Sugar

I opened a can of tuna and let the liquid drain into the sink. I didn’t cook. I grazed on things like veggies and Greek yogurt and granola, filling up only when a client handled the bill. My culinary skills weren’t honed beyond my mother’s four regular dishes, and those recipes weren’t what anyone would call tasty.

Forking through the tuna, I fluffed it in a bowl and squirted some mayo on top. Salt, pepper, and some chopped green olives and there you had it. Mom’s signature dish for funerals around the trailer park.

Fuck. He was going to hate this.

Noah appeared as the noodles were about ready to strain. “You’re sink’s all fixed up.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“No problem. What are you making?”

“Um … pasta.” That sounded better than tuna noodle surprise or whatever the hell this was called.

“Need help?”

“No, you did enough. Just relax, and dinner will be done in a few minutes.” No idea where this Suzie Homemaker talk was spouting from. My mother certainly never used words like that.

I carried the pasta to the sink and drained the water. While it rested in the colander, I searched for a serving bowl. I didn’t own one.

In my bedroom, there was a ceramic dish I used to hold my scarves, and I briefly debated using that but feared it might look stupid. Resigned to nothing but a saucepan, I brought down two plates.

I dressed the table with folded paper napkins—diagonally because that seemed nicer—and silverware I bought at the dollar store. Shit. I had nothing but water or coffee to drink.

Noah was quiet as he waited in the living room, his head tilted down as he paged through something. I rounded the sofa. “Do you have anything to drink at your—”

The blood drained from my face.

I snatched the photo album out of his hands. “Where did you get this?”

“Hey, I was looking at that!”

I clutched the photo album to my chest. “This… This isn’t for sharing.”

“You still look like you did in high school. Do you still have that cheerleader uniform?”

My face burned. “No.”

“What’s wrong?”

Maybe he only got as far as the high school pictures. My mind rapidly tried to recall if there were any incriminating photos—Shit! Prom! We’d taken pictures in front of my mom’s tacky Precious Moments collection, the battered wood paneling and green carpet probably showing behind me and Bobby Pritcher.

“Please don’t go through my stuff.”

He frowned. “Okay. Sorry.”

“Do you have anything to drink at your place? I just have water.” And now I was in need of something much stronger.

“Yeah.” He stood, and the second he left my apartment I flipped open the album and winced.

Me with pimples and horribly frizzy, mousey brown hair. Me with my belly hanging out of a shirt two sizes too small when I was going through my chubby stage. Me holding up a bedazzled denim jacket that had never been in style, even when I traded all my bracelets for it. Our shithole home, my dirty room, the parched, dusty lawn in front of our trailer. I slammed the book shut and stuffed it under the couch.

Maybe he didn’t see past the first few pages. Maybe he just opened to the picture of me and the cheer squad and that was as far as he got.

The door opened, and I returned to the kitchen. Noah placed a bottle of honey bourbon with four lemons and a jar of honey on the counter. “Where’s your shaker?”

Who did he think I was, James Bond? “I don’t own one.”

“I forgot you’re the girl who doesn’t have a corkscrew.”

That wasn’t true. I bought one a few weeks ago after I couldn’t get my wine open.

“How about two plastic cups? I can improvise.”

He was turning into a real MacGyver. I handed him two plastic cups and watched as he expertly squeezed the lemons, added some water, a scoop of honey, ice, and the bourbon. Then he sealed the cups together and shook.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“I bartended in college one semester.”

Was there anything he hadn’t done? And done well? “Oh.” I handed him two glasses, and he poured.

“Taste.”

It smelled delicious. I took a small sip. “Wow. What’s this called?”

“Honey bourbon lemonade. You like it?”

“It’s delicious.”

“Good. Is dinner ready?”

His cocktail was amazing, and I was about to ruin it with my crappy two-dollar dinner. “Yeah. I’ll bring the plates into the dining room.”

We sat next to each other, and I fidgeted with my fork, waiting for him to take the first bite. “If you don’t like it we could order pizza or something.”

“It smells good.” He took a big bite and chewed. “Interesting.”

My shoulders sagged. “You don’t have to eat it. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“No, I like it. It’s different.”

I was pretty sure he was lying, but I let it go, nibbling a bite of my own.