All This Time

32 ⦿ in which we make progress

A sickly feeling of shame creeps over my skin as I can do nothing else but stare at Wolf in agonized horror. "Hey," I say weakly, propping myself up into a sitting position and hoping I don't look as guilty as I feel.

"Hi." He continues to stand there, face a careful mask of impassive politeness.

"So, um." I hope my cheeks aren't pink as I wiggle my head free of the blankets and tame my frizzy fly-always with the palm of my hand.

I have no idea where I'm going with this sentence. So, Wolf, how much did you overhear? So, Wolf, now you know how it feels when someone says something about you behind your back? Or better still, so, Wolf, how come you haven't heard of a modern invention called, ya know, knocking?

"I was wondering if you were going to come back out."

I freeze, staring at him. Before I even had a chance to get my thoughts together, he had taken control of the situation. Was he trying to give me an easy out?

With a touch of irritation in his voice, he adds, "Look, I don't want to fight with you. I just figured two sets of hands in the kitchen would be better than one."

From the haphazard banging of pots and pans that I woke up to this morning, I get the feeling that he's in over his head when it comes to cooking a gourmet meal for five.

I acquiesce with what I hope is a gracious, genteel nod. It would have been more believable if I didn't have total bed head, but it passes muster. "Sure." I detangle myself from my bed.

He averts his eyes and looks towards the door. "I'll be in the kitchen," he says, his voice an odd combination of strangled and hoarse.

"Okay."

Once he leaves I flop back onto the bed, groaning. Part of me is grateful that he didn't draw attention to what he overheard—if he overheard at all—but the other half wishes he did just so the suffocating sense of shame doesn't choke the breath out of my lungs.

I drag my legs out of my room and into the kitchen, where Wolf's busying himself at the counter, his back to me. He's humming under his breath, and even though I can't pinpoint what the tune is, I can tell that he's slightly off-key. Without a word, I join him, our arms brushing. He looks down at me in surprise, and in silence, hands me a knife.

I glance at the small mountain of ingredients in front of me and without batting an eye, set to work, following the instructions on the iPad propped up against his espresso machine.

Two hours later, after the kitchen is tidied and we're too exhausted to quarrel, we sink in relieved silence onto his living room sofa. Stifling a yawn, I lean against the armrest and close my eyes. A second later, I feel a firm poke against my leg. "I deserve a break," I groan, burying my head into my arms, still flopped over.

"It's not that," came Wolf's amused voice.

I open a bleary eye to regard him with suspicion. "Don't tell me you've discovered another recipe," I warn in mock-outrage, wagging my finger at him. "I am all chopped, diced, sautéed and baked out."

"I was going to say"—Wolf's eyes glitter warmly at me—"thanks for helping me."

"Oh." I bite my lip. "You're welcome." After a moment of fidgeting with my hands, I straighten myself up, and push myself against the armrest so it supports my aching back. "What would you have done if I wasn't here?"