Page 26 of Back for Seconds

“Alright,” I said on a laugh. “You’re yanking my chain.”

“No! Seriously. The sweetness of the pomegranate molasses paired with the tart spice of the olive oil… The savory roasted red pepper with the coarse salt?” She brought her fingertips to her lips and kissed them. “Genius, Joseph. Genius!”

The tips of my ears suddenly felt very warm. “Thanks. I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time. Sometimes I feel like a fraud posting my recipes because who even knows if they’re good?” This was aimed at my plate. I couldn’t look up as I finished the thought. “My ex wasn’t really into the vegan angle.”

A moment of silence passed while June chewed and I felt deep, sudden regret for mentioning my ex. We hadn’t been this quiet since she’d arrived; it was almost startling. I took a sip of wine and finally met her eyes again. She was watching me, worrying steadily at her bottom lip, eyes narrowed. June looked at me like she was pulling me apart, like she could see through whatever I was playing at and straight into what I felt.

Finally, she said, “The loss of her fucking life.”

***

June was my biggest fan and my harshest critic. Each bite that passed through her lips was met with an immediate outpouring of praise and enthusiasm or tight-lipped consideration. The worst part was I couldn’t even argue with anything she said. She knew food. Years of watching her dad and uncles cook, of working in and around kitchens, of tasting and testing, June had the culinary discernment I’d dreamed of developing. The best part was that I got to watch her.

The eggplant balls—a vegan recreation of my grandmother’s veal and eggplant meatballs—were an immediate hit. She spent at least three minutes deconstructing the way I’d perfectly captured the diverse textures and moisture levels with my secret mixture of olives, baked eggplant, breadcrumbs, and herbs.

The cauliflower cutlet with chimichurri was less successful. “You need a smoker,” she mused, holding a bite of seared cauliflower up between us, squinting at the bite of food. “Something to make this melt-in-your-mouth tender. Something that will make the umami go crazy.”

“Make the umami go crazy,” I repeated, leaning forward. I watched how the light caught her in eyes, watched how they widened in thought, pulling in more of the overhead warmth. Through the thin material of her sweater I caught a glimpse of the ink on her forearms stopping around her elbow, then picking up again across her chest. I tried my best to keep my gaze settled on her heart-shaped face, but there was something about her long, dark hair pulled over her shoulder that drew my eyes down and over her body.

I didn’t want to stare—to make her uncomfortable. But it was hard to keep my eyes from wandering.

I didn’t have the same chest buzzing, finger tingling, full-body reaction to June here as I had in her house—which was simultaneously unnerving and comforting. Knowing that all those feelings were signs that the blue house and I did have some sort of weird, ancestral grandmother connection made me unreasonably happy. And knowing I was attracted to June, the person, no matter whatever else was also making my chest and stomach seize with excitement. Giddiness.

I wanted to see how close I could stand to her when I poured more wine into her glass. I wanted to see if she’d mind if our knees grazed or our knuckles touched when I cleared her plate. I wanted to make her laugh so hard she covered her mouth.

I had a fucking crush, I guess.

“Ready for the last course?” I asked, clearing out my half-baked cauliflower experiment. I personally thought it was pretty damn good; I’d coated the cauliflower in an imitation egg wash and almond flour, baked and broiled it, trying to get the same combination of tenderness and crispy, comforting crunch I’d get from sinking my teeth into a perfectly fried chicken or beef cutlet.

“More food?” June stretched her arms over her head, tilting her head back. Her sweater pulled up above her belly button, and I spied the bottom of a thin line tattoo. Something floral—feminine but with an edge, a heavy shadow. Just like June. She dropped her arms back to her sides and smiled at me. “I’m going to have to roll home.”

I pulled my eyes away reluctantly. “More food. Something sweet.”

She let out a soft purr of appreciation. “I love sweets.”

Was she doing this on purpose? Maybe it was the five sips of wine I’d had; I barely drank these days. I swallowed against the sudden throb in my throat and busied myself scraping our plates into the trash can and then loading the dishwasher.

“Don’t do that now,” June called out to me. “I’ll help you after.”

“No way. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Why?” She laughed softly. The stool scraped on the floor as she readjusted herself, crossing one of her thighs over the other. “Is this a date?”

I turned away from her, working to quickly plate the small chocolate hazelnut torte we’d share, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. “What else would it be?”

“You did all this for a first date?”

I kept my back to her, heat prickling at the tops of my ears. “This is just how I am.”

“Didn’t your ex move out two days ago?”

Right. I’d somehow managed to forget the context in which we’d met each other: dragged along by our nosy mothers to a Christmas party for some spiritual rehab. I turned back toward the island and placed our shared plate in front of her. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Oh, great. Even better.”

“What’s with the third degree? Did the cauliflower piss you off that much? I like to cook. I made you a meal. Is that illegal or something?” I let out a self-conscious laugh. “I haven’t done this in ten years.”

“No. I’m just…” She shook her head. “I’m a skeptical person now. That’s all.”