Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

“Yeah.” I remember him asking this before he knew who I was. And even though I knew it would come up, I don’t really want to talk about it.

I concentrate on relaxing my fisted hands and change the topic by answering his other question. “I’d been working in different restaurants since I was sixteen. And so I found a job here as a line cook and started working on my plan for my company.”

Fingertips trail through the ends of my hair, and I feel myself tipping my head toward his hand, wanting more.

“Did you go to school for cooking?” He leans closer to me so I can hear him better.

“Just self-taught.”

“Impressive.” His eyes move to where his fingers are still playing with my hair.

“Not really.” I lift a shoulder. “I just couldn’t afford college.”

His gaze moves back to mine. “You didn’t let it stop you. And I’ve tasted your food, Rosie. It’s fucking delicious.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

“Did you end up working in restaurants because you already liked to cook? Or was it working in them that made you like it?”

“I started cooking at home when I was younger.” I reach for my glass. “I found an old cookbook in that Goodwill over by the library.” I pause, taking a drink as cover. Nathan’s family wasn’t the type to go to Goodwill, and I feel a little weird having brought it up. “It was a thick Betty Crocker cookbook that was a little banged up and a lot old, but the previous owner had written all sorts of notes around the edges of the pages.”

“What sort of notes?” Nathan sounds genuinely curious.

“Random stuff. She—I assume it was a she—would cross out cook times and write in what she thought was better. There were notes on ingredients to add if you wanted to make it sweeter or less salty. Substitutions she’d used if she was out of something. The notes weren’t profound or anything like that, but it caught my interest. I’d never really thought about food that much since there wasn’t much…” I catch myself. “Since we didn’t have that much variety at home.”

We didn’t have much food in general. Or at least I didn’t.

I was stuck with instant packets of soup and peanut butter sandwiches mostly. But I don’t really want to talk about that.

Even though I think Nathan knew. I’m pretty sure that’s why he started bringing me marshmallows.

Appreciation fills my chest.

He was such a good friend to me.

And I want to tell him.

I was never a scrawny kid. Even when I chose hunger most nights, preferring to stay in my room rather than be near my dad, my body has always just been… thicker.

But Nathan still knew I could use the treats.

Of course, once I figured out how to cook, I finally got to eat my fill, and I filled out my curves even more.

Of course, Dad, classic piece of shit that he was, never missed an opportunity to call me fat. Tell me I should go for a run or that I’d never get a boyfriend if I didn’t start cutting back on the calories.

As if I’d wanted a boyfriend.

I’d wanted fewer men in my life. Not more.

A warm hand slides over my shoulder. “What was your favorite thing to make?”

“Soup,” I tell him, then I take a long drink of my mojito.

Nathan’s brows go up. “And yet you didn’t make any for the Lovelace party or for my picnic.”

Mentally, I brush away the cloying memories that threaten to pull me under and smile. “Soup doesn’t exactly qualify as summer finger food.”

Nathan purses his lips. “Fair enough, but I want to try some anyway. I’ve never met a soup I didn’t like.”