Never a Hero

or glutamates even once. He spent more time dipping his fingers into whatever his mom was working on than actually cooking. She swatted at his hand and scolded him each time, but I could tell she loved every minute of it.
    “Owen,” Truvy said to me at one point. “Come stir this cranberry sauce for me. I don’t want it to scorch.”
    I took the spoon and began to stir the bright red concoction. It had actual cranberries in it, which surprised me. “I had no idea you could get cranberry sauce that didn’t come from a can.”
    “This is so much better,” Nick said from behind me. He put one hand on the small of my back as he leaned over the stove to look into the pan. “And my mom makes it better than anybody. You’ll never eat that fake stuff again.”
    “I never ate it to begin with.”
    His mother was on the other side of the room, spreading jarred pimento cheese into celery sticks. She pointed her knife at him. “Your flattery will get you nowhere,” she teased.
    He laughed. “We’ll see.”
    He started to reach for the spoon, and Truvy said, “Owen, don’t let him have it! If he starts tasting it now, there won’t be any left and he’ll have a stomachache for the rest of the night.”
    “I was ten when that happened. I think I’ve learned my lesson.”
    “I doubt it.”
    He shook his head, letting me in on their game. “She’ll never let me live that down.”
    “Can you blame her?”
    He smiled at me, his eyes bright and mischievous, and my heart did some kind of acrobatic tumble in my chest. I was ridiculously aware of how close he was. It was the most physical contact we’d had since Halloween, and I was thrilled at his hand on my back and the way his hip brushed against mine. He leaned over the pan again to sniff the steam coming off the sauce. “I love the way it smells.”
    And I love you. The thought came unbidden, so strangely out of place and yet so strong and so true that, for a moment, I forgot to stir the cranberries.
    I loved him. I loved the way he smiled, and the way he teased, and the way he adored his mother. I loved everything about him, and about his family, and about the day. I felt at home. At peace. Completely whole and loved and accepted. But I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t put any of it into words. I concentrated instead on the sauce, on the cheery smells of sugar and cinnamon and ripe, tart fruit.
    He was right. It smelled amazing. “Like Thanksgiving and Christmas all in one,” I said.
    His smile grew bigger. His hand lingered on my back, almost moving into a caress. For half a second, I thought he was going to kiss me in front of his mother.
    I was both disappointed and relieved when he moved away.
    The meal was fantastic. Afterward, we all sat around the table, too full to eat anymore, but not ready to nap yet either.
    “I have an idea,” Truvy said, turning toward June and me. “Why don’t you play for us?”
    “Now?” June asked.
    “Why not? We’ll miss the recital, but at least we’ll get to hear your song.”
    My blood pressure began to skyrocket as it always did when I thought about the recital. “N-n-no,” I stammered. But June was already grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the piano.
    “This is embarrassing,” I whined as we sat down on the bench.
    “It is not! It’s just my family. Besides, it’ll be good practice. We haven’t played in front of anybody but Nick and Amelia. This will be like a dress rehearsal.”
    It was hard to argue with that logic, no matter how much I wanted to. And so we played.
    The first time through, I fumbled more than once. “See?” I hissed at June. “This is a terrible idea!”
    “That was a practice run. Now we’ve worked out the kinks. Let’s do it again.” So we did, over and over throughout the rest of the day. In the end, I was glad. By the end of the night, I could sit down with June and play the song without feeling like I might hyperventilate. After that, the recital seemed marginally less frightening.
    They left around nine that evening, June heading home to her own apartment and their parents for their hotel room. Nick’s apartment felt surprisingly quiet and empty without them.
    “I really like your family,” I said.
    He smiled, his eyes distant but happy, and I knew he was thinking about them. “I like them, too.”
    “Your mom’s a great cook.”
    He raised his eyebrows at me, teasing me. “And I’m not?”
    “Your mom isn’t afraid to add salt.”
    He laughed. “Fair