Ryan and I managed to make progress in other ways, though, a set of feminine toiletries taking root in his bathroom, a few articles of clothing hanging in his custom walk-in closet. I even decided to cook for him, a big step. I had stalled on the notion for weeks, partly because he had a personal chef, partly because I hated having him at my place and didn’t feel comfortable taking over his fancy gourmet kitchen, but mostly because I didn’t want to give credence to my mother’s old-fashioned contention that it was critical to cook in a courtship. I had the sense that she just might be right, though, after Ryan made an offhanded remark about Blakeslee’s inability to boil water or make toast—and the fact that he “should have known then that things weren’t going to work out.” In the long run, I didn’t think our relationship would come down to my domestic abilities (or lack thereof), but I couldn’t help wanting him to like me as much as I liked him. Which was becoming quite a lot.
So one morning before we both left his house for work, I casually mentioned that I’d love to make him my yellow squash and hominy casserole. “It’s almost as famous as you,” I quipped.
“Well, all right! I’ll give Tre the night off,” he said. “My place?”
“Yes. Come home hungry,” I said.
He gave me a seductive look and said that was a given, he was always hungry around me. I smiled as he pulled keys from his pocket, removed one from the chain, and handed it to me. “Here. I’ve been meaning to give you this anyway.”
“You sure?” I said, trying to be cool even though I knew I was going to speed-dial Lucy the second I was alone. “You might want to try my casserole first.”
Later that day, after I’d gone to the grocery store and bought all the ingredients for my casserole, along with chicken to fry, corn bread, and a chocolate mousse pie, I drove to Ryan’s house, let myself in the back door, and got to work. By the time he returned from practice, most of the chopping and prep work was done and his kitchen restored to order (another thing my mother had always preached and probably a nugget she got from Connie—no dirty dishes on counters or dirty underwear on the floor, at least until you have the ring on your finger).
“Wow. I’m already impressed,” Ryan said, as I handed him a glass of a pinot noir I’d just opened from his wine refrigerator.
“I hope this isn’t too nice of a bottle?”
“The best bottles are in the wine cellar. But nothing’s too nice for you,” he said with a gallant smile.
“Thank you,” I said. Then I raised my glass and said, “To our winning streaks.”
“And to the chef,” he said, raising his glass.
“And to your kitchen,” I said, laughing.
Our glasses touched and our eyes locked before we both took a sip. He nodded approvingly, then leaned down to kiss me.
“How was practice?” I asked when we separated, glancing at the diced onion softening in the heavy iron skillet behind me.
“Not too bad,” he said, sitting on a barstool at his counter while I returned to the stove. “Knee’s feeling much better.” His left knee had been banged up in the Bears game, nothing out of the ordinary, except that every bump became significant to a quarterback in his thirties. He extended it now, then bent it again, wincing. “MRI came back fine. Just a bad bruise.”
“Good,” I said, feeling like the nurturing girlfriend and relieved to realize that it was sincere, not an act. I really did worry about him. His knee, his reputation, his surprisingly fragile ego, all of him.
I added the sliced squash, bell peppers, jalapeño, pickling liquid, and oregano to the pan. The mixture sizzled, and, aware that he was watching me, I stood up straighter, stirring for a few seconds before adding the milk, reducing the heat slightly, and covering the pan.
“You really know what you’re doing, don’t you?” Ryan said, taking another sip of wine, as I rolled the chicken legs and thighs in my specialty batter one last time. “It’s hot.”
I decided not to tell him this was pretty much the only meal I had mastered. Instead, I cocked my head to the side, smiled, and said, “Frying chicken is hot?”
“Yes,” he said. “Especially if you took off those clothes and put on a frilly little apron and some stilettos.”
“Don’t hold your breath on that one. I’ll cook for you, but I don’t role-play or dress up.”
He laughed and said, “Not even as a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader?”
“Especially not as a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader,” I said.
Ryan stood, walked over to the stove, and put his arms around my waist. “I’ll be back,” he said after planting a kiss on the top of my head. “I want to change into something more comfortable—and make a few quick calls. That okay?”