Read Online A La Carte by Tanita S. Davis - Free Book Online Page B

of sets of sheets, some plain brown curtains, two of Grandma’s rag rugs, and some old, but still reasonably thick, towels on the floor. Simeon, sitting on the bed, gives me the thumbs-up or thumbs-down on everything I pull out.
    â€œNo, Sim, that bedspread is hideous,” I argue as he gives me a thumbs-up on some tufted chenille thing and puts it in his pile. “No one in their right mind would actually be able to sleep under that. Here. Put it in the ‘to go’ pile. Maybe someone can make a quilt out of it.”
    Simeon thinks Grandma’s stuff is great—his word is
retro.
I think it’s hilarious.
    â€œYou just don’t understand art when you see it,” Simeon insists. “That, tacked to the wall, would make a killer background for posters or something. Trust me on this, Lainey. You have no idea how much I’m feeling this.”
    I sigh. I know I have no idea. My room is what reflects my mom’s idea of décor. Up until now, that has worked out okay, because I don’t usually care what things look like as long as there’s enough light to read by and plenty of pillows for when I want to prop up and watch TV. Now the navy blue sheets, denim accent pillows with their white buttons, and white-striped duvet and matching window seat look hopelessly buttoned down and little girlish. Even the signed picture Pia got me of Saint Julia and Jacques Pépin, framed and in the place of honor above my dresser, seems kind of babyish.
    Sim reads my thoughts. “I’ll do your room next,” he consoles me, and I make a face.
    â€œOh no, you won’t. I don’t do chenille.”
    â€œJust wait. You’ll be begging me,” Sim says cheerfully. “Better say yes now,” he adds. “After next week, I’ll start charging.”
    â€œWhatever!” I throw a pillowcase in the direction of his head.
    We pack up two boxes of stuff for Sim and lug them downstairs. “You want anything to eat?” I ask him as he flops on the couch in the den and picks up the remote.
    â€œWhatcha got?” he asks. He has his phone in hand, punching numbers.
    â€œJust some leftovers from the restaurant,” I say, investigating the contents of the refrigerator. “We’ve got soup and rolls and half a cheesecake.”
    Sim grunts and starts talking on the phone. I bring him a slice of dessert and a fork. He keeps talking, arranging with someone to pick up the boxes, gossiping about someone at school, taking bites, and nodding. He keeps his hand on the TV remote, flipping channels and talking. He flips past a cooking show.
    â€œHey!” I grab the remote.
    Sim rolls his eyes and keeps talking.
    It’s another chef with a band in her kitchen (where do they get these people?), but I watch the cooking show anyway and learn how to make grape focaccia. Unbelievably, Sim stays on the cell phone the whole time. He talks until he’s finished the rest of the cheesecake and the credits are rolling down the screen. When he hangs up, I’m a little annoyed.
    â€œSo, I guess the cheesecake was good,” I say, indicating the empty pan.
    â€œWhat? Oh yeah, it was great. Listen, Jared’s on his way over, and he’s going to drop me home, so I’ll see ya, okay?”
    â€œOh.” Disappointment coagulates in my stomach. “Um, okay. Let me know if you need anything else.”
    Sim leans over and gives me a one-armed hug. “Thanks, Laine. As soon as I get settled, I promise I’m making you dinner. You’ll be my first guest.”
    â€œReally?” I laugh and hug him back, disappointment lifting a little. “What, so, we’re having toast?”
    â€œI can cook!” Sim insists. He taps his finger on my nose, eyes narrowed in mock anger. “You’ll be sorry you doubted me.”
    I can’t stop smiling. “Fine. You cook, but I’m making dessert.”
    â€œOh, can you make some of that