The sound of her laugh startled me - and her, judging by the way she cut it short. That hurt. Helena had never had to resist the urge to laugh with me before. But things were different now. That was only to be expected, after the amount of time that had passed.
“Charlotte’s an amazing cook,” she offered, not quite meeting my eyes. “Maybe they watch those cooking programs together.” The thought of my baby brother sitting at home watching cooking shows with his wife-to-be was… sweet. I almost hoped that it was true.
Helena swept a curl back behind her ear, catching my attention for a moment. “What did he make you that was so impressive? Maybe I can tell you if it’s one of Charlotte’s recipes.”
“Macaroni and cheese the first night,” I answered. “And then some sort of a spinach pastry concoction that was like the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” Truthfully, I was shocked by how good Pat was at cooking. And maybe a little disappointed that mom was now back in charge of what we had for dinner.
Not, of course, that I would ever dare to say that!
Feeling like maybe I was making it seem like I couldn’t cook - and finding that it bothered me to leave Helena thinking that - I added, “I can cook, by the way. I just don’t have as much experience with cooking shows.” That was kind of a joke. I had learned to cook from cookbooks. Our team’s new nutritionist, El, was excellent at suggesting good things to read.
Why I cared whether Helena knew that I could or could not cook was questionable. Or perhaps I did know, I just didn’t think that it should matter. The last time I had cooked for her was so long ago I couldn’t even remember what it had been. No doubt it would have been terrible.
“I wouldn’t have thought you had time for cooking shows,” Helena agreed, making me look sharply at her. Though the words sounded like a rebuke, there was nothing but civility in Helena’s face. And maybe a touch of awkwardness.
She wasn’t wrong. My time was taken up with hockey and training for hockey. Even when I wasn’t training, my mind was on the game for much of the time. So why did I suddenly want to prove to Helena that I could have other interests?
“Charlotte bought me a slow-cooker for Christmas,” Helena carried on, apparently oblivious to my tumult of emotions. “She’s been teaching me a different thing to cook in it about once a month or so.”
“That’s like the pot you just put everything in and leave it?” I asked. “El’s been suggesting we all get one.” At Helena’s quizzical look, I clarified, “El’s our nutritionist. She’s got some great ideas for how to improve our diets. It’s been very helpful.” And that was true. Our old nutritionist had been fine but El came with so many new and fun ideas.
Not to mention that she had managed to get Alfie to eat some vegetables, even if it was still an argument. That was more than anyone else - including Alfie’s parents - had ever managed.
“Do you like it? Cooking?” I asked. It was almost startling to realize that I genuinely didn’t know. The Helena in my head was a Helena from ten years ago. If I was no longer the person I had been then, there was no reason to imagine that she was either.
Helena gave a small shrug, like she was weighing how much of her opinion to give me. “I like it at the weekends, when I have the time to… well, to take my time, you know?”
Before I could answer, she carried on. “I used to complain about coming home from work and not having the energy to make a real meal. The slow cooker’s been great for that. I can get everything ready in the morning, when I’m at my most energetic. Then, when I come home, it’s done and all I need to do is put it on a plate.”
As someone with a very physical job, I could see the appeal of that.
“It gets a bit samey. There are only so many things you can leave for that long without ruining them. But at the weekends I get to eat whatever I want to make.”
“What’s your best dish?” I asked. It struck me just how normal this conversation was. Perhaps even boring. Except it didn’t feel at all boring. I genuinely wanted to know what Helena’s favorite was, what she cooked the best, why she liked it. Back when we were younger, it had always been one of my favorite things - listening to Helena talk.
It could be about anything and everything. And apparently, as I listened to her tell me about some chicken dish she’d discovered in an old recipe book, that hadn’t changed. Fascinated by what the answer was, I subconsciously shifted closer, in order to hear Helena better.
As she finished describing the modifications she’d made, a blush crept across her cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t realize how much detail I was getting into. You can’t be interested in the difference between using chicken thighs and chicken breast!”
Ten years ago, I would’ve told Helena that I was interested. Now, I wasn’t sure what it was appropriate to say. As the silence stretched between us, Helena fidgeted, her hand fluttering up towards the cascade of dark curls.
“But tell me about you!” she urged, sounding just a little strained. “Have you ever been a best man before? You must have a lot of guy friends on the Pumas.”
The question brought back all the thoughts about how long it had been since I last saw Helena. Ten years. Yeah, that was a lot of time to have
