Practice Perfect [bxb]

Chapter 3 - First Rule of Fight Club

From the moment we entered the kitchen, all hands were on deck. Since they'd bought ingredients for a roast after school, I picked out some herbs and spices that I figured would work well. They'd bought a couple of different meat options and had been arguing amongst themselves, debating which meat would be better to use. Me, being both impatient and concerned that this would put a damper on their relationship, took it upon myself to add both options to the cart. I said we could think it over once we got home, instead.

Now that it had come down to the crunch, I had to pick one for dinner tonight. If I left it to the both of them, we might find ourselves in an infinite loop of their quiet arguing and indecision. Besides, it seemed obvious which one made more sense. With the lamb being Orla's favourite a slower time to cook, I pulled it from the fridge and set it down on the bench.

Kensington glanced down at it, frowned, then turned his head to look at Orla.

I followed his gaze, watching her vigorously shake her head. "Not that one."

"What? Why?" I asked, turning to face Orla. "Did you see the size of the pork? Lamb will take the shortest amount of time."

She wasted no time in responding. "Kensington's allergic."

"He is?" I turned to face Kensington beside me. "You are?"

"Uh, yeah," he nodded. "Heavily allergic. It has to be pork."

I stared at the lamb, confused. Then why did they buy it? More importantly, why did they waste so much of their breaths arguing over it if they were just going to come to this conclusion, anyway? I shook off the thought and returned it to the fridge, pulling out the pork instead. This was fine too, I guess. Though Orla and I both absolutely loved roast lamb on equal measures, pork crackling was my favourite dish, after all. It was the sort of dish I could only enjoy once a year at most, around Christmas time, since it was so expensive to buy. And it was always the Child Protection services who sent us one in a giant hamper each year.

But lamb has always been Orla's favourite, so it was a wasted opportunity not to use it tonight. Still, I guess there was no helping it if Kensington was allergic. Now that we were all on the same page with the dish, we turned to our respective responsibilities: Kensington was on vegetables, and I was dealing with the meat.

Now, I didn't say anything, but Kensington went about preparations like second nature. Did he decide to put on some kind of show earlier when he said he couldn't cook by himself? But why? Maybe he wanted me around to make Orla feel more comfortable, or to learn more about her by asking me questions. Except he and I haven't spoken much at all. As I listened to them chatter and joke around, I couldn't think of any other reason and didn't know how suspicious I should be. It seemed okay, though. Nothing felt weird or uncomfortable, so I continued going about my thing.

I'd glance at Kensington working on the odd occasion, doing this and that like you'd see a master chef doing on TV. Kensington and I were working on the kitchen bench near the wall. Orla was sitting behind us, but I saw him turn the slightest bit from the corner of my eye. After a moment of stillness, Orla unleashed an annoying loud yawn followed by a 'my, my, my,' and a smacking of her lips.

"You sound tired," Kensington said, turning back to look at her.

"Do I sound that way?" she asked, almost mechanically. "That's right because I am very tired. Maybe I'll take a nap."

"What?" I asked. Now I was no expert in hospitality, but somehow, the idea of her leaving him here didn't feel right. You wouldn't just leave your crush alone with your sibling, right? Pausing what I was doing, I turned with knife in hand and pointed at her in accusation. "You have a guest and he's even making you dinner! Don't you think you should maybe stick around?"