Blake scowls. “Ugh, no, I don’t do air mattresses.”
“Sure, you do. I blew it up all by myself. You don’t want to hurt my feelings, do you? It took forever.”
“You didn’t use a pump?”
“Nope. We don’t have one. That’s all my carbon dioxide in there. Will you be enjoying a refreshing shower before you dine?”
“You don’t have a bathtub?”
I shake my head. “Sorry.”
“So I have to stand?”
“Yes.”
“Who doesn’t have a bathtub?”
I raise my hand. “Me. It’s inconvenient, I know. But water spraying on you is just as useful as water that you sit in. Actually, it’s better because the grime isn’t floating around you while you’re trying to get clean. If you’d like to order an outdoor pool, be my guest.”
Blake glares at me and wanders into the bathroom.
A few minutes later, he emerges, hair wet and a towel wrapped around his waist. “Have a nice shower?” I ask.
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Did you figure out that the red arrow on the knob was for hot water and the blue arrow was for cold? I know it can be difficult since water that comes out of the faucet is clear.”
Blake ignores me and walks into my bedroom. If we’re trying to mend our relationship, I suppose I should stop being sarcastic.
When he comes back out, he’s fully dressed. “I still can’t believe you don’t have a bathtub.”
“We don’t have rubber duckies either.” Okay, I’ll stop being sarcastic now.
“Showers are for hosing yourself down after you’ve run a marathon,” says Blake. “It’s a low-class way to get clean.”
“That’s an interesting new perspective.” New plan: I’m not going to stop being sarcastic until he stops complaining about our lack of a bathtub.
“Bathtubs are elegant. They’re relaxing.”
“You just woke up. You don’t need extra relaxation. But here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll go out and buy some shovels. Then we’ll dig a great big hole in the backyard, which you can fill with hot water and bubbles, and then—”
“Ha ha. That’s hilarious.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I spent almost twenty seconds thinking it up. I didn’t originally have the bubbles part in there, but that’s what makes the joke, don’t you agree?”
“What’s for breakfast?”
“It’s lunchtime.”
“I don’t eat lunch before breakfast.”
“There’s cold cereal then.”
“Oh, joy.”
“You don’t like cereal?”
“I outgrew cereal when I outgrew cartoons.”
“But maybe you’ll find a toy car in the box. Vroom, vroom.”
“I really don’t understand you,” says Blake. “Immaturity is fine when you’re younger, but you should be over it.”
“For your information, we have only healthy cereal in the cupboard. Maybe it’s because I’ve outgrown cereals with prizes inside, and maybe it’s because I love raisins. You’ll never know.”
“Raisins are old grapes.”
“We’re not going to get off on a raisin tangent,” I inform him. “I’m actually a very good breakfast chef. I can make pancakes, waffles, omelets, perfectly crisp bacon, and though I don’t make my own jelly, I spread it across toast with skill beyond anything you’ve never seen. And someday in the future, I might make this for you. Until that day arrives, it’s cold cereal for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to make breakfast for me,” says Blake.
I think back. I’m pretty sure he did. I hope he did. My whole dramatic speech only works if Blake is too lazy to cook his own breakfast.
“I can make light and fluffy blueberry pancakes that will bring a tear to your eye,” says Blake. “My elevated take on waffles would start your day on such a high note that nothing could ruin it. Omelets are my specialty, especially the ones I make with perfectly crisp bacon. And I do make my own jelly.”
I’m almost positive he’s lying. He was convincing until he got to the part about making his own jelly. Blake seems to be the kind of person who would ridicule homemade jelly, not make it himself. But if I call him out, I run the risk of him proving me wrong by making us a delicious breakfast, and then I’ll look like a jerk.
I decide to call his bluff. “I’ll happily drive you to the store for eggs and jelly-making supplies if you want.”
“No need. I’ll have toast.”
I show him where we keep the bread, and he drops two slices into the toaster. I silently dare him to criticize our toaster. Go on, Blake. Say that our toaster isn’t up to contemporary standards. You know you want to. Talk about how your toaster at home has four slots or how ours doesn’t have a sturdy enough spring or how the sides could stand to be a bit shinier. Do it. I dare you. Do it. Do it!
Blake says nothing.
The toast pops up. It’s burnt.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “The settings aren’t quite right. Our toaster is extra hot. If you want it toasted at six, you have to set it for four. Sorry about that.”
“Most people would have shared that information sooner,” Blake comments.
“I know, I know.” I was so focused on the possibility of Blake making fun of our toaster that I forgot that this appliance’s glory days are long gone.
I take the burnt toast from him, throw it in the garbage, and give him two new slices of bread.
“You didn’t have to waste it,” Blake says. “I would’ve scraped off the burnt layers and eaten my paper-thin pieces of toast without complaining.”
“Set it at four,” I remind him.
Blake turns the dial. “You should get a dog.”
“Why?”
“To eat all the food you ruin.”
“I don’t generally ruin food.”
“Well, so far you’re zero for one. I guess we’ll see how the rest of my visit goes. I don’t want to have to buy pizza for every meal, even though I can afford it.” Blake puts the bread in the toaster and pushes down the lever. “You’re sure it should be set on four, right? You’re not second-guessing yourself?”
I want to come back with a devastating retort, but I did botch the toast, so for now, I have to endure his sarcasm. “I’m sure.”
“I suppose we’ll know in
