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LEAH:
I’d like to. You’ve been so kind.
ME:
What time?
There’s a pause. Oh shit, maybe she didn’t mean tonight.
ME:
Don’t worry if you didn’t mean tonight.
LEAH:
It’s fine. I’m cooking for myself. Say 19:30?
ME:
I’ll be there.
LEAH:
See you then.
I spend the rest of the day in my home office, counting down the hours. A thought hits, will Leah’s friends still be there? My stomach rolls at the prospect. They seemed nice, but...
I pick up my phone, ready to cancel, but put it down again.
Cancelling at the last minute is not cool. I jumped at the chance to see her, not even waiting for a formal invite, so it serves me right.
Grabbing two bottles of wine from my stash, I head to the elevator, taking the trip down one floor. Stepping out, an amazing smell assaults my senses. I follow my nose, and it leads me to Leah’s door. I knock and wait.
The door swings open, and I take in the sight. Leah has changed into blue skinny jeans and a tight-fitting jumper. When she smiles, my mouth goes dry.
“Gabriel, come in,” she says, stepping away from the door to allow me to enter. I step inside. The transformation in such a short time is unbelievable. This place has gone from a sterile apartment to a home in just a few hours. Photos, souvenirs, cushions, throws.
“Quite the transformation,” I say, following Leah towards the kitchen and placing the bottles of wine on the unit. “I wasn’t sure what we were having, so I brought one of each,” I say, gesturing to the wine.
“That’s kind, but you didn’t need to. This is, after all, a thank you meal,” she says, grabbing two glasses from the cupboard. “Would you like to do the honours? We’re having a vegetable lasagne,” she adds, colour rising in her cheeks. “I hope that’s okay? I’m a pescatarian.”
“It’s fine,” I reply, before realising what I’ve just said. I hold up a hand. “What I should have said is that no one other than my mother or Betsy, my mum’s cook, has cooked for me in a long time. So, home-cooked food is well received.”
A furrow appears between her brows, so I elaborate. “I don’t cook. I get most of my food from the local restaurants.” I list Monday, Tuesday, etc., and which restaurants supply which days.
Leah places her hands on her hips and gives me a stern look. “That’s just sad and stopping now. If you enjoy tonight’s meal, I’m happy to cook extra every night. I always cook for myself, and cooking for two is better than cooking for one. I can deliver it up, or you can join me. I’m easy either way.”
I stare wide-eyed at the woman in front of me. I meant what I said. No one ever has cooked for me, not nightly. Rachel and I didn’t live together. One of her many bugbears. She also preferred eating out.
“I didn’t mean. I don’t expect,” I say, suddenly wondering if Leah feels indebted, and this is her way of making it up to me.
“You might want to try my food first,” she laughs. “Saying no won’t offend me, but the offer is on the table.”
She smiles, and I know I’ll be taking her up on her offer.
“Can I do anything?” I ask.
“Pour us some drinks, and if you can grab the salad out of the fridge,” she says, opening the oven to a whoosh of delicious-smelling air. My stomach grumbles, and I do as she asks.
