Kiss and Cry

“Mmm. That would be amazing.” The idea of a hot, home-cooked dinner at Henry’s place with actual furniture and Esmeralda filled me with a kind of peace I hadn’t felt since I woke up in Torino with him still snuggled in bed beside me. Watching me.

As I’d blinked blearily at him, he’d whipped his head away, pink flushing his cheeks. It had taken all my willpower not to roll on top of Henry and kiss him until nothing else mattered.

“What kind of slow cooker do you have? Is it the Instant Pot? I heard that thing makes yogurt too. I should cook more. Actually, I was thinking maybe we could, like, divide and conquer when it comes to food? I’m not a great cook, but I can do a few things all right. I should be better about packing lunches and stuff. My mom used to say—”

Ugh, why was I bringing her up? I was still holding the small rolled-up Doritos bag, and shame shuddered through me. I crushed the remaining chips into crumbs, crinkling the bag.

“We’ll get groceries Saturday morning and prepare for next week.”

“Yeah, okay. Cool. Thanks.”

I exhaled, shoving the massacred Doritos back in my bag. I’d throw them out later, along with the Butterfinger. It really would make me feel shitty in the morning. Not that I was never going to enjoy sugar again, but Henry was right. I didn’t like feeling ugh.

“Tomorrow’s Friday? My days are all messed up. And I guess Christmas is next week? You’re not going to Vancouver? Obviously not. I’m not going to Chicago either. Too much training to do. It’ll be weird to have two days off during the week. We could do more cooking, maybe? Unless you have local plans for Christmas. Not that you have to spend Christmas with me!”

“I’m visiting my grandfather at his assisted-living facility in the morning.”

“I didn’t know you had any family here. Cool. That’ll be nice. Do you see him a lot?”

“Most weekends.”

“Cool.” I was saying that too much. “Thanks again for picking me up.” We were past Scarborough now and into Pickering, so it wouldn’t be much longer. “It’s good to be back. And thanks for—” I waved my hand, trying to think of the best way to say it. “Hanging with me in Torino.”

He nodded and looked over his shoulder before changing lanes. He was so responsible. Since when had I found that unbearably sexy?

After we’d woken together in Torino, we’d had to get our shit together for gala practice. Henry had barely said a word like usual. But I’d missed him as soon as he’d left my room.

And now being back in his practical Honda—I bet he knew the safety ratings off the top of his head—I felt settled again.

“I’ll cook for you tomorrow,” I said. “And for me. Oh, but we need to get groceries first, so I’ll order healthy takeout for you tomorrow. And for me. Then I can cook on Saturday. What should I make?”

“I’ll send you a recipe.”

“Okay! Nothing too fancy.”

“Stir fry isn’t fancy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I can do that. Mostly. Probably!”

Getting back on the ice tomorrow would be hard—it was amazing how less than a week off could feel like eons when you laced up again—but I couldn’t wait for the weekend. I’d cook Henry the best stir fry ever. Or die trying.

“Watch the almonds. They’ll burn.”

“Yep.” I glanced at the raw slivered almonds in the little frying pan before turning back to the fridge.

Saturday night dinner was almost done. We were in Henry’s condo since he had all the cooking stuff—not to mention chairs and real furniture—and he’d hovered until I’d shooed him out of his own kitchen. I had this covered.

He sat at the little round table beside the kitchen doing one of his crosswords, one foot tucked under him. He said again, “Careful with the almonds.”

With an exasperated eye roll, I glanced at the stove before turning back to the green onions that needed chopping. They had to be added at the end so they didn’t wilt, which was apparently what happened if you put them in earlier according to Henry.

I said, “Almonds are still raw.”

I started chopping the onions, and what seemed like a split second later, the unmistakable smell of burning tickled my nostrils. I whirled and yanked the pan off the burner. “Damn! They burned!”

Sitting at the table, Henry gave me a look that said, no shit. Esmeralda came out from where she’d curled by Henry’s feet and crossed to the windowsill over the bed, as far from the stench of my shitty cooking as she could get.

I stirred the burnt almonds glumly with a wooden spoon. “But they were raw a second ago!”

“This is why you have to monitor them.”

“I was trying to multitask.”

“If you’d allow me to help—”

“No, no. I’m doing this for you.” I lamely added, “And me. Gotta pull my weight here. It’s fine—I’ve got it.”