Honey and Spice | ✔️

Chapter 7

Nathan

I knock on Ryder's door. Today, we are supposed to finish our slides and start on our script. I brought my laptop along with me so it's more efficient than just sharing Ryder's computer. Ryder opens the door and looks a little shocked to see me since I came 15 minutes before our agreed timing - I miscalculated the time to get from my house to his - but waves me in anyway.

"Careful, the floor- " Ryder starts, but it's too late as I already feel myself slipping.

I wait for the air-knocking impact, but I don't feel it. Instead, Ryder spins around on the spot and catches me before I fall. He's so fast that I can barely even register what just happened. (He's like the Flash.) At the last minute, I hold on to his arms for support and I just realised how lean-muscled he is (I mean, I've only seen his muscles, but I haven't actually felt them). We lock eyes as he holds me, strong arms wrapped protectively around my waist.

A long moment passes without any of us speaking or breaking eye contact. My breath hitches. The lights behind him created a pseudo-halo around his head, making him look like an angel and a slight pink tints his honey brown cheeks.

"I just mopped so the floor is still wet." Ryder breaks the silence and helps me to a standing position. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, um . . . thanks," I say quietly and pick up my laptop bag from the floor. Thankfully, my laptop is still intact. Nothing looks broken (yet). "For, uh, saving me from my inevitable death," I quickly add, resulting in a laugh from Ryder.

"No problem," he says, "we should get going." We go to his room and set up our devices.

Ryder's desk looks noticeably cleaner than the other day, so there is some space for my laptop on his desk. He brings in a chair from the kitchen and sits in it, leaving the swivel to me. I take a seat and we start on our slides.

Some time later, Ryder angrily clicks his mouse multiple times.

"Fucking mouse," he mutters under his breath.

I take the mouse from his hand and replace the battery with a spare from a pouch in my laptop bag.

"Here." I hand him back his mouse.

"Oh." He looks at me sheepishly. "Thanks!"

*

We just finished the whole slide presentation with Crohn’s disease (in under two hours!) and Ryder stands and cracks his knuckles.

"I’m gonna go make lunch,” he announces.

I stay in my seat, unsure of what to do or say. “Are you hungry?” He touches my shoulder.

I look up at him and he raises his eyebrows in question, genuine concern clouding his face. I look back down and nod. After all, I’m famished - I only had two cups of coffee this morning.

“Great! Come.” He beckons me and I follow him outside.

The kitchen/living room is just a small, rectangular area. It might sound small but in reality, it’s quite spacious because of its lack of adornment. The kitchen is neat and tidy with black cabinets lining one white wall and the living room only consists of a black TV console, a small round black coffee table and a considerably sized black sofa. This whole area gives off a very minimalistic monochrome feel.

Ryder looks at me and grins. “Not as colourful as my room, right?”

“Yeah, but I kind of prefer your room,” I say. His room is like a vintage grunge kind of aesthetic, and it’s sort of cool.

Ryder laughs then he asks, “Oh, yeah, I forgot to ask you: do you have any allergies or are you vegan or anything?” I shake my head. “Are you okay with beef?” I nod. Then he begins cooking.

I don’t know what to do so I just sit at the dinner table and watch him. Ryder slices already-thawed beef into thin pieces and marinates them in some sauces - soy sauce? Oyster sauce? I can’t see the labels clearly - and also sprinkles in salt and pepper. Then, he expertly cuts ginger and garlic and fries them in a pan which almost immediately unleashes a pleasant aroma, and then he adds in broccoli. Once the broccoli is cooked enough, he removes it from the pan and fries the marinated beef.

While cooking, Ryder hums a song from a band I vaguely recognise as Bon Jovi or something (I’ve only heard old songs when I'm at my grandparents' place). Then he looks up and sees me watching him from his side vision.

“Not much of a singer,” he says, embarrassed.

“That’s fine, me too.” I give him a weak thumbs-up.

Ryder smiles sheepishly and goes back to cooking. He finishes off by stir-frying the beef and broccoli together with some sauce and preparing two plates of rice. Wow. The aroma of the food is so good, I’m already salivating. He serves the still hot broccoli-and-beef and rice with a “Bone apple tit!” which makes me laugh. And I take a bite.

Oh my gosh. It’s so so so good! It has the right amount of saltiness from the peppery sauce and the juiciness of the beef and the slightly crunchy broccoli and- wow. It’s like a tiny party in my mouth. To be honest, he cooks better than my parents.

“Thish ish sho good!” I exclaim through a mouthful and Ryder’s face lights up like a thousand-watt light bulb.

“Really? You think so?”

I nod my head so vigorously it could’ve fallen off, and Ryder looks really excited. Then, he says bashfully, “Sorry. I haven’t cooked for anyone for a long time."

“As your first customer, I have to say it’s” - I kiss my fingers - “very delicioso!" and that makes Ryder laugh. "Where did you learn how to cook like this?" I ask him.

"Oh, I used to help my grandma cook a lot," Ryder explains, "so, I guess that's where I get my cooking skills."

"That's so cool!"

"Really?"

I assure him. "Really."

Then, we fall into a discussion about how 1) broccoli looks like tiny trees but 2) broccoli doesn’t grow from trees and 3) isn’t it sort of cool that broccoli and pineapples grow somewhat similarly and 4) Hawaii produces ⅓ of all pineapples in the whole world and how 5) Spain - not Hawaii - has no lyrics in its national anthem and lastly 6) rating national anthems (I didn’t contribute much to that one). Afterwards, I help Ryder clean up then we go to his room and continue our project.

“So, the script . . .” says Ryder as soon as we take a seat.

Oh, man. I suck in a breath. Dread creeps over me like an icy chill, numbing my brain. My stomach is full of lead, my feet are set in concrete and my heart beats wildly like a trapped bird. I stare at my laptop screen with a blank look, unable to move a muscle. I hear my name being called, but it feels so fuzzy and far away.

“Nathan? Hey, hey, Nathan." Ryder gently shakes my shoulders and brings me back to the present. I lift my chin to look at him, but it’s like my head is full of bricks. A sharp pain stabs at my solar plexus again. This is the thing I hate about projects that have slides: there’s always a presentation.

“Are you okay, Nathan?” he asks me, worry tinting his voice. I try to open my mouth to speak but I can’t, so I shake my head the slightest bit.

“Anxious?” I nod. “Public speaking not your thing, huh?” I nod again. “Okay, okay. You know what, why don’t I say most of the script?" Ryder suggests. "Don’t worry, I’ll keep your lines short.”

I finally look up at him, checking to see if he’s joking but Ryder’s face is soft and earnest. Oh.

“Oh, yeah, if Wilson asks, just say it’s because you did most of the slides. Is that good?” I nod again.

“Thank you." I finally manage to get my vocal cords to work.

“Don’t worry too much, Nathan.” Ryder smiles softly at me, patting my back reassuringly and I already feel my anxiety dispensing at his words.

I wonder how he does that.