Page 13 of The Wild Card

He’s quiet for a moment, still taking it all in. “It’s different.”

I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or a criticism, so I just smile. “Different is good, right? Keeps things interesting.”

He doesn’t answer that. Just nods once and disappears again.

Okay then.

I spend the rest of the afternoon unpacking my kitchen stuff, which is really the important stuff. My stand mixer. My collection of wooden spoons, each one worn smooth from years of use. The cast iron skillet my mom gave me when I published my first cookbook. My grandmother’s recipe box, held together with tape and hope.

By the time I’m done, the sun is setting, and I’m starving.

I make a mug of tea first. I take a sip and then set it on the counter while I dig through the fridge to see what I’m working with.

The answer is: not much. Crew’s refrigerator is terrifyingly organized—everything in clear containers, labels facing out, arranged by category—but it’s mostly protein shakes, eggs, and vegetables that look like they’ve never known joy. I’ll have to fix that.

My few contributions from this afternoon’s grocery run sit on the bottom shelf looking out of place: butter, cream, a block of parmesan, some fresh herbs. The basics to get me through until I can do a real shop.

For now, I grab the pasta I brought, and I start cooking. Garlic in the pan, the sizzle and smell filling the kitchen. Parmesan, butter, a splash of wine. The pasta water boiling, steam rising toward the ceiling.

This is my happy place. Cooking. Creating. Feeding people.

“Something smells good.”

I turn to find Crew leaning against the counter, arms crossed. He’s changed into a different black t-shirt—does he own any other colors?—and his hair is slightly damp, like he just showered.

I try not to think about that.

“Pasta,” I say. “Nothing fancy, just something I threw together. You want some?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got my—” He gestures vaguely toward the fridge.

“Your protein shakes?”

“It’s got everything I need. Nutritionally.”

I watch him pull out one of those sad little bottles, already pre-mixed, and something in my chest hurts. “That’s not food. That’s punishment.”

“It’s efficient.”

“It’s depressing.” I stir the sauce, trying not to judge, and failing. “When’s the last time you had an actual meal? Like, sitting down, enjoying the flavors, not just consuming calories?”

He doesn’t answer, which is an answer in itself.

“Okay, no.” I point my wooden spoon at him. “Absolutely not. You’re eating real food tonight. Non-negotiable.”

“I have a schedule—”

“Your schedule can handle one plate of pasta.” I’m already grabbing a second bowl. “Sit down. Consider this a roommate bonding exercise.”

He looks at me like I’ve just suggested we rob a bank together. But after a long moment, he pulls out a chair and sits.

Victory.

I plate the pasta—penne with basic alfredo sauce, a sprinkle of pepper, a few basil leaves on top—and set it in front of him. Then I grab my own bowl and take the seat across from him. It’s probably one of my favorite meals and I make it often. It takes all of four ingredients and it’s delicious.

“Eat,” I command.

He picks up his fork like it might bite him. Takes a bite. Chews slowly.