Chapter 7: One Kettle, Three Men

I left the thermos on Caleb's doorstep and went home with my mouth shut and my brain full.

At seven, I was standing in my tiny kitchen with a box of pasta when someone knocked.

It was Asher, holding a single sheet of paper.

"I need to borrow your notes," he said.

"Which class?"

"All of them."

"You don't take notes, Asher."

"That's why I need yours." He walked past me into the apartment and looked around. "It's small."

"It's the size I can afford."

"It smells good."

"It's garlic."

"I like garlic," he said, and sat down.

Before I could close the door, there was a second knock.

Elliott stood there with a covered dish in his hands.

"I owe you a container," he said. "From the sandwiches."

"I didn't give you a container."

"Then I owe you one in advance."

He came in, saw Asher, and stopped.

Asher saw Elliott, and neither of them spoke.

They had each decided to arrive alone, on the same evening, with a terrible excuse.

I put the pasta on to boil and said, "There's one kettle, so you'll have to share."

Then, because it was my rule, I asked what everyone wanted.

"Coffee," Asher said. "Four swallows' worth."

"Tea," said Elliott. "Steeped for three and a half minutes, not longer."

"Okay," I said. "Sit."

They sat on opposite ends of my couch, which is the size of a bench.

I was halfway through the water when the third knock came.

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