“I did.”
“Christ. Okay, you are sworn to secrecy. Give me that bag.”
Laughing, I handed him the bag and a fork, and we dug in together.
16
Becca
“What’s for dinner?” I asked as Nick pulled into his driveway. I was half expecting him to say pizza or Chinese takeout, so it surprised me when his option was something homemade.
“Chicken and rice,” he said.
“Like, as in you are going to cook something?” I asked incredulously.
“I’m an adult, Becca. I can use an oven,” he said reproachfully. “Besides, I get one of those boxes where they send you the ingredients and a recipe. It’s really easy.”
Ah, that made sense. Still, I wasn’t going to rain on his parade and make a snide comment. Truth was it was nice that someone was cooking for me. Melissa might be my best friend, but her attempts at cooking were often met with calls to the fire department. Cooking for myself often seemed like a lot of work for very little benefit. It would be nice for someone else to make something for me, and it was sweet that my brother wanted to do it.
We went inside, and I sat down in the living room to watch TV while he cooked. I asked if he needed help, and he shooed me out of the kitchen, saying he needed his concentration or else he would screw it up. I made it through an entire episode of a game show when he announced that dinner was almost ready. I hopped up, grabbed plates and utensils, and set the table, sitting down just in time for him to bring a smoking skillet out piled high with rice and chicken.
“This looks delicious,” I said as he sat it down on a wooden block.
“It is. I order it as often as possible,” he said.
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of learning new recipes?”
“Not if you keep forgetting to save the recipe cards.”
“You know they have those recipes online,” I said.
“Ah, well,” he said, sitting. “Shit.”
I laughed at his delivery until I was red in the face and gasping for breath. My brother always had a way of making me laugh.
“So,” he said as he took a mouthful of food, clearly violating every rule in every manners book ever of not talking while eating, “do you have a thing for Tyler?”
I nearly dropped my fork and had to readjust my grip on it to make sure it didn’t clatter onto the plate and answer his question with my awkwardness.
“Hmm?” I said, trying to buy time.
“Tyler. My best friend. Who you have been hanging around with a lot and who has been talking about you more than usual,” he said.
“He has?” I asked, and as his eyes grew wide, I realized quickly that I needed to cover my tracks. “No, I don’t have a thing for Tyler. Nothing going on there. For sure.”
“Yup,” he said, taking another bite. “You’re lying. It’s all over your face.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have a thing for Tyler. God, it’s so ridiculous. We just keep showing up at the same place, and since he’s your best friend, I feel like I can talk to him. That’s all. I don’t know how it just keeps happening that we end up in the same place, but frankly, Astoria isn’t all that big of a place, you know?”
My heart was beating through my chest, and I tried to control my breathing. I knew when I lied, my nostrils flared. It was something he’d pointed out to me years ago when we were kids and I’d lied about being out late one night with a friend.
“Well, you better not have a thing for him,” he said, taking another bite of his food and washing it down with a beer. “He’s off-limits.”
I stuck my fork into the delicious chicken, which I was still having a hard time believing my brother cooked and looked at him curiously.
“I’m sorry, did you say he’s off-limits?”
“He’s too old for you,” he said dismissively. “You should be dating guys your own age.”
Suddenly, what had been a big brother talking to me as a peer became another lecture. Another instruction from someone who felt like they had some agency over my life. It was everything I had tried to escape when I left Mom and Dad’s. It was everything I thought I was avoiding by being at Nick’s. I stood up, taking my plate with me, and started walking down the hall.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m taking my dinner to the bedroom so I can pack,” I said.
“Pack?” he asked. “You just got here. Where are you planning on going?’
“Melissa’s,” I said and slammed the door shut behind me.
He didn’t knock or try to stop me, and by the time I had finished the plate, I was packed, and I walked into the kitchen, washed it, and put it in the drainer to dry. I didn’t even say goodbye before walking out the door. Nick, stewing, sat on the couch and watched me go.