Page 159 of Oleander

I looked at him, impressed. “Is there anything you can’t do one-handed?”

“Play piano.” He slid one ear back in.

“You want a refill?”

I pointed at his coffee cup. He nodded and moved to stand, but I crossed the kitchen to take it from him, and he sat down again. On the screen of his laptop was a guy playing piano energetically in front of an audience. Cas appeared to be laser-focused on it, the fingers of his uninjured hand air-tapping the keys on the table. I felt a stab of pity in my chest for him. I imagined it would be like going blind and unable to read Braille.

I grilled myself some bacon, reheated the pancakes, and filled his coffee cup before sitting down next to him.

“You still don’t drink it?” he asked as he lifted his cup. He’d closed the laptop and was focused on me instead.

I shook my head. I loved the smell of coffee but found the taste repulsive. At some point in my third year, among the late nights and deadlines, this changed. I consider myself now to have a worryingly dependent, low-level addiction to it.

I lifted my sweetened tea and sipped. “Can you go into the pool with that?” I nodded at his hand. There wasn’t a cast on it, just a splint, cushioned with white padding, his finely shaped fingers wrapped up tight inside it.

“I think so.”

“But I probably shouldn’t, like, throw you in?” I smiled around a mouthful of perfectly cooked pancake.

“Not if you value your life, no.”

I chuckled. “Finals of the swimming are tonight. Shall we watch?”

“If you like.”

“They’re on late, so we can have dinner first.”

“Do you want to go out, or shall I cook?”

“You’ve cooked a lot since you got here.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t mind it; I do it at home. I enjoy it.”

Home.I hated the sound of that. Of the idea of him cooking for Blackwell after a hard day of being a despicable prick. I looked down at my plate. “Where would we go if we went out?” I asked

“Well, what would you like to eat? I could ask Ken to make reservations at Isabel or Scott’s.” He was already lifting up his phone. I didn’t know who Isabel or Scott were.

“I’m not fussy. I’ll eat anything.”

“The last time we went to Scott’s, we saw Ryan Foster, the actor, not the MP,” Cas said. “Isabel isn’t as good as it used to be since Jean-Georges poached their head chef.” I was beginning to get a picture of the sort of places Cas was used to eating with the prick.

“Okay, well, maybe we can order some takeout and stay home?” I suggested. “I really don’t feel comfortable in those kinds of places anyway.”

He paused his scrolling and looked up at me. “Why ever not?”

“I just...don’t. They’re not my kind of place, Cas.”

This seemed to confuse him, but after a moment he said, “Then you choose somewhere, I’m happy to go wherever you like.”

“I’m honestly more than happy to stay in. But I don’t want you to cook again, so let’s order in.”

“I really don’t mind cooking, Jude.”

“I know you don’t, but tonight I fancy something disgustingly unhealthy, like pizza or kebab.”

“Kebab?”

The horrified look on his face made me laugh.