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“Are you for real right now?”
He stops what he's doing at the stove and turns around to look at her. “What? I'm just using up the rest of the butter from service.”
“Okay,” she says to him, rolling her eyes, her hair flipped over one shoulder. She's walking away from the counter and towards him. “You don't have to stay late to do that. You know that, right?”
“I know,” he agrees, nodding, using the spoon to skim off the the foam forming at the top of the pot. “You can use it to finish off-”
“The pasta,” she finishes for him. “That you spent all last night hand rolling. Yeah.” He meets her eyes again and sees the slight frown there, like she's concerned. “Look, I just want us to have fun here. Not do a thing because you feel like you have to-”
“This is fun. For me,” he clarifies, skimming another scoop of foam off the top, discarding it on the plate beside the burner.
“Is it?” she asks him, like she doesn't think he's being serious.
“I mean, it might not be fun for you,” he jokes, hoping to make her laugh, happy to see her smile at his comment, bite down on her bottom lip.
“I mean, what's fun, you know?” she asks, with a sigh. “Service is going smoothly,” she ruminates, dipping her finger into the foam, rubbing her fingers together like she's feeling the texture. “The menu's getting great reviews, and we're not on deferred pay now. I may have purchased a new scarf-”
“I noticed,” he answers as she stares at him now. “You know, there are fun things.” He lets the idea hang in the air between them.
“You're right,” she tells him. “We could put on some music?”
“I mean,” he says, the corner of his mouth catching a smile. “There are outside the restaurant...things.” he suggests, raising his eyebrows as she blinks back at him.
“Oh. Do you have an example?”
“Well...” He starts, chewing on his lip, thinking it over. The truth is, he's spent a lot of time in the restaurant since he came back. There's other stuff he's working on, but he's not really ready to share it just yet. “Cousin said he went to a movie at Millennium Park.”
“Yeah. I heard all about it. It was a Rob Reiner double feature and I had to advise him on outdoor charcuterie on and off for two hours. I know Jess doesn't like fragile crackers now, but I'm not asking about Richie.”
“I see,” he replies, tapping the spoon against his palm. He notices her watching the pot behind him.
“You're not going to let that burn, after all that, are you?” she asks, stepping around him and picking up the pot, pouring off the clarified butter into the open, lidless jar.
“I don't know, really,” he finally answers her.
“You don't know,” she tells him, definitely frowning now, as he reaches by her to turn off the burner, his hand brushing against her arm. She sets the pot back down on the one beside him to cool off, as she waits out his reply. When he doesn't, she picks it up again. “So, when you were with Claire, you didn't actually go out-”
“No,” he answers immediately.
She blinks back at him in disbelief, and he realizes immediately one, that he really doesn't want to talk about this, because it gives him anxiety, and two-
“So you never went anywher-” she goes on, then stops mid-sentence. “Oh. Okay. I see.”
“No, it wasn't like that,” he tells her. “It was mostly...talking, and me-” he pauses, breathing in through his nose. “Me trying to not have a panic attack.”
“Oh, shit,” she tells him shaking her head, looking deeply embarrassed now. “I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up-”
“It's fine now, actually,” he says, taking in a deep breath. “'Cause I don't have panic attacks anymore.”
“That's good,” she replies hopefully, seeming surprised to hear this. “Not having existential dread is great. When you've figured out the secret to that, let me know-”
“Well, I'm...I'm here all the time,” he answers plainly, blinking back at her.
“Sure, and, that's nice, and I get that it's scary out there, but you're still young.”
“I'm still young?” he repeats back, laughing quietly. He rubs his fingers over his chin, looking up for a moment, smiling. “Thanks, I think?” he asks, squinting at her.
“Yeah,” she says with a light laugh. “You should get out there,” she says, giving him an encouraging gesture. “You know-”
“You mean, like you do?” he asks her and watches her smile freeze in place.
“We...we weren't talking about me.”
“No,” he agrees. “We were talking about me, but then, I started talking about you.” She almost kind of scowls at him now. “Why don't you get out there, if it's so great-”
“Because,” she answers immediately reaching past him to pick up the jar and seal the lid on. Her hand breezing by the hair on his forearm. “I have everything I need...right.here.in.the.restaurant.” She walks past him and goes for the sharpie and the green tape to label it.
“Well, that's depressing,” he says flatly, following her to the counter.
“Nonono,” she says to him, pressing her tongue against her front teeth. “You're not turning this back on me.”
“So, you're fine if it's depressing for me,” he says, amused, starting to tease her now.
“That's not what I said,” she answers politely, and gives him a curt smile. “You know, it's not depressing. I-I love this.”
“Good,” he answers, looking her over.
“I mean, I could use some fresh inspiration. Maybe,” she admits, staring down at the counter, tapping the pen cap against it.
“There's the butter,” he tells her, taking the towel from his waist and twisting it between his hands. He gestures to the jar. “The pasta you asked for. I thought it would go nice.”
“It's more, specific. Like...a sensory thing,” she says, lifting her eyes to meet his, as he tries to puzzle his way through what her eyes are telling him. “Like, it hitting me all at once, and then it just activates a part of my brain, and wow, color, and sounds-”
“Like a favorite third bite kind of thing,” he reasons.
“Exactly.”
He can't help but smile at reading her right. “You want me to cook for you.”
“Possibly,” she tells him, acting non-committal but trying to hide a smile. “It can be an outside the restaurant thing if that makes it even more weird-” she goes on, laughing nervously. He notices how she flips her hair over one shoulder. She's been doing that a lot lately.
“Okay,” he answers right away, slapping the towel up over his shoulder. “Like, now?”
“Sunday?” she replies, her eyes going wide. “Because we're both off.”
“I like Sundays,” he agrees, as she relaxes a little in front of him. “You want it at mine, or-”
“Maybe mine,” she interjects. “That way I can take care of some things. Online. While you're cooking?”
He watches her twist one of her braids between her fingers. “So, this an all-day thing?” he says, asking for confirmation.
“No, not at all,” she tells him, placing the tape on the counter and writing on top of it. She peels it off and sticks it to the jar.
“I'm...gonna need that after all,” he says, flicking his eyes up at her as his arm crosses into her space.
“Delicious, or impressive?” she asks him, her eyes shining.
“Delicious is impressive,” he says with a smile.