Page 76 of Carter

“Guess we’re about to find out.”

“Oh my God!” he says with a laugh. “Had you told me this before, I never would have come over.”

I shake my head, pointing a finger at him. “Now that is crossing a line.”

He laughs, biting on his bottom lip. I try not to stare at it, try to ignore what it does to me. I turn toward the counter and try not to get overwhelmed by everything I need to do, and instead just get to work, following the recipe while Carter sits at my kitchen table, aimlessly scrolling on his phone. We drink beers and chat. It all feels so natural.

“Does it look done?” I ask, squinting my eyes.

Carter shrugs. “Could be. It’s all bubbly on the sides. I think that means it’s done.”

We’re standing shoulder to shoulder, bending over to look into the oven through the glass door at the pie to see if it’s done. I don’t know how to tell. Apparently, neither does he.

“Everything was cooked before I put it together, so it’s not like it’snotcooked.”

“Well, what’s the point in putting it in the oven then?”

“To get the top of the potatoes brown and crispy.”

“Brown and crispy? What’s the point in making mashed potatoes then?”

“Beats me. I just followed the recipe.”

“If the timer is up, it’s bubbling,andeverything was cooked before, I think it’s fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Definitely. It has to be….” Carter glances at me. “Right?”

I shake my head and stand straight to grab the oven mitts. “I’m sure it’s done. Back up.”

He does as I say, and I turn the oven off, open it, and pull out the dish of Shepard’s Pie. It smells good. Looks good, too. Not exactly like the photo, but close enough. Definitely doesn’t look like my mother’s, but I went into this knowing that wouldn’t happen.

I let it sit for about twenty minutes. Carter and I finish our beers, and I bring him to the back patio to show him where I was thinking of setting up furniture and a fire pit. He gets excited about the fire pit.

“S’mores,” he says with a smile.

“Never had a S’more in my life.”

“What?” he barks. “How the hell not?”

I shrug. “Never went camping or anything.”

“Well, yeah, but like… no family gatherings, no cookouts? None of that?”

“None of that,” I say.

His face falls, but then he gets a determined look on his face. “When you get your fire pit, I’ll make you the best S’more ever.”

I look at him. “Promise?”

I don’t know where the word comes from. Or why it hurts. Carter makes me realize all the things I’ve missed out on in my life. Things that never bothered me before, but somehow now… they do.

“Yeah, I promise.”

I plate up the food, and we sit at the table to eat, both of us staring down at our food like it may jump up and run off.

“You’ve never made this before?” he asks, picking up his fork.