Chapter 9: Table for Two

On the Friday before Christmas week, I cooked in Emmett's kitchen for the first time.

I had spent a week with Lacey's voice in my head, saying a man's name like it was already settled.

I had decided to ask him about it before the night was over, and I chopped onions to give my hands something to do.

I'd brought my own onions, because he had run out, and a knife I trusted, because his were all dull.

"Your knives are a crime," I said.

"They're a work in progress."

"You teach shop. You sharpen things for a living."

"I sharpen things for sixteen-year-olds," he said. "At home I just eat."

He stood at my shoulder with his sleeves rolled and a wooden spoon in his fist, watching me chop.

I was good at this.

I had been the one who cooked in 3B for four years, and none of them had ever once asked who did.

"You're holding it wrong," he said.

"I am not."

"Your knuckles are too far forward."

"I have never cut myself in my life."

"Let me show you."

He stepped in behind me and put his hand over mine on the knife.

His other hand covered my knuckles and curled them back, slow and careful.

The whole length of his chest settled against my back.

I stopped breathing for a moment.

The knife went through the onion in one clean stroke.

"See?" he said, near my ear.

"I see."

"Easier."

"Yes."

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