Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
We didn’t converse much, merely exchanging brief “hellos” and “all goods.” Why did I find myself longing to ask her how her day had been? More to the point, why did I wish for her to ask about mine?
She never did, and when Saturday rolled around, I made myself scarce knowing she’d be coming to clean the apartment. I felt distinctly uncomfortable with the situation even though I was the one who’d suggested it. I didn’t want her cleaning my place, but I suspected she wouldn’t accept staying next door if it felt too much like charity. She needed to know she was earning her keep.
So, I took Lissa out to dinner again; only this time when I tried to end the night chastely, she looked upset.
“If you’re not feeling this, you can tell me, Jonathan. I won’t be offended.”
“Pardon?”
She emitted a frustrated laugh. “We’ve been on four dates now, and you haven’t so much as given me a peck on the lips. Come on, I can tell you’re not really into me.”
Once again, I felt like a piece of shit. I was using her as a distraction from my grief, and it wasn’t fair to her. “I’m sorry. I promise this has nothing to do with you. I’m going through some personal things at the moment, and it probably isn’t a good time for me to date anyone.”
“That’s fine. I understand,” she said, surprisingly accepting of the situation as she pulled me into a brief hug. “I hope that whatever you’re going through sorts itself out soon.”
I got back to my apartment just after eleven. It was empty and spotlessly clean. Ada had left the place immaculate, and what was that I smelled? Pulled on by the strings of a memory, my nose led me to the kitchen where a red pot sat on the stove. On top of the pot lay a note written in a messy, scrawled hand. There was something wild in Ada’s handwriting, something that called to me.
Jonathan,
I cooked too much spaghetti (not used to only cooking for one). Anyway, I had this leftover and thought you might like it.
Ada.
I lifted the lid, and the mix of garlic, tomato, basil and olive oil assaulted my senses. This wasn’t just any spaghetti. This my mother’s recipe. I knew it from the subtle vinegary scent of Worcestershire sauce. It wasn’t a typical ingredient in Italian cuisine, but Mam had loved the addition, said it gave the recipe an extra pep.
Acting on instinct, I slid open a drawer and grabbed a fork. I twisted some spaghetti around the tines and shoved it in my mouth. Agony wracked my insides. It tasted exactly like the spaghetti Mam had cooked countless times when I was a kid, and a wave of emotion assaulted me. I dropped the fork, put the lid back on the pot and cried for the first time since I’d heard about my mother’s passing.
I couldn’t … I couldn’t eat this. Couldn’t smell it. I needed it gone.
Fuelled by pain, I picked up the pot and strode out of my apartment and across the hall. I knocked harshly on Ada’s door, and she answered, looking like I’d woken her.
“Jonathan?”
I shoved the pot at her. “Don’t leave food in my place ever again,” I ground out then turned and stormed back to my apartment, leaving her standing in the doorway, a confused and startled expression etched upon her face.
10.
Ada
I stood holding the pot of leftover spaghetti while Jonathan slammed his door in my face with a deafening thud. His abruptness wasn’t what shocked me. No, it was the fact that there had been two lone tears streaming down his face. He’d been crying, and I didn’t understand what happened, nor why my food had offended him so much. Then it dawned on me.
The spaghetti was Leonora’s recipe.
Crap.
I’d been cooking it for so long it had become one of my go-to dishes. I’d completely forgotten that Jonathan’s mother was the one who’d taught me how to make it.
Oh, hell, I was such an idiot.
I hadn’t thought, and that was the problem.
Jonathan always seemed so put together. You’d hardly know he was grieving, but clearly, he was just better at masking internal stuff. The raw grief slashed across his face had my heart clenching for him. Since hearing the news of Dad and Leonora’s passing, I’d cried so many tears I feared I had no more left to shed. But Jonathan hadn’t cried when I’d told him that day in his office, nor had he seemed emotionally distraught during the funeral or on any of the other occasions we’d interacted. Seeing him with tears on his face knocked me off balance. My heart broke for him, and I was struck with the sudden urge to comfort him, to let him know he wasn’t the only one going through the loss of a parent.