I decided to stay with Mom for a while. Every evening we cook together and talk. I forgot how meditative it is to cook, the satisfaction of taking so many ingredients and turning them into a single, beautiful meal. All day I wait to be surrounded by the steam of sauteing vegetables-the fog of boiling water-the simmering of meat on the skillet. I reclaimed a love for food that I had long forgotten.
“Why don’t you make something for Peyton?” my Mom suggests while we cook tonight's meal: papaya. She’s standing across from me in a pale blue apron, deveining some shrimp. “Is there a meal he likes?”
I think back to our childhood. I recall how whenever Peyton felt down, his grandfather would make him chicken pot pie soup. Whenever Peyton came home with scraped knees or a failed test, his grandfather would sit him down at the table and give him a bowl of soup as if he had known what was going to happen beforehand. This was before Peyton’s grandfather owned the colonial home-when he still lived with Mr. and Mrs. Presley. I had frequented many of these dinners; his grandfather was always hospitable to me despite his son’s disapproval.
I try to recall the ingredients of the soup and add them to a large pot. In pinches, I add seasoning, sip some of the soup off the spoon, and make whatever adjustment is needed. I stand over the boiling pot for hours, working until the soup tastes just as it did when we were young. My mother bakes a pie crust in the oven, crumbling it over the top as a finishing touch.
I pour the soup into a nice jar and seal the lid. I kiss my mother goodbye on her wrinkled, blushed cheeks and get into her car.
I pull into the driveway beside Peyton’s silver BMW. Each of the porch steps feels lighter than the last, and finally, I’m face to face with the door. He put up a Christmas wreath: green reeds with red berries. I ring the doorbell and wait, holding the jar of soup between my pink, cold hands. Today is particularly frigid, and a heaviness weighs down the sky.
Peyton opens the door and almost immediately tries to close it. I shove my foot in the crack of the door, accepting the painful shudder in my toes.
“Wait-Peyton, please!” I fumble my words.
Peyton opens the door just wide enough for us to be face-to-face. He crosses his arms and glares down at me.
“You can’t stay here,” Peyton says.
“No-I know. I’ve been looking for a place.” I say hurriedly. I offer the jar, and his eyes curiously light up at the sight of it. He takes it into his hands, looks it over, pops open the lid, and sniffs.
“You made Gramp’s soup?” Peyton asks, confused.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what exactly? For ditching the interview or for tearing up the floorboards?” he asks. I gulp uneasily.
“I have a lot more to apologize for than that,” I admit with a little chuckle. “I’ve been a bad friend. I took advantage of your kindness…and your feelings. I’m not looking for forgiveness, but I needed you to know how deeply sorry I am.”
Peyton’s eyes soften, and his lips curl into a small smile. “It’s cold. Why don’t you come inside, and we have some of this soup?” he asks, holding up the jar.
“A-Are you sure?” I ask.
Peyton laughs quietly and opens the door wide enough for me to come inside. He places two bowls on the dining room table and pours some of the soup into each. We sit across from one another, my legs unable to keep from fidgeting nervously.
Peyton takes a bite, and his eyes spring open with surprise.
“It’s good,” he says. “It tastes just like how-” he chokes up, hot tears brimming his eyes. “-it tastes just like his cooking. I-I didn’t realize how much I missed it.” Peyton hides his face in his hands, sobbing. I rush out of my seat and put my hand on his shoulder. As my hand skims his sweater, I reel it away as if I had stuck it into an open flame. Instead, I kneel beside him and try to peek at his face between the cracks in his fingers. “Thank you, Will. Thank you for letting me taste his cooking again.”
“It’s something I should have done long ago,” I sigh. “I knew how much your grandpa meant to you, and I should have helped you through your grief.”
Peyton wipes the tears off his face and sniffs.
“I didn’t get to be there when he died, Will.” he quivers. “But this-it feels like I get to say goodbye-to have one last meal with him.”
We eat until the entire jar is empty. Peyton savors each bite, holding back tears with each spoonful. Finally, the meal is over. Together, we wash the dishes, Peyton scrubbing while I dry.
As I towel off the last bowl, I study the bitter-sweet look on Peyton’s face.
“Are you ok?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Peyton smiles, turning back around. “I think I’m ok now.” He takes in a long breath, and a calmness washes over him. “I don’t think I’m done mourning,” he finally admits.
“It takes time,” I sigh.
Time. I know what I’m going to do with my time. I want to reconnect with my mother and visit her more often so we can cook meals together. I want to get a job and no longer leach off those around me. I want to make up for what I’ve done and earn the right to be Peyton’s friend again. All in time.
Peyton grabs a box of nails and a hammer from the drawer beneath the kitchen sink.
"Why don’t you go upstairs and fix the mess you made?” he says playfully. I take the hammer and nails, putting the floorboard of Felix’s room back together. Peyton sits on the edge of the bed as I work, talking with me. After an hour, the floor is put back together-all except for one last piece. I stare down at the square dirt hole. It looks like a grave. And I realize if I leave this open, I’ll inevitably fall in. I take the box of old photos and place them gently inside. I peer up at Peyton to get his approval, and he nods. I nail the board back in, sealing the box away.
“Do you think he was a bad person?” Peyton asks, looking off through the window as the snow begins to fall.
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “But he was a good grandfather, at least.”
“Yeah,” Peyton chuckles. “He was.”
We watch as the snow begins to cover the city, gathering on the rooftops. We watch as a new season comes into our lives.
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