“Can we have hot dogs?” Shade asks.
“No,” Luke responds.
“Fries?”
“No.”
“Pizza?”
“Not tonight.”
“Chicken nuggets?”
Jeepers on a stick. So much for the health food talk that Luke tried to give me. None of those are nutritious.
“It’s a surprise,” Luke says before guiding Shade away from the steps. He doesn’t have to give me a stink eye for me to realize he’s just waiting for me to fail.
Well, eff that. It’s not going to happen. “I’ll make something,” I blurt.
“Kitchen’s all yours. We’ll be in the backyard.” Shade cheers and runs off while Luke follows after him. His expression never changed, but I know he’s dang well satisfied with himself.
I have a moment of panic after they clear out, and my panic only increases when I head into the kitchen. It’s not big and scary with complicated appliances, which works in my favor. Instead, it’s a normal L-shaped kitchen filled with espresso cabinets, a small island, a double stainless-steel sink, and appliances. The same dark hardwood that’s on the rest of the main floor carries through in here. Like most kitchens, there’s a table off to the left, and it’s round and has four chairs. All very normal.
Luke doesn’t appear to be in the same income bracket as Sam or any of her family, and I still think it’s weird she knows him, but whatever. I have bigger fish to fry at the moment. Maybe literally.
My hopes sink when I search the fridge and cupboards and find them basically empty. What the heck do they eat around here? Luke must have been ordering in every night or going for takeout. Shade’s demands make sense then.
I do find a package of unopened macaroni, a jar of pasta sauce, and a very dubious package of frozen sausage that looks like it’s more ice than sausage.
I’ll have to ask for some money or a card and the keys to the vehicle if Luke wants to eat in the future or have me feed Shade. The kitchen seriously looks like the inhabitants of the house cleared out ages ago and sort of forgot a few things on purpose because they’re gross and inedible.
Fudge my life for so many, many reasons. Today just keeps getting better and better.
As I fumble around the kitchen, I happen to glance out the window. There’s a big fenced yard back there. Huge, actually. There’s also plenty of grass and a deck to the side. It’s all very neat, if quite soulless. Shade and Luke are throwing a little yellow toy football around, and I can tell Shade’s laughing even though the house is fairly soundproof. He seems like a happy kid.
I can’t get over how different Luke is when he’s with his son. He’s so warm, so alive. Maybe not happy exactly, but a close approximation. He’s probably the one person on earth who doesn’t force happiness like everyone else. The sadness is still there; it’s just less visible for his son to see.
I turn away from the window and flex my fingers. Maybe I’m going crazy. I’m not usually that perceptive. Everyone always said so. I’m probably just making it all up.
But fake it ‘til you make it, right? I’m going to fake the faking fakest fake out of this dinner. I’ll cook it like a rock star—like a gourmet chef in a five-star establishment.
I stare at the ingredients I’ve set out on the amber flecked granite counter—time for my pre-game pep talk.
“I can do this. Yeah. We’re all able to transform ourselves. I can become a cooking master. I can whip this into shape and cook like there’s no tomorrow. I can chef this up and cook the shit out of it. The internet is my friend. Recipes are my friend. Tutorials are my friend. Macaroni is my friend. Sausage is my friend.” No. That just sounds wrong. Sausage is not my friend. Not sausage.
I inhale a deep breath, getting myself Zen ready. This isn’t the first time I’ve made myself a meal. Come on. I can use the stove and a microwave.
How hard can it be?
CHAPTER 5
Luke
I have low expectations for dinner. Seriously low. But what I’m not expecting? For Feeney to burn the house down. Literally.
“Look, dad!” Shade points excitedly as the football goes whizzing past his head. I turn to see what he’s pointing at.
Big, thick clouds of grey smoke are billowing out the kitchen window.
“Holy bananas! Stay right here!” I check to make sure Shade is going to obey, but he looks scared at my obvious surprise. He’s not going to go anywhere.
I dart up the deck stairs and let myself in the sliding patio door. I leave it open to clear the smoke out. In the kitchen, I can barely make out Feeney’s shape. The smoke detector is ringing shrilly overhead, but I can still hear her coughing and choking.
I rush past her to the source of the smoke. There’s something in the frying pan on the stove, charred into a hunk so black that it’s entirely unrecognizable. But that’s not the only thing going wrong. There’s a pot that’s smoking away too. I remove them both from the burners and throw them not so gently into the sink.
“What were you trying to do? Burn the place down?”
“Obviously not!” Feeney shouts from behind my back.
I can only guess what’s in those pots. I bend closer to inspect it as some of the smoke clears away. I can’t tell what was in the frying pan, but I think I can make out the elbow curve of a piece of macaroni in the pot.
“Did you boil the macaroni dry?!”
“What do you mean boil?”
“You mean you didn’t add water?! Don’t you know you have to boil water, then put the pasta in?! Sweet cheese and crackers, don’t you know even the basics?”
“That’s cute,” she snaps. “I like that you make an effort not to swear when Shade’s around. Just like I do. Because yes, I know the basics. Sorry I was too busy being stressed about how to make what little is in the cupboards and the fridge and got preoccupied trying to figure out what I’m going to feed your child tomorrow and going through a hundred other things in my head. Yes, I know you have to boil water. I just…forgot.”
My god, this is never going to work out.
Shade saves me from saying something that is best left unsaid. I’m not sure what, but I know it would be foul, coming out. Like those silent but deadly farts that you’re afraid of because you know they’re going to linger for hours after, and everyone will smell it and know it was you.
“Are you barbequing hamburgers?” Shade sniffs. “I think they might be a little bit burned.”
I stare at Shade’s big eyes and innocent expression, and my doubt and anger evaporate. If nothing else, Shade needs this. He needs someone who can be there for him in ways I will never be able to be. Feeney might not know the first thing about cooking, and I might get an alert in the middle of my workday that my house is on fire. She might not be much in the way of an actual nanny, but Shade needs someone he can trust, and I can tell, somehow, that Feeney, if nothing else, is nice. She seems kind and compassionate, which goes a long way. It might even stretch far enough to cover the fact that she doesn’t even know how to cook pasta.
She does seem intelligent, though. The looks she gives me hints at dark, deep, brooding thoughts. You can’t have those if you’re not smart.