Sometimes It Happens Here Page 12

  “So,” he says slowly, “what would have happened if you had lost instead of Hannah?”

  “Not telling.” Not telling. Not moving. Hell, at this rate, I may choose to not breathe until he’s safely across the room again.

  Finally, the teapot whistles and with it, Mona comes running into the kitchen.

  “Can I have chai?” she asks, examining the teacups lined up on the counter already. “With honey? Grandma said she packed some.”

  “This one must be yours then,” Bodhi says, pointing at the mug second from last. It’s shaped like a snowman wearing a bright purple scarf shaped to form the handle. I figured Mona would love it when I pulled it from the shelf, purple is her favorite color, but I’m more than a little surprised Bodhi chose it for her as well.

  “Oh! Cool mug!” Her eyes flash with delight as she gently tugs the cup in her direction to get a better look at it. “It’s the perfect winter mug.”

  ‘Winter mug, huh?” Bodhi says, resting his elbows on the counter and leaning down to be at her level. “Any chance you have a summer mug too?”

  Mona looks at him like he’s strange for even asking. “We have mugs for every season. And holidays. And special occasions. And Mondays.”

  Bodhi laughs. “What’s a Monday mug?”

  “A mug that makes you feel motivated,” she explains matter of fact, as if this is something she discusses on a regular basis. “And also makes you feel less sad that the weekend is over.”

  “I see.” And he actually sounds like maybe he sees logic in our insane tea and mug habits. “I don’t have a Monday mug yet. Maybe some time you could help me find the perfect one?”

  “Maybe Santa will bring you one,” I say, gesturing for them to back up so I can get to pouring the water before it gets too cold to do so and I have to start this process of waiting for the pot to whistle all over again.

  “You think?” he asks, but he’s talking to Mona more than me.

  “Sure. Just make sure you ask him for it when you write your letter.” She watches with greedy eyes as I move on from pouring water to dispensing honey. If given the chance, this girl would go through the entire jar in one sitting, licking it clean and everything. “One more dip please?” she asks.

  “I already gave you two.”

  “Then can I lick it when you’re all done with it?” she tries another approach.

  But I’m familiar with her tactics. “Nope.”

  “Please?” she pleads.

  “Did you want Grandma’s cookies with your tea? And s’mores later?” I probe, knowing full well the answer is yes.

  “Uh-huh.” The sad sound of surrender weighs heavy in her voice.

  “Then no.”

  Mona looks up toward Bodhi, who’s been a silent audience to our honey discussion, and says, “She’ll let you have two if you want. You’re an adult, so she can’t tell you how much sugar you’re allowed.”

  He chuckles. “Good to know. But I think I’m going to trust your mama’s judgement on this one.”

  I top her tea off with a dollop of almond milk and hand her the cup.

  “Suit yourself,” she chirps, before sipping her tea and wandering back out into the living room.

  I watch until I can’t see her, then scan the kitchen until I spot what I’m looking for. “Oh, could you hand me that tray please?” I ask, pointing at the large serving tray leaning up against the wall, propped up by two cutting boards and just past where Bodhi’s standing.

  “This one?” he asks, reaching for the tray in question. When I nod, he carefully slides it out from behind the cutting boards and sets it down on the counter beside my lineup of teacups. Without waiting to be asked, he moves right alongside me, placing each mug carefully onto the tray. Then, while I count out teaspoons for each of us, he retrieves half and half from the fridge and sugar from the pantry, then adds both to our serving set up along with the honey and almond milk I already had out.

  “Anything else?” he asks, taking in the end results of our partnership.

  “The cookies!” I remember.

  “Can’t forget those,” he agrees. “You grab the cookies; I’ll bring the tray.”

  I do. And then, just as easily as we prepared the tray, we walk into the living room to meet the rest of our friends and family. And serve them tea. Together.

  A phenomenon I now am certain I want to become less enthralled and far more familiar with.

  Bodhi

  AFTER TEA AROUND THE fire, everyone is ready to brace the snow and chilly temperatures beyond the cabin and its cozy warmth. With Hannah officially entertaining ideas of her and Teran, my brother is pulling out all the stops to win her over. In other words, they’re nowhere to be seen while the rest of us trek through the snow, go tubing down the mountain and make snow angels every chance we get.

  It’s not until lunchtime, that the two reappear, both bizarrely giddy and whispering non-stop as if they formed a secret club set to only two members in the time they were gone. I’d find it annoying if he wasn’t my brother. And she wasn’t one of my best friends. And they weren’t so obviously happy about their new secret club for two.

  While I manage to maintain some decorum and bite back every comment that springs to mind regarding their new union, the women in our party are far less willing to watch their budding new romance unfold in silence.

  With our bellies full and our bodies properly warmed again, we head back outside. It’s snowing and Mona proceeds to dance through the falling flakes, looking every bit the winter fairy with her bouncing curls and rosy cheeks.

  It’s only when I mention the snowman we’ve been wanting to build, that she slows down and joins me. Meanwhile, Lilan and Kaleaha take it upon themselves to search for the perfect Christmas tree, leaving Dinah to supervise us kids (Lilan’s words. I’ve chosen not to take offense. There’s no shame in being in touch with your inner child, nor do I find it insulting to be youthful).

  Sometime around adding the finishing touches to Larry’s (our snowman) face, the group collects again, just in time to watch the sun set over the mountains behind the cabin. It’s without doubt, one of the more amazing sights I’ve seen in my life. Lilan’s stunning silhouette against the fiery sky and shadowed mountains takes my breath away and it’s all I can do to keep staring until the dusk leaves us and we find ourselves drenched in pitch black.

  For dinner, Dinah serves a lentil stew she started in the slow cooker at some point when no one was looking, or maybe just too busy looking at other things. Like me. Looking at Lilan. I find I do that more and more as the day goes on. Won’t take much and I’ll stop caring whether she turns around to catch me or not.

  It’s much like the night before, all of us sitting around the table, talking and laughing, only now there’s less conjuring up of the past to find the scraps that have pieced us together all these years even before we knew it, and more talking about the present. The experiences we’re having right now. With each other.

  “You’re really going to have tea with s’mores?” I ask, bringing the last of the dishes into the kitchen, where Lilan is already busy lining up another round of mugs on the counter.

  “These are for hot chocolate,” she says, smiling. Her windburned cheeks are redder than usual, causing her green eyes to pop in contrast. I’m almost certain she has no idea how gorgeous she is and it’s somehow painful to realize that she can’t see herself the way that I do.

  “I can support hot chocolate and s’mores.” The sink is still filled with hot soapy water, making it easy to rinse our remaining bowls and silverware and place them in the dishwasher along with the other dishes already there. “Dish detergent?” I ask, hoping she’s been here often enough to know where to find the basics. The way she moves around this kitchen, you’d think she lives here, but I’m starting to think maybe that’s just a Lilan thing, to feel at home in every kitchen she steps foot in.

  “Cupboard under the sink,” she says, pointing.

  By the time I find it, add
it, and get the dishwasher going, Lilan’s already busy at the stove again.

  I walk up beside her, taking a second longer than necessary just to appreciate the moment, what it feels like to share in life’s basics with another person and be so completely into the simple things based solely on the fact that you’re so into the person you’re doing the basic things with.

  “How can I help?”

  She looks up at me over her shoulder and I notice she’s no longer surprised to find me standing here, waiting to be invited into the next fun thing she’s about to do.

  “Have you ever made whipped cream before?”

  I’m sure I’m about to give the wrong answer to the question, but here goes. “By made do you mean have I ever shook the can and pushed the nozzle down prior to creating a perfect, swirly puff of whipped cream?”

  Her mouth all but folds into itself. “No.”

  Figured. “Yeah. Then, no, I’ve never made whipped cream.”

  Slowly, her lips reappear and even begin to curl up ever so slightly. “Want to learn?”

  “Is it a lot harder than the canned way?”

  “Yep.” She nods. “But it’s way tastier, too. Plus, you totally get bragging rights for whipping cream from liquid to something that can hold a shape. It’s not for sissies, my friend.”

  “Bring it.” I step back and clear the way for her to lead me.

  “Come on.” She hooks her thumb for me to follow her, and I do. As if she even has to ask. I’m like the loneliest, most codependent puppy to ever come strolling along. Her actual dog, Jax, moves around like he’s her shadow about ninety percent of the time, and I’m starting to think I’ve even got him beat.

  Whether she’s aware of my inexplicable need to be within touching distance of her at all times (though, I am not touching) or not, is unclear. For the time being, she seems to be rolling with it, either unbothered or entirely oblivious. Given our previous interactions and her strict enforcement of anti-flirting rules this morning, I’m thinking she’s not nearly as oblivious as she’s coming across.

  “I put a bowl and whisk in the freezer before we sat down for dinner,” she says. “You can go ahead and grab those now, along with the heavy whipping cream in the fridge.” Then she stops short halfway between the fridge and the pantry, the latter of which she points at when she goes on saying, “You’ll find powdered sugar and vanilla bean in there. You’ll need both. And make sure you grab the actual bean and not the extract. No matter what anyone tries to tell you, the two are not the same and should not be considered interchangeable.”

  I don’t know what either is, so I’m nodding and taking her word for it. Also, I’m pretty clear on the fact she’s a super food snob, so while the rest of the world may very well find it acceptable to interchange the two, she absolutely would not.

  “Got ‘em.” I stand back, taking in my current accomplishments. I’ve never been particularly skilled in the kitchen. I can make mac and cheese and reheat take out, but that’s about where my ability to feed myself begins and ends. So, needless to say, I’m kind of impressed with myself for having multiple ingredients sitting out all at once along with a fancy new whisk thing I’ve never used before. “Now what?”

  She glances over from the stove where she’s busy concocting some sort of chocolate heaven in a pot. I know, I can smell it. “Now you pour your cream into the bowl. Add a little sugar and vanilla. You’ll have to use a knife to scrape the insides out of the bean, don’t just drop the whole thing into the mix.”

  Holy mother of God, I’m so glad she clarified that, because that’s absolutely what I would have done.

  “Okay,” I mutter, going through each step. “And then?”

  “Then you whisk.”

  I pick up the whisk. I’m kind of in awe of it. It’s like a fancy magic wand for food. “And how do you whisk?”

  “Seriously?”

  I make a face. “I’m spoiled, k? I’m one of those obnoxious people who has a personal chef pre-make all their food. He even preps my coffee maker and sets the timer on it so I can make it out of the house every morning. I’m literally that useless.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know.”

  “Bodhi.”

  “This changes things, right?” I sigh, disappointed with my own ineptitude. “You were starting to think maybe I was just a normal guy you could connect with and now I’m back to being the Hollywood douche who’s going to wind up married to a super model or some shit.”

  She doesn’t even look at me. Just steadily stirs away at her pot. “Actually, yeah. It does change things.” She pauses and I’m about to plead my case when she goes on, “Turns out you’re not the perfect celebrity prince. So, you know, you’re definitely not going to marry a super model.” She laughs quietly, still focused on her stirring. “You can’t even use a whisk, Bodhi. I think that might be my new favorite thing about you.”

  Perplexed and speechless, I’m left with no other option but to stand here and wait for her to take pity on me. Afterall, if the woman wants whipped cream, she’s going to have to follow through on her intentions to teach me how to make it. And that obviously now includes teaching me how to work the whisk.

  Then, when nothing happens, everything she said begins to sink in. “Wait. The not knowing how to whisk is a good thing?”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t go around telling everyone.” She turns, at last. And the smile that greets me was worth every moment of torture she made me stand here with her back to me. “But for us...yeah. It’s a good thing.”

  I can feel my face stretch into the cheesiest grin it’s capable of. The sort I hold back, refrain from showing people because it’s so damn cheesy and big, it stops being attractive. It’s all teeth and half my damn face disappears, and I know this, because photographers and directors alike have told me over the years. But I don’t care. Because I’m suddenly seeing that the way to win her over isn’t at all by showing her all my best qualities, it’s by sharing all my best flaws.

  “You’re still going to teach me how to do it though, right? Like, it can still be your favorite thing that you knew me before I knew how to do it. And then it can be my favorite thing that you taught me how.”

  She laughs, turning off the heat on her burner and moving her pot to the other end of the stove to keep the milk from scorching. “Yes, Bodhi. I’m going to teach you. I’m even going to test you on it when I’m done.”

  “Really? You can test someone on their whipped cream whisking skills?” It seems a bit drastic all things considered.

  “Uh-huh.” Her eyes flare up with mischief. “And trust me, you don’t want to fail.”

  “Good.” I nod, reassuring myself. “So, no pressure. Thanks.”

  Her mouth hitches into a sassy half-grin as she comes in at my side, taking my right hand (also my whisk holding hand) in hers and guiding it to the bowl. “Ready?”

  “I think so.” Not knowing what’s coming makes it hard to be sure.

  “Okay. Here’s the big secret to whisking.” She glances up at me. “You stir.”

  “Huh?”

  “Whisking and stirring? Same thing. Except you whisk with a whisk.” She bounces her head slightly between each shoulder, as if mulling over her instructions, before she amends them. “And maybe it’s fast stirring. Yeah. Probably faster than you would stir, say soup, for instance.”

  “I’ve never made soup.” There’s no holding back my ignorance now.

  “Fine. Then coffee.”

  “Definitely don’t stir coffee fast. That shit’ll burn you.”

  “So, you have stirred coffee fast.” She smirks. Because I’m busted.

  “It would seem so.”

  “So maybe I don’t have a good example that actually applies.” She takes a step back, giving me more space to move. “Just stir it as fast as you can while also being consistent and not spilling anything. The key is to keep the cream moving. You can change directions and switch hands and stirring motions, just don’t stop stirr
ing.”

  “Okay.” I look down at the bowl and the creamy white liquid splashing around inside. “How long?’

  “As long as it takes.”

  “But like, how long is that?” Because I think my wrist may already be cramping up from the motion.

  “You’ll know.”

  “Is that the test? Figuring out when I can stop?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” I stop asking questions after that. Mostly because I can’t focus on talking and whisking at the same time. It’s not a beginner level combo.

  Even as I’m whisking away, I can see her move back to the stove out of the corner of my eye, getting back to making the hot chocolate.

  Whisking seems to take for-fucking-ever. My arm might be going numb and I’m seeing literally nothing change in the bowl. I’m whipping the cream, but it is absolutely not whipped.

  “Is something supposed to be happening here?” I ask, slowly starting to give in to the fact that I may have failed miserably at something I briefly thought was a pretty basic task.

  “It’s happening,” she says. Only she’s not even looking. And I am. And nothing is happening.

  “I honestly don’t think that it is.”

  “It is.”

  “Are you about to trick me?” I ask, the agony of my whisking arm begging me to quit, to give in to the cream which will obviously never do the thing it’s supposed to do and whip.

  “Trick you how?”

  “I don’t know. Like, is my arm going to fall off? Just pop from its socket in surrender, a living sacrifice to the whipped cream Gods?”

  She muffles her laughter with her hand. “Dude! You almost made me spit in the hot chocolate.”

  “I’m not hearing a no here, Lilan.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Which one? The one coming for my whisking arm?”

  She rolls her eyes, still smirking. “Look down.”

  “Why?” I don’t want to look down. Looking down will lead to looking in the bowl and that has delivered nothing but disappointment in the last ten minutes. Has it been ten minutes? Feels like ten hours. Maybe, realistically, it’s been somewhere in between. Maybe whisking has made it impossible for me to maintain a realistic sense of time.