Page 30 of Love and History

This was exactly the kind of mental field trip I’d hoped to avoid. I loved my brother, but I didn’t love his tendency to rewrite history. No, he hadn’t said anything outrageous or asked for the impossible. The hint of some fucking family fairy tale was enough to make my skin crawl. I hated lies and half-truths, and lately, I felt like I was drowning in them.

Note to self: stop answering the phone and talking to people.

* * *

When I got home laterthat night, I fist-bumped Cole and Tommy, then winked at Holden and told him my neck was bugging me. Cole and Tommy shot matching WTF glances at me. Holden scowled.

Good. At least balance was on its way to being restored on one front, I mused.

On to the next chore.

I dumped my computer bag on my desk and stared at my dresser as though it contained a live grenade. It might as well have. I had a shit-ton of studying to do and between Holden in close proximity and my brother’s request, my concentration was in danger of being compromised before I began. I obviously couldn’t do anything about Holden, but I could send Ryan what he asked for and hope like hell he’d quit trying to get chummy with me about queer stuff. Or Dad.

I pushed a pile of discarded clothes aside, kneeled on the floor, and pulled the bottom drawer open.

Nothing crazy happened. The room didn’t light up, angels didn’t sing, and my dad’s ghost didn’t magically appear. It was just a drawer filled with concert tees I wouldn’t wear again but wasn’t ready to part with, a couple of old Loyola sweatshirts, and…a battered blue binder.

Quick aside. In every sport I’d played, a pregame hush would settle over me even though adrenaline was coursing through my veins. In lacrosse, it was the moment I walked on the field and took my position. It was like everything in me was honed and prepared for action. I felt that way now as I picked up the binder by the corner edges and gingerly set it on my desk.

The faded plastic cover was dotted with faint splotches from ancient cooking experiments. The fingerprint-smudged index card labeled The Greatest Dad Cookbook Ever had slipped sideways in the laminate sheath. My grade school cursive was wobbly as hell. I could almost picture my six-year-old self giving it my best effort with my face three inches from the card and my tongue hanging out.

I turned the laminated pages, skimming Dad’s shaky handwriting—which, honestly, wasn’t much better than mine.

Ez says this is a good one. Substitute veggie broth for water.

Two pages later, under chicken pot pie:I’m not sure about the mashed potato topping but the boys say it’s the bomb. That’s good, I think.

On and on it went. Simple recipes for everyday dishes like casseroles, pastas, and soups were followed by desserts. Cookies, cakes, brownies. Every page represented a memory. The chocolate Texas sheet cake Dad made for my tenth birthday, the chicken noodle soup he made when one of us was sick.

Each entry came with notes, and occasionally a photo clung to the plastic cover. Most of the pics were of the dish itself, but a few were of Dad at the stove or one of his helpers. Usually, me. I zipped through the peoply pics as I searched for the spaghetti recipe. I thought he’d alphabetized it, but—

“Knock, knock.”

My heart leaped out of my chest. “Jesus. What’s with sneaking around?”

“I didn’t sneak,” Holden said, his feathered cap slipping from his head as he struck a nervous pose in my doorway. “I called your name and tapped on the door, but you were a million miles away. What’s that?”

I closed the book and draped my forearm over it. “Nothing. What’s up?”

He bit his lip and squinted. “Well, I wanted to inquire as to your availability tomorrow at ten o’clock for the HRS meeting. If you’re able to attend, I—”

“I told you I’d do it.”

“Oh, okay. Terrific.”

I pushed the cookbook away and crossed my arms. “Holden, stop being weird.”

“Weird? How am I being weird?”

“When I got home, you weren’t wearing that hat, which means you specifically went to your room to get it just to talk to me. That, my friend, is the definition of weird. Or maybe it’s cool,” I conceded. “What do I know?”

“Nothing,” he snapped. “I’m not nervous. I’m slightly flustered. There’s a difference.”

“Gotcha. But there’s no reason. We said we’re cool and we’re cool. I mean…I’m cool, are you?”

“Cool as a cucumber.” His enthusiastic nod knocked his hat off his head.

I bent to pick up his hat and returned it with a lopsided grin. I wasn’t sure what it was about Holden, but he had a way of accidentally brightening dark corners.