t cry. Come on, I want to eat whatever you made. It smells delicious.”