Back at the house, after nearly three hours (she must have spent more time talking to James than she realised), just around two o’clock, Uncle Stephen was still in the garden. When she went to talk to him, it looked like he hadn’t even been inside once to cool off; he looked at her and she knew what to do. She went back into the kitchen and handed him a glass of water; the sheer gratefulness in his eyes surpassed that of the parents of a small cancer patient towards a doctor who had at long last, after all these years, cut out the last tumour.
She rolled her eyes and told him to take a break. He shook his head and assured her that he was okay he had put on sun cream, or sun screen as he called it, so “no worries”. She left him and scavenged the fridge for something she could prepare for lunch. She settled for an omelette and took out three gas, one and a half each, since the note on the fridge door which indicated that Beth and Molly had gone to lunch together; it said “please could you quickly threw some leftovers for the three of you as Ethan is coming for lunch”.
Ever since last night when she almost kissed him willingly, the words ‘Ethan’ and ‘want’ and ‘need’ and ‘lust’ had all tangled together like used plasticine and she didn’t feel like separating the mess of colours. Not now anyway; she wanted to give it a few days so she could sort it all out after much thought she could decide that no, she didn’t fancy the pants off of her childhood rival/friend and she could focus on finding a guy worthy of a summer fling.
As if right on cue,
Ethan should not have looked shocked because she was currently living here, but it did anyway. Though, his face displayed not so much shock, but more horror, as in 'ah-shit-I'd-forgotten-about-what-happened-with-us-and-now-I-have-to-act-like-I-didn't-nearly-kiss-you' horror.
"Hi," she said, or more accurately, croaked. It was super attractive, don't you worry dear reader.
"'Sup," he said sharply, looking down at the cooking utensils and eggs, cheese and milk set out across the centre counter. "What are we," he coughed, "What are we having?"
"Cheese omelette," she replied, her voice about an octave higher than usual. "That is, if you like cheese omelettes? Otherwise I can probably fix up something else? There's like pizza in the freezer; I think there's marguerite and fungi and --"
"Cheese omelette is fine," he said, raising his hands up to stop her rambles. And it pleased her to see that there was a small smirk playing at his lips. If she kept this up and didn't mention their near kiss then she could potentially form a sustainable friendship with this new-and-improved Ethan.
"Kay, that's good," she smiled nervously and reached for another egg.
"You want any help?" he offered, from under his long, lush, brown lashes. Did he mean to be doing this? Was he aware of this power he could have this over women? Was he even single? If so, why was he single when he could simply look at a girl from a certain angle and their hearts would twist itself into a not that left you breathless? These were all very good questions.
"I, er, well, ah," she started. "You could, um, ah, spread the vegetable oil on the frying pan; that'd help so I can focus on mixing up all the, er, stuff."
"Sure."
She just looked at him from the side and watched him work. He must have noticed because, was it just her imagination, but he seemed like he wore a smug grin when he met her gaze. So it looked like he was vaguely conscious of his looks.
She blushed but in an effort to appear a more in control she waited before looking away.
“Anything else?” he asked, but she did not dare look him in the eyes for she feared of what it might do to her.
“Turn up the heat,” she answered and went to fetch the oregano.
In her mind, when she turned around, Ethan would be leaning against the stove, looking at her as intensely as he had last night on the beach. She would stare back at him challengingly, clutching the edge of the counter for dear life and he would swoop over, take her face in his hands and kiss her fervently. It wouldn’t even particularly lead anywhere; it didn’t have to, all that would matter in that moment was that unstoppable, unforgivably and criminally sweet kiss that made her forget her middle name.
But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. She didn’t even know why she thought it could have been plausible for one second; instead, when she turned around, Ethan was standing a few feet away from her, not even looking like he was interested in kissing
“So, what have you done so far today? More surfing?” she asked politely, pouring the contents of the bowl into the pan. The soft sizzle relaxed her slightly, as if it was whispering to her to calm down and remember to breathe. It’s just Ethan, he’s just a person; you still have scars on your knees because of him and he shouldn’t get away with it that easily just because he has soft green eyes.
“Nah, I went to swim and do some jogging,” he had pulled out some potato chips from the cupboard and chewed on one absentmindedly. He offered the bag to
“That makes sense,” she told him, eating another chip. She pushed some of the omelette forwards and tilted the pan so that some of the parts that were still liquid could go onto the hot part of the pan and fry properly. She’d had lots of practice over the years for making omelettes as she grew up with two writer parents; when a deadline is due, it’s not like they wouldn’t look after them, but more like it was more advisable to just leave them alone to wrap up whatever they were writing, which in her mother’s case would be whatever chapter of whatever book, while her father, being a journalist, was much more pressed for time than she, and usually had a mini-breakdown before turning in a column. When sometimes they overlapped, her and Georgia just left them to it and made beans on toast, which slowly, after purchasing cookbooks, evolved to more intricate and sophisticated meals. Omelettes were her specialty, mostly because it was one of the first ‘complicated’ ones she had managed to successfully fabricate.
She bit her lip as she folded it in half; here came the part she always, no matter how many times she cooked an omelette, got nervous about. She held the pan above the flame and shook the omelette free, preparing both it and herself; she knew from her peripheral vision that Ethan was looking at her curiously, but she carried on regardless. Taking a sharp intake of breath, she quickly did the necessary snapping motion with her wrist and kept her eyes on the omelette and stealthily caught it.
She let out a triumphant high-pitched squeal without meaning to and jumped up and down, clapping her hands together. She stopped when she realised Ethan was right there, next to here, wearing an amused, bemused expression; she cleared her throat and laughed.
“Sorry, I always get too excited when I manage to do it,” she explained sheepishly still holding the pan nervously.
“No it’s fine, don’t mind me. It’s not like I could do it,” he said and took another potato chip and ate it.
“It’s easy!” she insisted and took his hands and placed them around the handle of the pan. Her hands were over his and she was quite aware of how if someone walked in, namely Uncle Stephen, it could be misinterpreted as her flirting with him, but that was not the case (in fact, he, as a psychologist could possibly to look into it more than anyone else could). No really. Well, not really. She was only throwing it back at him; he was going to be all suggestive and then act like it was nothing, then so could she; it was all in good fun. Also, she wanted to spread the gift of being able to flip any substance on a pan: you could use it for tortillas and pancakes as well as omelettes! It was an investment skill, it was. "I'll show you."
She leaned back into him and felt his body stiffen (not in that way, you perverted reader) and felt the same kind of pride that Ethan must have.
She looked up to him and showed him what to do, "All you do," she said, "is shake it like this," she paused to show him the motion, "and get ready to catch it."
She stepped away partly to let him do it himself, and partly to gauge his reaction; she was oddly pleased to see that he seemed relatively flustered. That right, she thought, two can play at that game.
"You ready?" she asked, her hands on her hips as she did her best to sound nonchalant. In her opinion, she had done so successfully, but she was biased.
She watched as he, still frowning, just did as he was told and looked questionably at the pan down he was holding, as if he was only just noticing it was even there. He looked over at her, as if to say, 'I-don't-really-think-this-is-a-good-idea-because-could-potentially-ruin-the-lunch-you-have-just-prepared'. She just nodded in encouragement and waited.
He swiftly copied her movements exactly and actually managed to catch it. He laughed in relief; the kind of high pitched, kind of embarrassing, laugh that was too contagious for
"Well done," she said shakily, still laughing, mostly due to relief herself; it might be strange to some how the atmosphere could change so quickly between them; she preferred this lighter, friendlier mood, personally and hoped to maintain it whenever she saw him, and let's face it, it was going to be a lot; she was glad that within those moments it wouldn't be so hard to distract herself from how attracted she found herself to him. Everyone is attracted a little to their guy friends, right? She, after all, looking at her history, was an example of that: she'd only crushed on guys who were her friends before; then again, that might simply be called having morals, but she liked to believe otherwise. "You proud of yourself?"
"Very actually," he admitted. "I can see why you squealed. It is quite the feeling of accomplishment."
"I know, right," she agreed, using the spatula to cut the omelette into three mildly equal pieces. She left it there in the pan so it could stay warm while she heated up some rice and took out some of the salad that Auntie Molly had put out from a previous dinner or lunch, or knowing Auntie Molly, a possible spontaneous, random craving for salad. Auntie Molly may have never had kids, but that meant that instead of having the cravings only throughout those nine months, she would have them completely out of the blue have a passionate desire for random food.
Happy holidays and thanks for reading this past year!
Mel.
