NATE
To make moreof an effort with Evan, I’d texted my mother earlier and asked for the recipe for her lemon butter and herb salmon. Then I’d thanked the good Lord above that Whitecap wasn’t so small it didn’t have Instacart and ordered everything I’d need to make a nice family dinner for my daughter and me.
Evan had darted upstairs and closed herself off in her bedroom the moment we got home from my office, so I’d poured myself a glass of wine, rolled the cuffs of my shirt up, and gotten to work on dinner. Long before I was old enough to leave home and start my own life, my mother had made sure I knew my way around a kitchen. To her thinking, there was no excuse for a human being to live off fast food and takeaway, and everyone should know how to make the basics, at the very least. Because of her teachings, I was on the lower end of the scale between being a passably decent cook and an award-winning chef. And if the smells coming from my kitchen were anything to judge by, I might have had a winner on my hands.
I plated the salmon on a bed of arugula that drizzled it with the lemon butter sauce, added the grilled asparagus and roasted new potatoes, then carried the plates to the table that separated the kitchen from the living room. It wasn’t very big, but given the size of the apartment I’d rented until Evan and I could find something permanent, it was the only thing that would fit in the space. Same went for most of our furniture. We squeezed what we could into the apartment and put the rest into storage for the time being.
The place wasn’t anything to write home about, but the complex was only a couple years old, so the fixtures and appliances were new, the carpets were still in good shape, and the paint was fresh. As an added bonus that it was centrally located between her school and my job. Lastly, there was the fact that, on a clear day—of which Whitecap had a fair few—you could stand out on the living room balcony and see the ocean in the distance. If the breeze was strong enough, you could smell the sea salt in the air and hear the cries of the gulls that were never far from the churning water.
“Evan,” I called as I pulled open the silverware drawer and grabbed what we’d need.
“What?” she called back.
“Dinner’s ready.”
That declaration was met by silence for a few beats before I heard the sound of her bedroom door opening. A second later her head popped out over the second story railing. “What?”
“I said dinner’s ready. Come on down.”
She moved down the stairs at a snail’s pace, never in a hurry to do much of anything unless it was her idea. The expression on her face was full of apprehension as she rounded the staircase and shuffled toward our little table. “What’s going on here?”
I rolled my eyes at her. “Nothing. I just figured I’d make us dinner. Is that a problem?”
Her brows went up as she moved closer to inspect the food. “You cooked?”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t even know you could cook.”
That statement slammed into me like a three-hundred-pound offensive tackle. The realization I’d been dropping the ball more than I’d originally thought was a humbling experience. The fact that my own daughter didn’t know I could cook spoke volumes on how badly I’d been failing. I made a silent promise to the both of us right then and there that I was done putting in half measures. If I was going to piece my little ragtag family together again, I couldn’t half-ass it. I needed to give it my all.
“Grandma taught me everything I know. By the time I was your age, I was making dinner for everyone a couple times a week.”
“As like, punishment?”
I stopped on my way back to the fridge and cast her a bewildered look. “What? No. Not as punishment.” I waved my hand at the chair I’d designated as hers. “Have a seat.”
“Wait, so I have to eat in here? With you? Like, together?”
“Yes. Together, like a family, where we can tell each other about our days and partake in conversation like human beings. Sit.” She huffed and rolled her eyes, probably cursing me in her head, but she eventually gave in and sat. “In regard to your earlier statement, I cooked dinner for my family because I liked it. I’ve always enjoyed cooking; it relaxes me. What do you want to drink? Water, iced tea, or soda?”
A cheeky expression took over her face. “How about a glass of that wine you’ve got opened on the counter.”
My smile was full of sarcasm. “Try again, kid.”
Her sigh was aggrieved. “Fine. Soda,” she answered disappointedly as she picked up her fork and started prodding at the fish and asparagus with little enthusiasm.
I grabbed a can of Coke for her and poured it into a glass, then topped off my wine before heading back to the table. She muttered her thanks when I set her drink in front of her, but I didn’t miss the look she’d cast at my own glass. She was just asking for trouble, really.
Her tone came out slightly scathing as she asked, “So, if you like cooking so much, why didn’t you ever do it before?”
I let out a sigh as I shook the cloth napkin out and placed it in my lap. “I wish I had a reasonable excuse for that. Fact is, I put work first, and that was a shitty thing to do. I made the excuse that I was too busy instead of moving things around to make the time, but I’m trying to fix that now.”
She didn’t exactly look convinced, but I took it as a good sign when she cut off a small corner of the salmon to sample.
“What do you think?” I asked as she chewed pensively. “I figured you could rate the meals and that would determine whether or not I added them to the regular lineup.”
Her eyes went big. “Wait, so this is going to be a regular thing?”