Wax - Chapter 21: Chapter 21

"You took my clothes off?"
I had bags of groceries blocking my view—one balanced on my forearm, another pressed against my chest, wedged between both arms that had a bag each dangling from my wrists. Making it past the front door was, already, a miraculous feat. I couldn't quite remember the last time I'd purchased so many items on impulse and checked out with a shopping cart three-quarters full. I'd always been the kind of shopper to leave the baskets alone.
"Leroy? You're awake, I—oh good god you can't possibly think walking around like that would somehow make you immune to a common cold, you should be in bed for goodness sake." I said amidst the chaos of groceries, carefully setting everything down on the kitchen counter.
"Can't find my clothes," he said, turning over a stray cushion on my couch as though he'd, by the fortune of pillow gods, find a shirt under it. I reassured him that his clothes were not kidnapped by producing them from the dyer and placing them on the back of a dining chair.
"There. How are you feeling?" I started sorting out the bags of ingredients, lining up the ones I intended to use for dinner prep. "I had a brand-new set of pyjamas stacked neatly on the corner of the bed, prepared just for you. Were they, um, not... to your liking?"
He slipped on his pants but for some reason, forgot about his dress shirt. "The silk?"
"Yes. Handmade to perfection. Extreme quality!"
He paused, then cursed under his breath. "I ripped a seam in the top."
The drop I felt in my chest was akin to a sinking anchor. Afraid that it'd affect his recovery, I feigned indifference and attempted to appear the least bit fazed. "Ah. Not to worry. It was, um, not one of my favorites—"
"I'm just playing."
"Oh thank god I was about to pass out that set was something I'd ordered months ago waiting for the perfect occasion to wear and and and stop laughing, don't think you'd get away with something like that just because you have a fever." I tossed a fleece throw in his face. They came in handy on colder days. "Use it."
"I'm fine, really."
"Is that so?" I spared him a glance, filling the electric kettle. "Well then you may show yourself out of my apartment right this instant. A pity you'd miss out on dinner made by yours truly."
The words were magic. Instantly, the throw was on him like a cape and I was trying hard not to laugh, musing privately behind the open door of the fridge. "Coming from the person who nearly blew up my kitchen."
"Y—that, isn't... well." I was reduced to silence. At present, the exact location of my saucepan was only one of my greatest worries. I had everything else displayed on the counter; porridge oats, miso, kale, pre-packed chicken stock, Swiss browns, chives, and two eggs.
"What's on the menu?" He drew closer with the throw simply draped over his shoulders, rendering the piece of fabric practically meaningless by leaving the front of his torso entirely exposed. I reached behind me to grab a clothes peg from a basketful above the washing machine and clipped the corners together. There. Fully covered.
"Porridge."
"I can't taste sweet things."
"Who says porridge has to be sweet?" I turned, smug. The ingredients splayed out on the counter proved my point. "Miso-seasoned porridge. Topped with grilled Swiss brown mushrooms, crispy kale and a poached egg. Simple enough for a novice like myself but an absolute genius of a flavor combination." I glanced up for some approval.
Leroy had, after all, been once recognized by the culinary world for his raw talent.
"You know how to poach an egg?" He raised a brow, the hint of a smirk upon his lips. I paused.
"Well. Um. I could, um, certainly... try to do so," I said as I got to work with the mushrooms, slicing them thin. Then it was popping a handful of roughly torn kale into the air fryer. "Your job is to sit over there a-and um. And sit. That is all. But preferably in the bed. In fact, you should be in bed. Have you checked your temperature?"
He had the audacity to grab my hand and place the back of it on his forehead. "How's this?"
I slapped him with a: "It pains me when people are not being scientifically accurate so would you please use the ThermoScan in the bedroom?"
Needless to say, averting my gaze and turning my back towards him was very necessary at this point but I was vaguely aware of my ears giving everything away and so I propelled him out of the kitchen and resumed dinner prep. He came out with proof of a slightly improved condition, but I was not quick to buy into his miraculous recovery.
I challenged the idiot to stay put on the couch with a thermos of decaffeinated tea, (chamomile, of course), wrap himself in the fleece throw, and entertain his dog for the next fifteen minutes. Failure to do so would eliminate all possibility of dessert. That said, I hadn't planned for dessert. All I knew was that, apparently, someone whose taste buds refused to acknowledge the existence of sweetness was equally vulnerable to the prospect of an extra little something at the end of a meal.
"You done?" He called across the room after some time as though this was some competition and I was making the only judge on the panel wait.
"Patience, Mr. Cox. I'm plating."
"Ten seconds."
"Your comments are unhelpful and therefore very much unappreciated. Thank you."
He'd reserved his response to my gratitude until dinner service right at the dining table, where he so promptly presented his signature indecent finger. I handed him a spoon.
"Wanna bet?" His gaze lowered to the poached egg placed atop a bed of Swiss browns and crispy kale leaves. Underneath was the butter-miso oat porridge.
"If the egg is perfectly poached? No, not really," I admitted, honest. "The likelihood of the eggs being, well, warm but runny on the inside is... by my calculations, less than twenty percent."
"Confidence isn't bad once in a while, you know," he laughed, spoon hovering over the egg. "It smells good."
He pressed the tip of his spoon on the surface of the whites and perhaps the moment he did, I slid that bowl of porridge away from him and exchanged it with the one that was supposedly for myself. Leroy was holding back a laugh and all I could do was pretend not to notice.
"I barely touched it."
"Leroy, I've had thousands of poached eggs my entire life. I know exactly how a perfectly cooked one should look like moments before breaking. Just by observing the tension of the egg's surface between the—" The very next instance had both of us stunned into silence.
Leroy had broken into the second poached egg and out flowed the signature silken, runny yolk of a poached egg. We exchanged a look.
"Not bad."
"N-not bad? Leroy, this is an incredible feat! I've never pulled off a perfectly poached egg, not in this lifetime, I haven't! The, the this, it's beautiful! I I I can cook! This calls for a glass of champagne. Oh no wait, you're ill. You should not be drinking. I shall not, then."
His gaze betrayed a surprising form of disappointment. "Just one?"
"No, of course not. Alright enough conversation, please help yourself before the food turns cold." I gestured to the bowl of porridge with the perfect poached egg, taking the seat across him and starting on a portion of my own. The less-successful version.
"How'd you come up with this?"
"Well. I was travelling around East Asia with Si Yin for some time thanks to a sponsored article series by the publishing company I was interning at, and she'd introduced me to Hong Kong-style congee. A savory porridge perfect for breakfast or brunch usually seasoned with soy sauce and sometimes sesame oil. I replaced the crispy garlic with kale, to maintain the texture contrast. Instead of soy sauce, I used butter and miso. Quite a simple idea, really. Nothing ground-breaking." I looked up from my dinner, moderately satisfied with how it turned out. "Do you like it?"
He cracked a smile, going in for another spoonful. "May be the best I've ever had."
I slowed to a stop, staring down at my bowl of oat porridge, warm and fragrant. His answer had surprised me; not because I knew he was lying, but because I wasn't even sure if Leroy knew he was. Lying. Or if for some reason, this was him thinking he was speaking his mind and not actually realizing the near impossibility of his statement. Inherently subjective. But was subjectivity the opposite of truth?
"You mind if I stay?" He asked, already halfway done with his dinner amidst my rampant thoughts. I quickly recovered.
"Overnight? Yes, of course you—I mean, no, I don't mind, yes, you may stay," I scrambled, adjusting my glasses and realizing that the bottom half of the frames had fogged up while my mind was occupied with silly things. "I'm almost certain that your fever isn't going to disappear in the next hour or so, so. Please make yourself comfortable. And do let me know if there is anything else you may require so that I can, um, do my best to fulfil your needs. Whatever they may be."
I caught myself sounding a tad too formal and as a result, mildly ridiculous. I'd expected him to laugh, poke fun at my complicated, nervous diction but a single glance across the table confirmed some form of... cold.
Distance.
In that moment, he seemed awfully far for someone sitting across the table, dining in the same space. Quite frankly, I'd somehow learnt to detect the emotion of hurt as much as confusion that my words, on occasion, seemed to cause. Yet, I'd never really mastered the ability to understand where, exactly, I'd gone wrong with them.
This was one of those times.
"I did not mean to sound... I mean to say that... y—those words did not come out the way I'd intended them to, and I'm sorry. For that. I meant to say that I would prefer to be of, um, some use. To you. Rather than be the one always receiving your help and affection. If what I said somehow made you think I'd like for us to restart this whole... or forget whatever happened in the past and start afresh as strangers, then no. That was not what I meant."
He was allowing me the space to go off tangent and I was doing a poor job at resisting it.
"U-unless that is what you prefer? I know we never really got to establishing this. Of course, I would be silly to make decisions based on my own... opinions. Whether it is starting afresh or continuing, um, where we left off, I thought of, well, thought of asking you what it is you think. Though I'd personally prefer if we weren't. Strangers."
His bowl was empty.
I watched him turn over one of the glasses in the middle of the table and fill it with water from the kettle I'd placed nearby.
"You gotta give me a heads up if we're talking about stuff like this, y'know." A smile. It smelled like candles; extinguished. "I have a speech to write. Going into this clean isn't the best idea for idiots like me."
I humored him a laugh, slightly afraid of what was going to come but at the same time, bracing myself for a hit.
"You wanted me to find myself. Without the cooking part. Like, the me without the cooking," he stared out the window. "Which you were right about, don't get me wrong. Sure, I didn't understand why the fuck you wouldn't come with me or hang on to the only thing we had left in common but that was last time. I get why you did it. At least now, yeah. I do. I mean I found a job I love. Like, really love. And people that I actually get along with.
"So yeah. I did somewhat find myself. And you played a part in it. But," he laughed. "I don't think I can thank you. I'd be lying. If I thanked you.
"Not after those years of being alone." He met my gaze. "Can't deny that."
And it was in those years that the candles in his eyes had been put out—by him or the wind, I did not know. All that remained was a black, wilted wick. No longer glowing from the remnants of a still, constant heat. It was long gone, the flame was. The bearer himself had determined its end; that a burning flame was only going to eat at the wax that was not infinite. Eat and eat, until, it all, was gone.
In the moment of silence between us over the table, I picked at dinner and came across a grain of thought. The kind of thought that made the worst of wandering ones. Of hopes that continued to wonder if he loved me still.
"I find myself unable to disagree with you," I admitted. Honest. "I, too, think it impossible to start anew—in any human relationship, I'd go as far as to say—without the nuance or memory of the past. Very likely, you will not be able to forget the time we spent together and apart. The latter being what is most hurtful, which you have kindly shared. It would be unwise to simply sweep bad times under the carpet and move on as though it did not happen. At the very least, we must acknowledge it. And I would be disrespecting you if I said otherwise."
He cracked a smile halfway through my response, and in his eyes, too, I thought I saw another. A crack.
"You?"
"Me?" I set my spoon aside.
He downed the glass of water in one go. "How did you spend our time apart?"
I slowed to a stop, and for some reason noticed the way I was breathing like a wave lapping against the shore. An odd, serene calm that, when missed, would have felt as though I wasn't breathing at all.
"I spent it very much alone."
Three simple words; but they were enough to spark a change in his eyes. An expression I wasn't entirely familiar with but unsure exactly when and where I'd come across something so quietly moving. As though the part of him that went missing had somehow returned for a second in the form of a spark.
I averted my gaze, afraid that going any further would soon undo a lock and tears would start to fall. Gathering the empty bowls and cutlery, I retreated into the kitchen and, over my shoulder, asked if he was feeling any better.
"Think I'm good enough to go to work tomorrow, actually." He followed, leaning against the kitchen counter as I busied myself with the dishes. I gave him a look.
"Hm. Well, the decision is entirely up to you but I would prefer if you took an extra day off to rest. Fevers can become awfully unpredictable. What if it worsens in the middle of an emergency at work? You'd be an additional casualty." I opened the fridge, gesturing to the multiple options for 'dessert' and caught him eyeing a bottle of ginger beer. Courtesy of Raul the day I arrived in London.
"But I have Friday off."
"Perfect. Then you'll have two full days of good, healthy rest for a proper recovery." I wiped the dishes clean with a kitchen towel and placed them on the drying rack. "Alright. I suggest you turn in early. Oh, um, will you be needing the shower? I'll let you have it first if you do."
"I saw the tub. I could use that while you take the shower," he proposed, as though this was the flawless solution I'd been waiting to hear. "Easy."
I rolled my eyes. "What a genius. Alright alright, get to bed. I'll tuck you in."
"I was serious about the tub."
"You have a fever for goodness sake! Soaking in a tub will not do your body any good, Leroy."
"So... it's a yes if I don't have a fever?" He qualified slowly, amusement in his eyes. Speechless, I shoved a popsicle in his face.
"Here, have some ice to cool your apparently malfunctioning brain. I'm afraid your fever has affected your ability to, um, logic." He'd laughed. "Th-that aside, I have work tomorrow. A morning lecture at Le Cordon Bleu, to be precise. I need to be revising my material early tomorrow, so."
"Anything after that?"
"Sorry?"
He bit into the ice. "Anything on after the lecture?" I blinked.
"No, not really. Well, a couple of personal reviews I'd like to get off my list for backlogging purposes... and some new project involving a TV production but otherwise..." I trailed off, giving my mental list one final check. He merely nodded in response, seemingly uninterested.
I took this as my cue to leave, heading straight to the bath for a quick shower. Leroy had been unexpectedly obedient, going straight to bed while I was occupied and by the time I'd blow-dried my hair and changed into the brand-new pyjama set Leroy himself had rejected, he was fast asleep.
I was left to settle with the fleece throw he had earlier on and an extra pillow on the couch with an additional companion. Chicken. I woke up once, in the middle of the night for some water, and dropped by the bedroom to check on the sleeping lion. After re-arranging the covers that had—by some magic of his—transformed into a stunning mess, I was met with quite the scare of a lifetime.
Chicken sat obediently by the doorway to the bedroom, gazing up at me with huge hopeful eyes, as though waiting for my permission to enter the room and sleep on the bed with his owner.
I sighed. "Go on." And pointed. "But don't wake him." Afraid that Chicken jumping onto the bed would have bothered the lion in his sleep, I laid out several towels on the floor by the end of the bed and gestured at them. Chicken did not seem to mind the makeshift bed.
The second time I checked on him was before leaving for Le Cordon Bleu. Jason was waiting downstairs and I'd taken longer than usual to get ready, tip-toeing around the apartment, opening and closing doors trying my best not to make a sound. It was odd having an additional companion waiting at my doorstep to send me off for work, tail wagging in excitement. How Chicken never really adopted the personality of his owner never fails to surprise me; he was the most well-behaved, polite, obedient being in the household. Leroy was the exact opposite.
The morning lecture covered the structural fundamentals of Southeast Asian Cuisine with an illustrated emphasis on menu design in the region and it revolving around the staple of rice. Class went rather smoothly without much interruption and confusion, save several nodding heads and blatant sleeping.
In fact, it was not until one o'clock in the afternoon—having completed my administrative tasks and stayed for a quick chat with Chen, who'd requested a guest appearance on his upcoming lecture about restaurant management and impressing a critic—that interruption and confusion truly settled in. Needless to say, disruption was Leroy Cox's second middle name. Or distraction. Or illegal. All of them seemed perfectly appropriate.
Anyway, I'd arrived at the first-floor lobby of the school's main building to a substantial group of students gathered around the main entrance. Some huddled around the windows looking out onto the main road.
I excused myself and by doing so managed to part the sea but as soon as I emerged from the glass doors and fished out my phone to give Jason a ring, I spotted the most inconvenient, unnecessarily stylish, house-sized RV parked outside the school; across the main road.
Ah, the cause of the commotion. Obnoxious people unafraid of inconveniencing all the other vehicles and students in the area. Forming a quick and simple statement in the back of my mind for a lighthearted warning, I crossed the road and went up to the driver's window, knocking politely and waiting for it to roll down.
Behold, an idiot.
"Leroy!" I was speechless, turning left and right and all about in search of curious students. "What are you doing here? A-and and and in such a... a decorative vehicle?"
His dog came into the picture, popping up from somewhere behind the driver's seat. The idiot had the audacity to jerk his thumb over his shoulder at the passenger's seat. "Taking you out, dumbass."
"If this was meant to be a surprise then you have wholly exceeded my expectations. I am surprised. I don't even know what to say. Had I arrived a minute later, it would have been Chen En or Layla Tenner knocking on your window."
"... Layla's at Le Cordon Bleu?"
"I know, she surprised me too. But not as much as you showing up in a recreational vehicle the size of an apartment."
"Can I go see her?"
I gave him a look. "You have two options Leroy, and neither of them include disrupting Layla Tenner's schedule."
"Jealous?" He smirked sideways, starting the ignition. "Don't worry, I want you more." Chicken barked once, wagging his tail.
By this point, I was fully aware of the many curious eyes from across the road and knowing Leroy, he wasn't going to take my weak excuses for an answer. So this was why he'd asked about my schedule last night.
"Are you certain your fever's completely gone?" I said after sliding into the passenger's seat and tentatively looking around. Behind me was a huge open space that led into the living area of the RV. Everything seemed relatively new and frankly, quite expensive. "Did you rent this out on a short notice?"
"Are you impressed yet?" He shot back, perfectly untame. A slight indication of his recovery from yesterday's down time. "I slept a ton. Your bed's the good shit."
"Ah. If you'd like, I could send you a link to the brand's online store, including the model and price and everything. The bed somewhat came with the apartment though."
He snorted. "That's not what I was referring to. But guess where we're headed."
I strapped in and hugged my briefcase, not quite sure where else it should go. Leroy started down the road and made a left, following the GPS on his phone. I couldn't make out the destination.
"With a vehicle like this, I really don't... you're not planning to have me locked up in this thing for two days straight, are you?" I started out, mildly concerned. "A-at least tell me what we're doing. You don't have to reveal the location or anything, just, well. What it is we're about to do."
He laughed, glancing sideways with something in his eyes. Something that was familiar. And warm.
"Fulfilling a promise."