Page 12 of Taste Test

The bike ride home was quick, my brain already shifting gears from Dash stripping off his shirt in the stockroom to the eternal question: what crap takeaway was I in the mood for tonight?

But as I wheeled my bike up the front path and reached for my keys, I was momentarily sidetracked by the smells coming from inside the house.

Something smelled wrong. By wrong I meant good. Disturbingly good. Someone was cooking.

In the two years I’d flatted with Jared, his culinary repertoire hadn’t ventured far beyond toast, two-minute noodles, and the occasional frozen pizza he half-burnt.

On the rare occasions a real meal appeared, something with actual ingredients, seasoning, aroma, it was usually thanks to me.

But there it was again: garlic, herbs, something lemony. Hell, was that... vegetables?

I pushed through the front door and followed the smell like some sort of domestic bloodhound.

The kitchen doorway framed a sight that made me stop and stare: Jared at the stove, wearing a bright blue apron that read “Kiss the Cook” in obnoxious white letters, stirring something with the same laser focus he usually reserved for watching game footage.

Steam rose around his face, and there was a light sheen of sweat across his forehead from the heat.

“Casey! Perfect timing. Dinner’s almost ready.”

I just kept staring in disbelief. Our kitchen counter, usually covered in his protein shake bottles and sport magazines, had been cleared and cleaned.

There were proper ingredients scattered around: fresh herbs, a lemon, what looked like actual chicken breast rather than the processed stuff he usually bought.

“You’re cooking,” I finally said.

“I sure am.” He flashed me his teeth and his dimples. “Chicken and herb risotto. Found the recipe online.”

“You made risotto?”

“I’m making risotto. It’s not done yet, but it smells good, right? I’ve been stirring for like twenty minutes. Apparently that’s crucial. The stirring.”

I set my backpack down by the door, trying to process this development. “Since when do you cook anything that doesn’t come with instructions printed on the packaging?”

“Since today. I figured I owed you a proper meal after this morning.” He paused his stirring to look at me directly. “You know. As a thank you.”

“A thank you.”

“For what you did. For me. This morning.”

The way he said it, with that earnest gratitude in his voice, made something uncomfortable twist in my chest. “Jared, we talked about this. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“It was to me.”

“Okay, but—”

“I’ve been thinking about it all day, Casey. All day. And I realised something.”

I had a sinking feeling about where this was going. “What did you realise?”

“You didn’t have to do it. You could have just told me to fuck off when I brought you that glass this morning. But you didn’t. You did it. For me.”

“I did it to shut you up.”

“But you still did it.” He turned back to the pan, stirring again, but I caught the satisfied curve of his mouth. “And you said it tasted good.”

“I said it wasn’t terrible. That’s not the same thing.”

“No, you said, and I quote, ‘it tasted better than fine.’”

Fuck. I had said that.

But it hadn’t been meant like this. Not as some meaningful declaration. Not something worth quoting back at me like it belonged in a bloody scrapbook. I’d just been trying to get through the moment, not gift him some kind of ego-boosting soundbite he could hold over me for the rest of time.

I moved into the kitchen properly, drawn by the smell and the surreal sight of Jared preparing real food. The risotto did look legitimate, creamy and properly stirred, with flecks of herbs and what might have been parmesan cheese.

“Where did you even get these ingredients?”

“I went to the supermarket after training. Proper shopping, not just the usual beer and protein powder run. I wanted to make you something nice.”

“You went grocery shopping. For ingredients. To make dinner.”

“I know, right? The checkout lady was definitely surprised. I think she assumed I was shopping for my girlfriend or something.”

I frowned. “Why would she think that? It’s just food.”

Jared jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Might’ve been the flowers.”

I looked. On the dining table was a bunch of fresh flowers, pale pink lilies mixed with that fluffy purple stuff I could never name, all stuffed into a water jug instead of a proper vase. Propped in front of them was a shiny card with gold edging and a swirly silver heart on the front.

I walked over and opened it.

Casey,

Thanks for swallowing everything life throws at you. I hope this meal goes down just as smooth.

Love, Jared x

“Jared,” I said flatly, “what the actual fuck.”

He burst out laughing, almost doubling over with the effort. “Oh my God, your face. I was going to write ‘thanks for being my rock’ but it felt dishonest. You were more like... my drainpipe.”

I flashed him the evils. “I’m never helping you again.”

“You say that now but I made risotto. And I’ve sorted dessert for later.”

“Dessert as well?”

“Yep.” He popped the p and gave a half-smile. “I’m a man of many talents.”

I wanted to tell him to stop being such a wind-up merchant, but honestly? It was all quite sweet, if you ignored the piss-take flowers and card. The kitchen smelt incredible, the risotto looked proper, and he’d clearly put actual effort in.

“This is so strange,” I said.

“What’s strange?”

“You being nice to me.”

“I’m always nice to you!”

“No, you’re not. You leave dirty dishes in the sink for weeks and use all the hot water and eat my leftovers without asking.”

“That’s just flatmate stuff. I’m talking about proper nice. Like, grateful nice.”

“Right. Because this morning makes us what, best mates now?”

“Nah, better than that. We’re cum brothers now.”

“Cum brothers?”

“Yeah. You know, like blood brothers, but with cum instead of blood. It’s a real bond, mate.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is. I’m part of you now, Casey. That’s kind of cool, isn’t it? You’ve got my knuckle children inside you.”

“Your what?”

He made a wanking motion with his free hand. “My knuckle children. My little swimmers. My gentleman’s gravy, my—”

“I get the point,” I snapped, cutting him off before he could get even filthier.

He just smirked and kept stirring the risotto.

“How long till it’s done?” I asked, mostly just wanting to steer the convo away from his jizz.

“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen,” he said. “Depends how committed I stay to stirring. Why, you got a hot date or something?”

“No. I was just wondering if I’ve got time for a shower.”

He raised an eyebrow, all fake sweet. “Aww, how romantic. Casey wants to freshen up for our special dinner together.”

“No, dickhead. I’ve been sweating my arse off all afternoon in a café with no air con.”

“Mmm. Or maybe you’re just keen to go flog yourself now that I’ve got you thinking about my knuckle children.”

“For crying out loud.”

“What?” he laughed. “Don’t act like you’re not tempted. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The look of a man who’s about to go violently beat his meat in the shower.”

“You’re such a knob,” I muttered, turning away.

“Try not to think about me too much while you’re in there,” he called after me.

I flipped him the bird without even looking back.

And yeah. I touched myself in the shower.

And yeah, I thought about him. More than just thought.

Might’ve imagined a whole scene involving his mouth, that laddish voice, and the way his arse could fill out a pair of footy shorts.

Might’ve even released a load of my own knuckle children down the plughole.

But there was no way in hell I’d ever tell Jared that.

When I came back out, towel-dried and dressed in a clean t-shirt and sweatpants, the kitchen smelt even better than before. Jared was spooning risotto into two bowls with the self-satisfaction of someone who’d just won MasterChef.

He glanced up when he saw me. “All fresh and squeaky clean, are we?”

I ignored the comment and took a seat at the table. “Smells alright.”

“Smells alright? Mate, this is a culinary masterpiece. I nearly stirred my arm off.”

“You nearly stirred your arm off this morning too, and no one gave you a medal.”

He laughed. “Touché. You hungry or just here to bask in my domestic brilliance?”

“Just give me the food before you get even more unbearable.”

He slid the bowl in front of me with a flourish. “Bon appétit, mon cum frère.”

I released a slow exhale. “Please never say that again.”

We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both of us apparently enjoying the novelty of a properly cooked meal that hadn’t come from a packet or my own limited repertoire.

“So how was your day anyway?” Jared asked. “Apart from this morning’s excitement.”

“Lectures were fine. Marketing was particularly boring. Had to listen to Professor Williams drone on about consumer behaviour for two hours.”

“Is that the old guy with the PowerPoint addiction?”

“That’s the one. And then work was... work. Made coffee, dealt with entitled students, tried not to throttle Dash.”

“Is that your supervisor?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he still being a dickhead?”

“Professional dickhead. It’s his calling in life.”

Jared let out a low chuckle and pointed his fork at me. “You should spit in his flat white. Or swap it for decaf. That’s what I’d do. Slow psychological warfare.”

I knew he was joking but it did get me thinking about how he was handling the Jess and Connor situation. I shouldn’t ask, I told myself. It wasn’t my business. Jared hadn’t brought it up, hadn’t mentioned them since the party, and maybe that was a sign. Maybe he was handling it in his own way.

But I couldn’t help myself.

“Speaking of dickhead people,” I said, trying to sound casual, “have you spoken with Jess or Connor at all? Since the party?”

“Nope.” Jared’s expression hardened. “They’re dead to me.”

“Both of them?”

“Both of them. What Connor did... you don’t do that to a mate. Ever.”