Paul asked to borrow our kitchen, because he didn’t have access to a stove. So I was there to witness him cooking. “Lasagna?” I boosted myself up to sit on the counter. “Just like the Pilgrims used to make.”
“It’s the only thing I know how to cook.” Paul frowned down at the tomato sauce in its pot, as though it had done something to offend him. “The only thing worth bringing, anyway.”
I resisted the urge to point out that if he was cooking at our house, he wasn’t precisely bringing it anywhere. We had finally reached the point where I was starting to get comfortable with him—where I was starting to believe I might be able to get beneath all the quiet and awkward to figure Paul Markov out.
Mom and Dad were at the university; Theo was out partying; Josie wouldn’t fly in from San Diego until tomorrow morning, apparently because she’d spent the day surfing with her friends. So Paul and I were alone for a change. He wore his usual faded jeans and T-shirt. (I swear it’s like he doesn’t know people are allowed to wear anything besides black, white, gray, and denim.) Yet somehow he made me feel overdressed in my tunic and leggings.
“Why aren’t you going home for Thanksgiving?” I managed not to add, like a normal person. “Don’t you want to see your parents?”
Paul’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “Not particularly.”
“Oh.” If only I could have grabbed those words back, but I couldn’t. Very quietly I added, “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” After another moment of uneasy silence between us, he added, “My father—he’s not a good person. My mother doesn’t stand up to him. They don’t understand the life I’ve chosen to lead. They’re glad I have scholarships, so I don’t cost them any more money. There’s not much else to tell.”
Which was obviously a big fat lie—how is there not more to tell about that story?—but I wasn’t going to compound my rudeness by prying. I’d just have to wonder what kind of loser parents would have a problem with their son being a brilliant physicist. Or how much might lie behind the phrase “not a good person.”
I tried to figure out how to move the conversation on to a new subject. “So, um, what music is this?”
“Rachmaninoff. The 18th Variation of a Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini.” His gray eyes glanced toward me warily. “Not very current, I realize.”
“Theo’s the one who teases you about your classical music, not me.” Since Theo wasn’t around, I finally admitted, “I like it, actually. Classical music.”
“You do?”
“I’m not an expert on composers or anything like that. But I learned a little through my piano lessons,” I hastened to add. “Just—when I hear it, I think it’s pretty.” The Rachmaninoff was sort of amazing, actually, piano notes tumbling over and over in endless crescendos.
“You always apologize for things you don’t know.” Paul didn’t even look up from the bowl where he was stirring together mozzarella and cottage cheese. “You should stop.”
Stung, I shot back, “Excuse me for not being born already knowing everything.”
He stopped, took a deep breath, and looked up at me. “I meant that you shouldn’t feel ashamed of not knowing a subject. We can’t begin to learn until we admit how much we don’t know. It’s all right that you’re not familiar with classical music. I’m not familiar with the music you listen to, like Adele and the Machine.”
“It’s Florence and the Machine. Adele is a solo performer.” I gave him a sly glance. “But you knew that, didn’t you? You just wanted to make me feel better.”
“. . . okay,” Paul said, and I realized he’d gotten it wrong for real.
Before I could tease him about that, he frowned down at his pan of lasagna like it was a science experiment gone wrong. The noodles he’d layered at the bottom of the dish were curling up, as though trying to escape.
“You bought the no-cook pasta, didn’t you?” I said, jumping down from the counter. “It does that sometimes.”
“I thought it would be faster!”
“You can put the other noodles in there without cooking them anyway—oh, hang on.” I grabbed one of the aprons from its hook and quickly tied it on. “I’ll help.”
For the next several minutes, we worked side by side: Paul layering in cheese and noodles and sauce, me using wooden spoons to try and hold the curly noodles down flat until we got stuff layered on top of them. Steam frizzed my hair, and Paul swore in Russian, and we both laughed ourselves silly. Before that night, I hadn’t known Paul could laugh that much.
Just as we were getting done, we needed to cover the pan for baking, and we both reached for the tinfoil at the same moment. Our hands touched, only for a second. No big deal.
I’d been with him virtually every day for more than a year, but in that instant, I saw Paul as someone new. It was as though I’d never understood the clarity of his eyes, or the strong lines of his face. As though his body had instantly stopped being large and ungainly and become strong. Masculine.
Attractive.
No. Hot.