Page 24 of The Roommate Subtext

“Smells like a restaurant.” Maggie put the last of her groceries in the fridge behind him, then poured herself a glass of water. She stood at the edge of his peripheral vision, tipping her head back to swallow, her throat working … and Blake needed to focus elsewhere. No, this was not acceptable. She’d come to mind the other night, too, when he was punch-drunk on orgasm endorphins after playing with Rose, and the two women had blended in his mind in the hazy moments before sleep. He’d spent the last couple of days rationalizing it away as a product of hormones and exhaustion. He didn’t have that excuse now. She was his roommate, for god’s sake, and she’d never approve of his private life.

He searched for a topic of conversation that wasn’t the smooth line of her throat and the way it twitched when she swallowed. “Do you … like to cook?”

She leaned sideways against the fridge. “No way. I can cook, I mean, I’ve lived on my own for nearly ten years now, and I started cooking for Cora and me when we were teenagers, but I don’t like it. It’s a better alternative to spending a fortune on eating out.” She paused, taking another sip. “I will never turn down food that somebody else is cooking.”

Her phone dinged.

“Or food trucks,” Blake said as Maggie typed something else into the phone.

“Or food trucks.” She looked up from the screen. “Cora keeps being vague about the timing because she, quote, ‘might have something going on in the morning,’ but doesn’t know when it will end.”

“Well, they’re not breakfast trucks, right?”

She brushed a wavy lock of brown hair behind her ear. “Breakfast food trucks aren’t a thing.”

“They are in New York. Metal-sided carts all over the financial district. They pop up every morning and disappear every night. They sell bagel sandwiches and … pastries … and coffee …” He was rambling, still trying not to think of the soft curve of Maggie’s neck.

“Since when did you become an expert on New York food trucks?”

Blake stirred the risotto again. “I spent a few weeks going back and forth there one summer.”

“Chasing a girl?”

He looked up from the sauté pan. Maggie wore a knowing expression, one eyebrow arched, lips curled just shy of a smirk. He gave another half shrug. “Maybe.” His last girlfriend, Sharon, had been considering moving there, and she did a summer internship to see how she liked it. He’d felt her slipping away and had almost grabbed hold out of reflex. But letting go had turned out to be best for both of them.

If Maggie sensed that there was more to his story, she didn’t press, and the smirk eased out of the frame of her lips. “I, uh,” she began, looking around. “I told Cora I’d be there at one, and she could text me.”

“Seems reasonable. That’s a good time. Lunch, or snacks, or whatever.” He wasn’t even sure what he was saying. The rice had absorbed the wine and he stirred it around to the rough sounds of the grains scraping against the bottom of the pan. Then he carefully scooped a ladleful of the hot stock over them. The steam curled up, along with an aroma of deliciousness, and he let his eyes fall closed.

“What happens now?” Maggie’s voice, much closer than she had been, made him jump. She stood at his elbow, peering into the pan again.

“Now it has to absorb the stock.” He swallowed and smoothed out the rice into a thin layer. “You can only add the stock a small amount at a time. It’ll eventually take the whole four cups, but you can’t add it all at once or it will never absorb.”

“There’s a Zen koan in there somewhere.” Maggie nudged him with her elbow. “Is that why people say risotto is hard? You have to get all the timing right?”

“Yeah. You can’t rush it, and there are a lot of ways for it to go wrong. But it’s not particularly difficult.” He turned aside from the sizzling pan to the block of parmesan cheese, focusing on the task to avoid accidentally grating his knuckles. The action was meditative. Maggie moved away; probably for the best.

“Anything that’s getting this much cheese makes me happy,” she said from behind him.

“This is one of the first things I learned to cook.” He spoke loud enough to be heard over the cheese rasping across the grater. “I thought, if I can figure this out, everything else will be easy.”

“Hardest first. Can’t say I’m surprised.” She climbed onto a stool at the breakfast bar dividing the kitchen from the living room. “Feels like that’s your personality. Always doing things the hard way.”

Blake smiled. “That’s not me. I always like doing things the right way.”

“Sure. The right way, the hard way; seems like semantics to me.” She pulled out her phone when it dinged again.

Blake stirred the rice before returning to the cheese. “Have you been to this thing before? The food truck festival?”

“No, first time, but Cora went last year without me and said I’d like it.” Maggie sounded distracted since she was texting while she spoke. “I like food, so it’s not a big stretch.”

Blake dumped the cheese into a measuring cup. He was shy of a full cup, so back to grating. “Sounds fun. Maybe I’ll go. I bet Andrew would enjoy it.”

“Food trucks are an easy sell. Everybody can find something they like.” Maggie paused. “I do hate the crowds.”

Blake dumped the next pile of cheese into the measuring cup, where it mounded over the top and spilled onto the paper towel below. Too much cheese was always the right amount. “Crowds can be good, though. Like, if it’s large enough that you can feel anonymous, everybody ignores you, and it’s kind of the same thing as being alone.” He liked to take the T to Faneuil Hall sometimes, sit outside Quincy Market surrounded by the press of tourists and shopkeepers and buskers; so many people that there might as well be none at all.

When he looked over at Maggie, she was eyeing him like he’d grown another head. “We’re gonna have to agree to disagree on that one.”