Read Online Life From Scratch by Melissa Ford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melissa Ford
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to throw her coat on my bed and adjust her bra. I know her that well.
“Hey, sweetie, this is Pete,” Ethan says. “And Gael is already here.”
“Hi, Pete,” I say, offering out my hand. The man takes it limply, as if he has been told to apply the least amount of pressure possible lest he fracture some of my fingers. He is the polar opposite of Gael, and I do mean polar . His skin is beyond white, as if he has been gessoed. A piece of white meat chicken. His hair is this pale orange, as if it couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to have a color or not.
And his skin is cold.
Gael’s hand is warm and dry when he places it on my shoulder and asks if I want him to pour some wine for everyone. I flounder for a moment and then will my head to nod.
Arianna emerges from the bedroom area—I have a studio, so screens around the bed have to suffice—examining a stain of unknown origins on her shirt. Perhaps Beckett’s spit-up or remnants of his old bottle. She leans against the counter, smiling wanly at me while avoiding eye contact with Pete.
“What did you make?” she asks, accepting a glass of wine from Gael.
“Well, Gael, I don’t know if Ethan told you,” I start, staring at Arianna for confidence, “but I’m just learning how to cook after thirty-four years of eating out and ordering in. So . . . I made some pasta. And a steak salad. And I cheated and bought the bread and dessert.”
I had felt like a rock star before they arrived, but now, listing out the menu, I realize that it sounds like a meal prepared by a middle school student in her Home Ec class. Noodles? Salad? The only thing this meal needs to look more amateur is an apple brown betty made in an EZ Bake oven.
I am acutely aware that Gael is standing next to me.
“It sounds great. I’m starving,” my brother announces. “Let’s eat.”
When we get to the table, we do the dance. Where I’m waiting to see where Gael sits, and I think he’s waiting to see where I sit. He stands with his body behind one chair and his hand resting on the one beside it while I linger by the counter as if I need to break its magnetic pull before I can venture over to a seat. I take the chair to Gael’s right and stand next to it for a moment to mark my territory, even though I need to go back into the kitchen to serve the meal.
I take special care as I walk each dish over to the table—not because the bowls are heavy, but because I am terrified that I’m going to end up standing in a pool of pasta. I can’t even pinpoint why I’m nervous. Is it the fact that strangers are eating my cooking for the first time? The fact that Gael Paez has a small, alluring gap between his top teeth? That he smells incredible—like cinnamon and winter and darkness and sex.
Sex.
I set the final bowl on the table—the lobster-shaped one with the vinaigrette-splashed steak salad—and take my place. I’m suddenly not hungry at all until Pete says, “It’s always a bad sign when the chef isn’t eating.”
Really, that’s all it takes before I decide that I hate Pete. Even my brother, who usually has a terrible case of oral diarrhea, gives Polar Pete a look. I wonder how they know each other or why Ethan ever thought he’d be a good addition to my first dinner party. I help myself to the end piece of the crusty bread.
“ A mucha hambre, no hay pan duro ,” Gael says, mostly to Pete.
“I’m don’t know what that means,” Pete replies, somehow sensing that the words are meant for him.
“It means beggars can’t be choosers. It means when you’re hungry, there’s no stale bread. Rachel made this wonderful meal, and we should be grateful that Ethan invited us to eat this food and drink this wine and meet his sister.”
I watch to see what Gael puts on his plate. Whether he’s leaning more towards the salad or the carbs. I hope he’s not the sort of person who eschews white flour. I try to discern whether he’s smiling while he chews. It sort of looks like a
“Hey, sweetie, this is Pete,” Ethan says. “And Gael is already here.”
“Hi, Pete,” I say, offering out my hand. The man takes it limply, as if he has been told to apply the least amount of pressure possible lest he fracture some of my fingers. He is the polar opposite of Gael, and I do mean polar . His skin is beyond white, as if he has been gessoed. A piece of white meat chicken. His hair is this pale orange, as if it couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to have a color or not.
And his skin is cold.
Gael’s hand is warm and dry when he places it on my shoulder and asks if I want him to pour some wine for everyone. I flounder for a moment and then will my head to nod.
Arianna emerges from the bedroom area—I have a studio, so screens around the bed have to suffice—examining a stain of unknown origins on her shirt. Perhaps Beckett’s spit-up or remnants of his old bottle. She leans against the counter, smiling wanly at me while avoiding eye contact with Pete.
“What did you make?” she asks, accepting a glass of wine from Gael.
“Well, Gael, I don’t know if Ethan told you,” I start, staring at Arianna for confidence, “but I’m just learning how to cook after thirty-four years of eating out and ordering in. So . . . I made some pasta. And a steak salad. And I cheated and bought the bread and dessert.”
I had felt like a rock star before they arrived, but now, listing out the menu, I realize that it sounds like a meal prepared by a middle school student in her Home Ec class. Noodles? Salad? The only thing this meal needs to look more amateur is an apple brown betty made in an EZ Bake oven.
I am acutely aware that Gael is standing next to me.
“It sounds great. I’m starving,” my brother announces. “Let’s eat.”
When we get to the table, we do the dance. Where I’m waiting to see where Gael sits, and I think he’s waiting to see where I sit. He stands with his body behind one chair and his hand resting on the one beside it while I linger by the counter as if I need to break its magnetic pull before I can venture over to a seat. I take the chair to Gael’s right and stand next to it for a moment to mark my territory, even though I need to go back into the kitchen to serve the meal.
I take special care as I walk each dish over to the table—not because the bowls are heavy, but because I am terrified that I’m going to end up standing in a pool of pasta. I can’t even pinpoint why I’m nervous. Is it the fact that strangers are eating my cooking for the first time? The fact that Gael Paez has a small, alluring gap between his top teeth? That he smells incredible—like cinnamon and winter and darkness and sex.
Sex.
I set the final bowl on the table—the lobster-shaped one with the vinaigrette-splashed steak salad—and take my place. I’m suddenly not hungry at all until Pete says, “It’s always a bad sign when the chef isn’t eating.”
Really, that’s all it takes before I decide that I hate Pete. Even my brother, who usually has a terrible case of oral diarrhea, gives Polar Pete a look. I wonder how they know each other or why Ethan ever thought he’d be a good addition to my first dinner party. I help myself to the end piece of the crusty bread.
“ A mucha hambre, no hay pan duro ,” Gael says, mostly to Pete.
“I’m don’t know what that means,” Pete replies, somehow sensing that the words are meant for him.
“It means beggars can’t be choosers. It means when you’re hungry, there’s no stale bread. Rachel made this wonderful meal, and we should be grateful that Ethan invited us to eat this food and drink this wine and meet his sister.”
I watch to see what Gael puts on his plate. Whether he’s leaning more towards the salad or the carbs. I hope he’s not the sort of person who eschews white flour. I try to discern whether he’s smiling while he chews. It sort of looks like a
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