The Long Game

sorority now.”

She dug her fingers into my waist. “We don’t all have Irish mams, you know.”

I laughed, squirming away from her tickling. “Boiling hot oil here.”

“Oh, fine. Be safe and boring.” She kissed the back of my neck and wandered down the line of cabinets that made up the galley kitchen.

I’d been pretty lucky in terms of finding accommodations. The apartment was in the converted loft of a detached garage about a mile from the Balanova campus. The space was small but cozy, and the owners allowed me to rent by the week, which suited me fine.

“So what is boxty?” she asked as she hoisted herself onto the countertop by the sink.

“It’s a kind of potato pancake. There’s lamb stew in that pot.” I gestured to the back burner. “Together, they taste pretty amazing.”

“Lamb? Really?” Spencer pulled a face. “Like, fuzzy, adorable, baaaah kind of lamb?”

I laughed. “Is there another kind?”

“No way am I eating that,” she said and crossed her arms to punctuate her declaration.

“What are you, six? At least try it. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

She frowned, still skeptical, but I could tell I’d won the exchange when she sniffed at the air again. “Fine. I’ll try it.”

“And like it.” I winked.

“No promises,” she said, though she beamed at me. “Did Maggie teach you to cook?”

“She taught me everything I know.” I deftly flipped the potato pancake. “There’s this old rhyme that goes something like, ‘Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan. If you can’t cook boxty, sure you’ll never get a man.’ But Maggie always changed it to, ‘if you can’t cook boxty, sure you’ll never be a man.’“

Spencer giggled. “The more I hear about Maggie, the more I like her.”

We grinned at each other. I knew Spencer liked me, and it was only a matter of time before she’d warm up enough to tell Tommy she was dating someone, but I also felt a small pang of regret that I’d never get to introduce her to Maggie.

“So what’s with the unmade bed?” Spencer asked. “Everything else around here is spotless.”

I slid the boxty from my spatula onto a plate and glanced over my shoulder to the corner where the bed was tucked under the slopping roof. The thick blue-and-green plaid comforter was jumbled to one side of the bed, revealing the twisted sheets beneath, and the pillows were thrown into a haphazard mound.

“It’s my way of avoiding a restless night.” An image of Spencer and I spending a restless night together on the bed’s plush surface filled my mind, and I smiled to myself before turning to look at her.

She quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“When I was growing up, Maggie had all kinds of superstitions for everyday tasks. She told me once that if I got distracted while making my bed, I’d spend a restless night in it. I decided the best way to avoid that would be to stop making it.”

Spencer laughed. “And she was okay with that?”

“Not really, but I think she appreciated my ingenuity.” I flashed her a grin and turned the knob that extinguished the gas flame under my pan. “So are you ready to broaden your culinary horizons?”

She laughed and slid from the counter. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not even a little.” I spooned a generous amount of the thick stew onto the boxty already waiting in its dish and handed it to her. She used her foot to pull a chair out from under the small kitchen table that served as a divider between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment and sat down. I sat my own stew down on the placemat across from her.

“I’m going to make some tea. Want some? I also have milk, a few cans of beer, and some flat soda if that sounds more appealing.”

She smiled, shaking her head at me. “Tea sounds great.”

I filled the kettle and set it on the already hot burner, then opened a cupboard door and pulled down two of the plain white ceramic mugs that came with my rental. I packed a tea steeper with a flaky mixture from the battered tin Maggie had pushed into my hands before I left.

“Is this Maggie’s famous tea?” Spencer asked.

I turned to answer, and my elbow caught one of the mugs, sending it crashing to the floor. It broke into several large pieces and scattered across the linoleum.

“Dammit.” I bent to clean the mess. Spencer knelt down to help, but I held up a hand to stop her.

“Careful. I don’t want you to cut yourself.” I reached for the largest chunk of ceramic, then sucked in a sharp breath and withdrew my hand. I inspected the gash on my palm. It welled with blood, and I closed my fingers again to keep it from dripping onto the floor. “Kind of like that.”

Spencer grabbed a towel from the counter and took my hand. She wrapped it tightly with the towel and tucked in the end. “Keep it up like this.” She pushed my arm toward me so it bent at the elbow.

She stood to search for a first aid kit, found one in the back of a drawer next to the sink, and carried it to the table. Then she pointed to one of the chairs. I cradled my injured hand against my chest, obeying her silent orders. Spencer pulled the second chair closer and sat across from me. She took my hand and rested it on her knees, then unwrapped the towel to inspect the cut again. It was deep but wouldn’t need stitches as far as I could tell. I watched her as she tore open a small packet with her teeth and pulled out an alcohol swab. She swiped it across my palm, and I hissed through my teeth.

Spencer grinned. “Now who’s six?”

She lifted my hand and blew on it to take away the sting. I would’ve been happy to recover with her cool breath on my open palm, but she produced gauze and tape from the kit to finish the job. When she finished wrapping and taping it, she turned my hand from side to side to look over the dressing. Satisfied, she bent her head and kissed my palm. “There. All better.”

“Nicely done.” I wiggled my fingers as if she’d reattached a limb rather than bandaged a cut. “I’m lucky you were here, or I may have bled to death.”

Spencer chuckled. “Yeah, well, I think you would have pulled through, but you can thank my dad for the first-aid skills. I was constantly hurting myself as a kid, so he had lots of opportunities to demonstrate his technique.”

“Same here, although I’m not qualified for much more than a Band-Aid. I was usually too busy fussing over my injury to notice what Maggie was doing.”

“Worst childhood injury?” Spencer asked.

“Broken nose when I was twelve, courtesy of my brother. But I totally deserved it.”

“Yeah?”

“I was annoyed he wouldn’t let me skip school to go with him on a trip, so I told Maggie about the Playboys he had hidden in his dresser.”

Spencer laughed. “You ratted out your own brother?”

“I know, I know.” I hung my head. “I’m the worst.”

The teakettle whistled, and I hopped out of my chair to answer it. I poured the boiling water into one mug, got another from the cupboard, and filled that too. “Here you go.” I brought them to the table. “Just let it sit for a few minutes before you try it.”

“Honey?”

I scowled at her with feigned horror. “Honey? Normal tea needs honey. Maggie’s tea doesn’t need anything but a mug. Trust me.”

Spencer put up her hands in surrender. “So sorry. I didn’t realize I was dealing with a tea sommelier.”

I grinned at her as I retook my seat. Her chair was still pulled close, and our knees brushed together as I settled into mine. “What about you. What was your worst injury as a kid?”

“Couple broken bones, lots of cuts and scrapes.” She thought for a second. “Oh, maybe it’s not the worst, but this one is the grossest.” She held out her left hand to me, palm flat. She pointed to the silvery outline of a jagged circle.

“What’s it from?”

“I was eight, just learning to ride a bike on my own, and I was lucky enough to fall straight onto a bottle cap. It went so far in it had to be removed in the ER.”