Chapter Seven ( One Time Exception)
1339 Words
I woke up before dawn, determined to cook breakfast before he woke up. I'd show him I could manage just fine without his commentary.
I crept to the camping stove, started setting up my pot. I was extra quiet, moving slowly, carefully.
"You know I can hear you, right?"
I jumped, spun around. He was lying on his mattress, eyes still closed.
"I thought you were asleep."
"Hard to sleep when someone's clanging pots." He opened one eye, looked at me. "Isn't this exactly what you complained about yesterday?"
"That was different."
"How?"
"It just was." I turned back to my cooking, filled the pot with water.
"Hypocrite."
"Insufferable."
"Creative." He sat up, stretched. "We need to establish rules."
I paused. "Rules?"
"Yes. Rules. Because clearly we can't coexist peacefully." He stood up, walked over. I took a step back instinctively.
"We need a cooking schedule. Times when each of us gets the stove."
"Fine. I cook from six to eight in the morning."
"No."
"No?"
"I'm already up at six. I'm not changing my schedule for you." He crossed his arms. "I get six to eight. You get eight to ten."
"That's not fair. You get the good morning hours."
"Life isn't fair. Get used to it." He grabbed a piece of paper from his bag, started writing. "I cook dinner from six to eight, you get eight to ten ."
"So I have to eat all my meals late?"
"Or you could learn to cook faster." He looked up at me. "Though based on your skill level, you'll need all the time you can get."
I snatched the paper from him. "Fine. But I want it in writing that you stay on your side of the rooftop during my cooking times."
"Agreed. And you stay on yours during mine."
"Obviously."
"Good." He grabbed the paper back, kept writing. "No commenting on each other's cooking."
"That's rich coming from you."
"I'm serious. You don't comment on mine, I don't comment on yours." He paused. "Even though yours is objectively terrible."
"You literally just broke your own rule."
"The rule starts now." He finished writing, handed me the paper. "Sign it."
I read through his messy handwriting. Cooking schedule, quiet hours, designated sides of the rooftop, no personal questions, no commentary on cooking skills.
"This is ridiculous."
"This is necessary." He pulled out a pen. "Unless you want to keep fighting every single day."
He had a point. I took the pen, signed my name at the bottom. He signed his below mine.
"There. Now we're legally bound to ignore each other." He folded the paper, tucked it under a rock on his side. "Try not to violate the terms immediately."
"Same to you."
He went back to his corner. I went to mine. We existed in hostile silence.
At eight exactly, he finished cooking, cleaned his area, retreated to his mattress. I approached the stove like I was entering enemy territory.
I tried to make eggs. They stuck to the pan, broke apart, turned into rubber. I tried to make rice. It came out gummy, tasteless. I tried to make vegetables. They burned on one side, stayed raw on the other.
Every single thing I attempted was a disaster.
But true to our agreement, he didn't say a word. He just lay on his mattress reading a book, occasionally glancing over with what looked like physical pain on his face.
By the time my cooking slot ended, I had a plate of inedible food and a bruised ego.
I ate it anyway. Choked down every terrible bite.
The day passed in tense silence. We moved around each other like magnets with the same charge, always maintaining distance, never speaking.
At six PM he cooked dinner. The smell was torture. Garlic, ginger, something savory that made my mouth water. I lay on my mattress, pressed my face into my pillow, tried not to inhale.
Eight PM came. My turn. I pulled out my ingredients, approached the stove.
I tried to make soup. Added water, added vegetables, added rice. It should have been simple.
It wasn't.
The vegetables turned to mush. The rice clumped together. The whole thing looked like something you'd serve to punish your enemies.
I stared at it, felt something crack inside me. I was so tired. So hungry. So completely out of my depth.
"Your mom never taught you to cook?"
His voice came from across the rooftop. Quiet, almost curious.
I froze. The spoon in my hand started shaking.
"That's against the rules," I said. My voice came out wrong, tight.
"I'm just asking "
"Well don't." I stirred my disaster soup, blinked hard.
"It's none of your business."
"I'm just saying, most people learn from their mothers. Basic things. How to cook, how to..."
"My mother is dead." The words came out sharp, cutting.
"She died when I was seven. So no, she didn't teach me how to cook. She didn't teach me anything because she wasn't there."
Silence. Complete, awful silence.
I kept stirring my soup, kept my back to him, kept blinking hard because I would not cry in front of this stranger.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't know. You don't know anything about me." My voice broke on the last word. I hated myself for it. "Just leave me alone."
More silence.
I heard him move, heard his footsteps on concrete. I tensed, waiting for more questions, more commentary.
Instead I heard the camping stove light. Heard him cooking something.
"What are you doing?" I asked without turning around. "It's my cooking time."
"I know."
"Then why?"
"Just let me do this."
I turned. He was at the stove, his back to me, moving with that same easy confidence. He wasn't looking at me. Wasn't asking questions. Just cooking.
Ten minutes later he appeared at my side, holding a bowl. "Here."
I looked at the bowl. Rice, perfectly cooked. Vegetables, actually edible. Egg, not rubbery. It looked like real food.
"I don't need your pity."
"It's not pity." He pushed the bowl into my hands. "It's an apology. For being an asshole."
I stared at him. At his face which looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. At the bowl of food in my hands.
"You're still an asshole," I said.
"I know." He ran a hand through his hair. "But you should eat. That thing you made looks like it might be toxic."
Despite everything, despite the tears still burning in my eyes, I almost smiled. "It really does, doesn't it?"
"Worst soup I've ever seen. And I've seen some terrible soup."
We chuckled at the same time and I looked down at my creation, at the gray sludge that barely qualified as food. He was right. It was awful.
I dumped it into the trash bag, took his bowl instead. I sat down on my mattress. He went back to his corner.
I took a bite. It was delicious. Perfectly seasoned, actually edible, made by someone who actually knew what they were doing.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"You're welcome." A pause. "I really am sorry. About your mother. And about being a dick."
"You were a dick."
"I was."
"Still are, probably."
"Definitely."
I took another bite, felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. "We're still following the rules though."
"Absolutely. This is a one-time exception."
"Good."
"Great."
We sat in silence, but it felt different now. Less hostile. Still not friendly, but not quite enemies either.
I finished the bowl, set it aside. "Your cooking is annoyingly good."
"I know."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Sounded like one."
"It wasn't."
"If you say so."
I lay down on my mattress, stared up at the darkening sky. My stomach was full for the first time in days. My chest didn't feel quite so tight.
"We're still not friends," I called across the rooftop.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he called back.
"Good."
"Perfect."
But when I closed my eyes, I was smiling.
Just a little.
- Writer
