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The door to Chris’s apartment opened almost immediately after Claire had pressed the doorbell for the second time. He stood there wearing a gray T-shirt and dark pants, a towel draped over one shoulder. For a brief moment, he simply looked at his sister without saying a word, as if trying to remember whether they had actually arranged for her to visit or if she had simply decided to surprise him.
Claire held up the paper bag she was carrying in one hand.
“I brought dessert.”
Chris glanced at the bag, then at her.
“That sounds suspicious.”
“Good evening to you too.”
“Good evening.”
He gave her a faint smile and stepped aside, letting her in.
“Come in.”
Claire took off her jacket and hung it on the coat rack. She knew the apartment well enough that she didn’t need an invitation to go any farther. She headed straight for the kitchen, but stopped after three steps and wrinkled her nose.
“What smells so good?”
Chris closed the door.
“Dinner.”
Claire slowly turned her head.
“You’re cooking?”
“Yes.”
“By yourself?”
“Claire.”
“I’m just asking.”
“Yes. By myself.”
Claire looked toward the kitchen with the expression of someone who had just received some deeply concerning news but didn’t yet know all the details.
“What are you making?”
“Something good.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’ll see.”
“Chris.”
“Claire.”
They stared at each other in silence for several seconds.
Claire sighed.
“Fine. I won’t bother you.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But if something explodes, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Nothing’s going to explode.”
“Last time you burned water.”
“I didn’t burn water.”
“The pot was black.”
“Because I left it on the stove.”
“So you burned water.”
“Claire, go to the living room.”
She laughed and kept walking.
“As you wish, Chef.”
Chris shook his head, but the smile remained on his face. It was supposed to be an ordinary dinner. Nothing special. Claire was just going to drop by for a few hours, talk, eat something, and go home. Lately, they had both had a lot on their minds, and their meetings were increasingly reduced to short phone calls or messages sent at odd hours. So Chris figured that since they had some free time this time around, he could do something more than order takeout.
The problem was that Chris Redfield was a man who could take complicated equipment apart and put it back together, handle situations that required composure, and had spent years learning how to function under pressure. The kitchen, however, presented an entirely different kind of challenge.
Claire discovered that after about five minutes. She sat at the kitchen island, sipping water and watching her brother.
Chris was chopping vegetables with the expression of a man performing an operation that required the utmost precision.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Good.”
“Just good?”
“It was long.”
“What did you do?”
“A few things around town. Then I went shopping.”
“So you were out all day?”
“More or less.”
Claire nodded.
“And you decided to cook.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Chris looked at her.
“Because I felt like it.”
“Mhm.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I know that nothing.”
“That’s good.”
Chris went back to chopping.
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“How was your day?”
Claire shrugged.
“Quiet. I had a few things to take care of. Then I met up with someone, did some shopping, and came here.”
“So nothing special for you either.”
“No.”
“Good.”
For a moment, it was quiet.
Claire watched the vegetables on the cutting board.
“What is this actually going to be?”
“Chicken in sauce.”
“What kind?”
“Cream sauce.”
“Oh.”
“With vegetables.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And rice.”
“Ambitious.”
Chris looked at her suspiciously.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I’m impressed.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“Claire.”
“Chris.”
Once again, they exchanged the same look.
This time, Claire smiled innocently.
“I just didn’t know you could cook anything more complicated than scrambled eggs.”
“I can cook.”
“Of course.”
“I’m serious.”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t sound like you believe me.”
“Because the last time you said you could cook, I later found something in the fridge that was supposed to be stew and looked like evidence.”
Chris put the knife down.
“That was a long time ago.”
“That was three months ago.”
“So, a long time.”
“Maybe for you.”
“Either way, this time it’ll be fine.”
Claire bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Okay.”
Chris went back to preparing the ingredients. For several minutes, everything really did look promising. The chicken sizzled in the pan, the vegetables had been cut into fairly even pieces, and Chris moved around the kitchen with increasing confidence.
Claire even stopped commenting.
For a while.
“How much of that did you put in?”
“Put in what?”
“Salt.”
“Enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“Normal amount.”
“Chris, I’m asking how much.”
“I don’t know. I eyeballed it.”
Claire leaned back from the island.
“You eyeballed it?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a very precise method.”
“It works.”
“Sure.”
Chris tasted the sauce. He frowned, reached for the salt, and added a little more. Claire raised an eyebrow.
“I thought you said it worked.”
“It needs more.”
“That’s exactly why I asked.”
“Don’t start.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“But you’re about to.”
“You know me too well.”
Chris snorted.
“Unfortunately.”
Claire got off the stool and walked closer.
“Let me try.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“It’s not ready.”
“I can taste the sauce.”
“No.”
“Chris.”
“Claire.”
“One teaspoon.”
“No.”
“Are you scared?”
“Of what?”
“That I’ll tell you the truth.”
Chris sighed, but handed her the spoon. Claire tasted it. She went quiet. Chris waited.
“Well?”
Claire swallowed.
“It’s…”
“What?”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting doesn’t sound good.”
“Because it isn’t.”
Chris narrowed his eyes.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Too much salt.”
“You just told me not to hold back.”
“I said not to be stingy with it. I didn’t say to pour half the container into the pot.”
“I didn’t pour half the container into the pot.”
“I know. That’s why we’re still alive.”
Chris shook his head.
“Fine. I’ll fix it.”
“How?”
“I’ll add more cream.”
“And what will that change?”
“It’ll dilute the sauce.”
“And then it’ll have no flavor.”
“I’ll add seasoning.”
Claire closed her eyes.
“Chris.”
“What?”
“That’s not fixing it.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
Chris stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“You’re awful.”
“I’m honest.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“With your cooking? It’s exactly the same thing.”
Despite everything, the atmosphere was light. The kind of atmosphere that only existed between them when they could both set aside, for a little while, everything that usually occupied their minds. They were siblings, and no matter how many years had passed, how much their lives had changed, and how much they had been through, around Chris, Claire could still act like a younger sister deliberately pressing exactly the button she knew would work.
And, much to her amusement, Chris still reacted exactly the same way.
“You can sit down.” he said. “I’ll finish.”
“Want some help?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because I could…”
“Claire.”
“Okay, okay.”
She returned to her seat.
Chris took the rice out of the pot and transferred it into a bowl. Then he reached for the pan.
“Hand me that spoon.”
“Which one?”
“The wooden one.”
Claire handed it to him.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And don’t comment.”
“I’m not commenting.”
“For now.”
“That’s true.”
Chris stirred the sauce. It smelled pretty good. Claire had to admit that, as far as appearances went, the dish was beginning to look like something that could safely be put on a table.
“See?” Chris said.
“See what?”
“It’s fine.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”
“It’s just dinner.”
“With you, you never know.”
Chris rolled his eyes.
“Go set the table.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Claire began taking out plates.
“You know.” she said after a moment, “Mom used to say you were a great cook.”
Chris looked at her.
“Really?”
“No.”
“Claire.”
She laughed.
“I wanted to see your reaction.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
Chris shook his head and turned back to the stove. Claire was arranging the silverware when she heard a sizzling sound. She turned around.
“Chris?”
“What?”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“I turned the heat up too high.”
“Then turn it down.”
“I know.”
“Chris.”
“I know!”
Claire watched as he tried to stir the sauce and lower the heat at the same time. At that exact moment, Chris noticed something beginning to stick to the bottom of the pan.
“Damn it.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing again?”
“Relax.”
Smoke began rising from the pan.
Claire put down the silverware.
“Chris.”
“I’ve got it.”
“It’s smoking.”
“I can see that.”
“It’s really smoking.”
“I know.”
“Chris!”
The next second, a flame burst from the pan.
Claire jumped back.
“Oh my God!”
Chris immediately turned off the stove and grabbed the lid, trying to cover the pan.
“Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking!”
“You’re panicking.”
“It’s on fire!”
“It’s not on fire anymore.”
“It was on fire a second ago!”
“Not anymore.”
“God, Chris!”
“Claire, relax.”
“You were supposed to make chicken!”
“I know!”
“Not flambé!”
“That wasn’t flambé!”
“What was it?”
“An accident.”
Claire stood several steps away, staring at him in disbelief. Chris lifted the lid. Smoke was still rising from the pan. He opened the window.
“Everything’s fine.”
Claire moved closer.
“Did you just almost set the kitchen on fire?”
“No.”
“I saw flames.”
“It was a small flame.”
“Fire isn’t a ‘small flame,’ Chris.”
“Technically…”
“Don’t.”
Chris pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Claire looked at him suspiciously.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You’re laughing.”
“A little.”
“This is your kitchen!”
“I know.”
“That could have ended really badly.”
“But it didn’t.”
Claire sighed.
“Fine.”
Chris lifted the lid.
“We can save it.”
Claire looked inside.
“No.”
“What?”
“We can’t.”
“We can.”
“Chris, it looks like charcoal.”
“Just the bottom.”
“And the top?”
“Not as bad.”
“Not as bad?”
Chris sighed.
“Okay. Maybe we should order pizza.”
Claire burst out laughing.
“I knew it.”
“What?”
“I knew this was how it would end.”
“It’s not over.”
“It’s over.”
“No.”
“Chris, you just killed the chicken a second time.”
“That was a cheap joke.”
“But it was true.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“Pizza?”
“Pizza.”
Chris pulled out his phone.
“What kind?”
“One you don’t have to cook.”
“Very funny.”
“Thank you.”
While they waited for the delivery, they sat at the table with mugs of tea. The kitchen still smelled like burnt sauce, so the window remained open.
Claire looked at her brother.
“You know what?”
“Hmm?”
“I appreciate it anyway.”
Chris glanced at her.
“Appreciate what?”
“That you tried.”
“You didn’t have to say that.”
“I know.”
“We could’ve just ordered food.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Claire shrugged.
“Because you wanted to do something nice.”
Chris was silent for a moment.
“It was supposed to be an ordinary dinner.”
“And it is.”
“Not exactly.”
“There’s pizza.”
“And burnt chicken.”
“A souvenir.”
Chris laughed quietly.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’ve said that already.”
A moment of silence followed. It wasn’t awkward. Just peaceful. The kind of silence that came naturally between them.
Chris leaned back more comfortably in his chair.
“Do you remember when we were kids and you tried to make me breakfast?”
Claire frowned.
“No.”
“You were about eight.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You made eggs.”
“Okay.”
“You left the pan on the stove.”
Claire started laughing.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Because Mom took the pan away from you.”
“What did I do?”
“You tried to pick it up with your bare hand.”
Claire covered her face with one hand.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.”
“And you let me do that?”
“I was ten!”
“You were my older brother. It was your responsibility.”
“I was fourteen!”
“You could’ve stopped me.”
“I tried!”
“I don’t remember.”
“Because you were crying.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the eggs didn’t work out.”
Claire stared at him in disbelief.
“I cried over eggs?”
“You were very ambitious.”
“So I got it from someone.”
“Don’t start.”
“You started it.”
Chris smiled.
“Anyway.”
“Anyway?”
“I remember you said then that one day you’d cook better than me.”
Claire looked at him.
“And I kept my promise.”
“No.”
“Of course I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“Chris, I can cook pasta without setting the kitchen on fire.”
“That’s not a very high bar.”
“Higher than yours.”
“That was one mistake.”
“One mistake today.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Life’s unfair.”
“You sound like someone who won an argument.”
“Because I did.”
Chris shook his head.
“The pizza hasn’t even arrived yet.”
“And I’ve already won.”
When the doorbell rang, Claire stood up.
“I’ll get it.”
“Okay.”
A moment later, she returned with the box.
“Here.”
Chris opened it and looked at the pizza.
“Looks good.”
“Don’t try to cook it.”
“Very funny.”
They sat down and started eating.
For several minutes, they didn’t talk. They simply enjoyed the food and the fact that nothing was sizzling, smoking, or threatening to burn the place down.
Claire leaned over her slice.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“Next time, we cook together.”
Chris looked at her.
“Next time?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not afraid?”
“Of you? A little.”
“The kitchen.”
“That too.”
“Then why?”
Claire shrugged.
“Because it was fun.”
Chris smiled faintly.
“It was.”
“Except for the fire.”
“That wasn’t a fire.”
“Chris.”
“Okay. A small fire.”
“I knew it.”
For a moment, they ate in silence.
“You know,” Chris said eventually, “I can learn.”
Claire looked at him.
“To cook?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Without my supervision?”
“That’s exactly why.”
Claire nodded solemnly.
“I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
“But start with eggs.”
Chris sighed.
“I knew it.”
“That’s where everything starts.”
“At least I won’t try to make sauce.”
“Wise choice.”
“And next time, you won’t laugh.”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not promising that.”
“Claire.”
“Chris.”
“You’re the worst sister.”
“And you’re the worst cook.”
“Not true.”
“Prove it.”
Chris looked at her for several seconds. Then they both started laughing. For Chris, though, evenings like this were something much more important than he would ever want to admit.
Claire knew that too. Maybe that was why she always dropped by without warning. Maybe that was why Chris always opened the door.
Even if sometimes it almost ended in a fire.