by Alyssa Cole
“Oh.” He sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry.”
His voice had gone deep and strained, as if their death meant something to him. Most people were brusque and changed the subject, allowing her to follow their lead. It didn’t bother her. Her emotions were at pH 7.0 when it came to her parents—she’d made sure of it. But the sincerity of Jamal’s apology nudged something inside of her, changing the balance that she had maintained so well.
“Car accident. I barely remember it. Or them,” she said, shrugging away his kindness as she stirred the food.
“That is quite unfortunate.” When she looked at him, hoping her glare would remedy his nosiness, he was staring down at the ground, lost in thought. “And I assume you had no relatives to take you in.”
A pigeon sat on the rail of the fire escape outside the window behind him, tilting its head and staring as it schemed how to get at their meal.
“Nope. I got put into the system. I was a layaway foster kid. A few families put a deposit on me, but none of them ever made the final payment, so to speak. They were nice, with a couple of exceptions. Just never clicked enough with any of them to do the whole ‘forever family’ thing.”
She refrained from telling him about her defective Velcro theory.
“Do you need help?” he asked suddenly. “I noticed yesterday that you have issues with delegating. Rather, you delegate the easier tasks and take on the harder ones for yourself.”
“Well, maybe you also noticed yesterday that sometimes it’s easier for me to do things myself because I’m better at them.”
He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Well, yes, but doing everything yourself isn’t really sustainable, is it? Please. Delegate.”
She stopped stirring the quinoa. “Come chop this cucumber. Dice it so it’s in cubes. Don’t cut your fingers.”
He stood next to her and fumbled with the knife a bit before getting into a chopping rhythm. “What’s layaway?”
She stopped with her fork over a thigh that needed to be flipped.
“Are you some kind of trust fund baby who got his allowance cut off?” She’d asked the question because she was curious, but the contempt in her voice sizzled like the meat in the pan. He was probably the kind of guy who paid cash up front and thought Sallie Mae was a country singer.
There was a pause in his chopping. “Something like that.”
He wasn’t going to elaborate. Well good. She didn’t feel like elaborating anymore either. Ledi flipped the pieces of chicken and pulled out a small cast-iron pan to make the sauce. “Chop the sage next,” was all she said. “And then juice the lemons.”
Jamal’s bicep brushed against hers as they worked quietly. The fresh, green smell of sage mixed with the scent of the meaty carmelization of the chicken. Someone drove by with the latest everpresent pop anthem playing at full blast, but they prepared their meal in silence.
The pigeon cooed outside the window and stepped closer to the glass, and Ledi thought of a study she’d read that described how well the birds remembered human faces. They were more observant than people gave them credit for. She wondered what she and Jamal looked like to it. Paired-off humans who chose to cook dinner together each night, and to share other parts of their lives, too?
It’s just a free meal. And the pigeon isn’t thinking about jack except how to get in on the quinoa action.
“My parents expect a lot from me,” Jamal said. Apparently, he was one of those people who found chopping meditative. “They pin their every hope for the future onto me, so they also want to decide everything for me, down to how I do my job and who I marry. But at least I have parents, so I shouldn’t complain.”
Ledi dropped the sage leaves into the citrus butter, then removed the pan from the heat. “We can stop talking about parents and the lack thereof now,” she said as she poured the sauce over the chicken.
She didn’t look at him as he moved around behind her. She focused on taking up a small bit of quinoa, blowing on it, testing its give between her teeth.
When she finally turned around, he stood next to the table, hands in his pockets. On each of Mrs. Garcia’s bleach-stained plastic place mats sat a perfect dinner setting. The silverware wasn’t as fancy, but he’d apparently retained some of what she’d taught him at the Institute. He’d even folded some paper towels in the elaborate way she’d shown him. She shouldn’t have cared, but it was the look in his eye that got her. She’d been in his position, standing beside a set table hoping that somehow that small gesture made her foster parents happy, showed them how useful she could be . . .
Ledi gave a grunt of approval and turned back to the food. She knew he’d expected a different reaction from the way she caught his shoulders slump from the corner of her eye. He couldn’t know that the coarse sound had been the result of whatever strange reaction was happening in her chest, and happening because of him. Fluttering and fizzing and fluffiness: all kinds of f words.
Feelings. Good ones, that couldn’t be solely attributed to the high of getting a free meal.
She moved away from the stove as he stepped back into the kitchen. The cooking area was bigger than her measly Pullman, but suddenly much too small for the two of them.
When she looked up at him, his gaze was on her face in general, and specifically homed in on her mouth. And then his eyes lifted to hers and the fluttering and fizzing spread from her chest to a portion of her anatomy that she was fairly certain wasn’t part of the respiratory and circulatory systems. She’d have to double-check her anatomy books, because the pulse between her legs felt as strong as a heartbeat and as natural as breathing.
Men had looked at Ledi with lust in their eyes before. The way Jamal looked at her was something entirely new to her. No, that wasn’t true. She’d seen it before. It was the look on Charming’s face when Sleeping Beauty’s eyes fluttered open. The expression of awe that Eric sported when he woke to find Ariel cradling him on the beach. It was the look that she thought only existed in Disney cartoons because it seemed so highly improbable that anyone would ever look at her that way.
And yet, there he was, gaze sparking with mischief and want, corners of his mouth turned up in a hopeful smile. She considered giving him whatever a smile like that would cost her, but she knew all too well how things would turn out.
Defective Velcro. Phospholipid bilayer, activate.
“I have to go,” she said suddenly. Washing her hands and then grabbing her backpack and slipping the heavy load onto her back were autonomic functions.
“Ledi.”
She was heading for the door and kept walking, ignoring him. “I’m really tired, and I have to get up early to run some tests at the lab—”
“Ledi.” This time his voice was commanding, a tone that wouldn’t be ignored, and she turned to face him before she realized it. “Here.”
The open cabinet behind him revealed a treasure trove of Tupperware, and the one in his hand held a portion of the meal they’d made together.
“Thank you for preparing dinner for me,” he said as he handed her the warm plastic rectangle.
“No, that’s okay,” she said, taking a step back.
His gaze narrowed.
“What wouldn’t be okay is you leaving here without some portion of the meal you made,” he said, and pushed the dish into her hands. He opened the door wide enough that she could pass through it without having to touch him. “I had fun. Thank you for spending time with me.”
He wasn’t looking at her with Disney eyes anymore, but the smile he gave bathed her in warmth, like the first ray of sunshine to slip over her after hours spent in the lab.
What the hell are you doing, for real this time?!
She rushed out the door, tossing her thanks over her shoulder as she fumbled her key into the lock and let herself into her apartment. He didn’t linger like a weirdo—his door was closed before she got hers open. She doubted he was watching through the peephole either, although she did just that when she closed her door behind her.
Naledi ignored the delicious smell coming from the Tupperware.
Home. Alive(ish), she texted Portia.
She fed the Grams, took a shower, and then oiled her scalp with the fragrant mixture she’d made after watching several YouTube videos, even though her stomach growled. She pulled her hair up into a bun atop her head and tied on the silk sleep scarf with “I <3 SCIENCE” printed all over it that Portia had gifted her.
When she finally picked up the food, it was barely lukewarm. But as she took the first delicious bite, she wondered if Jamal was doing the same just a few feet away.
She regretted denying herself the sight of him biting into the tender chicken, of the grease and sauce making his already-perfect lips shine enticingly.
She silently cursed Mrs. Garcia and whatever fluke of statistics had brought Jamal much too close to the nucleus of her small world. It didn’t matter in the end—she was going to be so busy with work at the Institute and studying that she doubted she’d see him again. And that was exactly how she wanted it.
Chapter 9
Ledi had already groggily pulled on her black trousers and was halfway through rebuttoning her tuxedo shirt when the phone rang. She was annoyed for a moment—people who called instead of texting were a plague on humanity—but then felt a brief flash of fear. Portia had never responded to her text the previous night. Maybe she’d had too much to drink again. Maybe . . .
But when she grabbed her phone, the name YVES lit up the screen.
“Hello?”
Yves’s angry voice hissed through her phone.
“Don’t come in today. We’re closed for a few days at least,” he growled.
“What happened?” Ledi asked.
“Several people got sick after lunch yesterday and they’re saying they can trace it back to this kitchen! MY KITCHEN.”
“Oh no.” Ledi’s hand went to her stomach as she imagined all the possible bacterial agents she might have been exposed to while working. She didn’t have time for food poisoning. But she’d likely already be sick if she’d eaten anything contaminated.
“See, I told them not to order that prepackaged salad shit and to keep buying from the farmer’s market, but they complained about costs. Now we’re paying for it!” Ledi held the phone away from her ear. “You should see the emails flying back and forth on the Institute’s listserv! Diarrhea this, and projectile vomit that. Everyone is acting like I wiped my ass with the Bibb lettuce before serving them. Jävla fan! The only way I could keep this kitchen cleaner is if I took a blowtorch to it!”
That didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility to Ledi. He might take a blowtorch to the Institute itself if they kept allowing people to besmirch his kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Yves. I know cleanliness is a priority for you.” That earned her a hum of approval. “So I shouldn’t come in at all?”
“No, I’m sorry, but your shifts today and tomorrow are canceled. I’ll give you a call when things settle down but I know you’re leaving for your internship soon. We’ll play it by ear, yes?”
She felt a new surge of panic as he said his goodbyes and hung up, this time thinking about her bank account. She reminded herself that she was fine—she scrimped and saved so that she wouldn’t have to freak out in case of emergency. Or at least not freak out A LOT.
As frustrating as it was, not having to work was one of the nicer things to happen to Ledi in a long time.
Besides the hot dude across the hall, that is.
She thought about Jamal, and the meal they’d cooked the night before. She’d been annoyed at having to take over the preparation, but working side by side had actually been kind of cool. She was used to impersonal dates. Movie theaters and coffee shops and possibly a few hours in the guy’s bed—if that long. She never brought men to her place, let alone cooked with them. She’d certainly never shared so much about her past.
She’d told Jamal about her parents. It didn’t seem like much in the current terrain of social media overshare, but it was way more than she’d ever told a stranger who didn’t work at Child Services. And it hadn’t felt like talking to a stranger, which made it all the more uncomfortable for her.
Her phone vibrated in her hand and she fumbled it, watching with horror and then relief as it landed on the less-hard-than-the-floor surface of her bed.
Hey! I’m on my walk of shameless. Your date with guy next door went well?
Ledi smiled.
It was fine. I ended up bringing my dinner back to my place, so not much of a date.
Wait. What? Was he a weirdo?
He was cool.
Cool enough that you left before sitting down to eat with him?
Yeah.
Did you guys talk?
Yes.
. . . and you liked talking to him?
Yup.
You see what? Ledi began unbuttoning her tuxedo shirt, passed her phone from hand to hand as she tugged it off by the sleeves. She wondered what Jamal was doing across the hall, and then reminded herself she didn’t care.
You’ve sucked it up through some of the shittiest, most boring dates known to humankind. But you left before eating with a cool guy last night.
Ledi rolled her eyes and tapped out her response.
I worked at the lab all day and then the Institute. I was tired.
Suuure.
In other news, I have off from work today.
Wait. What? Which work?
Both. Oh my god, I can go back to bed.
She eyed her textbooks and notes.
Yes! Don’t even think about studying. Go get some sleep.
Ledi felt a little giddy at the possibility of a block of time with nothing to do but recharge.
Maybe we can get lunch at that Brazilian restaurant you mentioned when it opened? My treat! And my former coworker at the Museum of New York City posted that they have an exhibition about historical epidemics. Friend date?
Ledi knew this was, in part, Portia’s way of making up for her late-night wake-up call, but also because despite her flaws, Portia was a caring friend and wanted to give her a reprieve from her daily grind. Ledi wanted to see her—to actually have a conversation that was coherent and would be remembered by both of them—but it was always uncomfortable when Portia made offers like this. The Brazilian restaurant was Michelin starred—lunch there would cost way too much. But Ledi thought maybe that was the point. She wasn’t the only one who confused being useful with being indispensable.
How about we get some pizza? That’s more in my budget.
Hey, you can take free food from some weird guy but not your best friend? I got you. I’ll pick you up at your place.
Ledi sighed and brushed away her annoyance. She had a nap calling her name.
LEDI HAD CHANGED into less formal attire by the time Portia arrived: straight-legged jeans, bright pink slip-on sneakers, and a black scoop neck sweatshirt that hung off of her shoulders. She had nice shoulders, and she suddenly had the urge to show them off.
“Look at you!” Portia gave Ledi a pleased once-over paired with an encouraging nod. “You look so pretty! Is that mascara? And lipstick?”
“It’s lip stain,” Ledi said. “I actually found it on Regina’s website. GirlsWithGlasses has a great ‘makeup for all shades and budgets’ section. The site has really blown up. You must be proud.”
“Yeah, Regina always succeeds when she puts her mind to something,” Portia replied, her gaze becoming distant as it always did when Ledi brought up her twin sister. Ledi knew twinhood could be a fraught thing, but when your sister ran one of the most popular geek sites, it was bound to come up from time to time.
“Do you want to do the museum or get drinks instead?” Portia asked suddenly.
“The museum. It’s like noon,” Ledi said. “Your liver sent me a text asking for the day off, too.”
Portia was silent for a long moment, apparently not appreciating the not-quite joke, and the fun day that Ledi had imagined began to slip through h
er fingers. She didn’t feel like arguing. She wanted to enjoy her brief window of freedom.
Portia seemed to shake off whatever was bugging her and smiled. “You’re right. And I’m kind of excited about this exhibit. I can introduce you to the curator afterward if you want, and you can talk about science shit. Oh! Maybe they’d want to have you come in and do a talk!”
Ledi’s tension disappeared as Portia launched into some grand plan for Ledi’s future as a world renowned public scientist. She was always trying to push Ledi toward better things, even when she seemed to have no idea what she wanted from her own life.
Ledi grabbed her favorite purse, which was shaped like an amoeba, and declined to tell Portia which website she’d spotted it on as they headed out into the hall and she locked up behind them.
Ledi had always been extra perceptive of her surroundings, or for as long as she could remember at least. It was a necessary skill when you moved from one stranger’s house to another and had to adjust to new guardians and siblings on a somewhat-regular basis, no matter how caring they were. Maybe that was why she was already staring toward 7 N when the door swung open.
Jamal stood still for a moment, looking as good as ever in a V-neck tee patterned with swirls of black and gold, a dashiki of sorts, and those perfectly fitted jeans of his, in dark blue this time.
“Howdy, neighbor,” he said with a grin, as if that was a completely normal thing people said to one another.
“Well, hello,” Portia replied, her amusement clear. “Did you just move here from Mayberry?”
“They play reruns of that show where I’m from, too.” he said, flashing his smile. “We’re no New York City, but not quite as provincial as that.”
“And where are you from, exactly?” Portia asked, but Jamal had already transferred his gaze to Ledi. She remembered how he’d looked at her the night before, but could find little trace of it now. Only a reserved friendliness. He bent forward at the waist a little.
