I step out and grab a towel. With the corner of the soft fabric, I rub it in circles over the fogged-up mirror, confirming my racoon eyes suspicions.
“They have such an exciting time ahead of them, and they don’t need to be worrying about shit that happens to me.” I’m not a charity case. I know my friends don’t see me that way, but knowing I’d been robbed they would both bend over backwards to make sure I had that money replaced.
“Whatever you want, Suds,” he says with a huff, and pulls the white shower curtain across.
With small steps, I make it to my room without slipping over and strip out of my wet underwear. I towel-dry my hair and tie it up in a high ponytail and slip on a pair of pyjama shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt with RELAX written in bold black lettering across the bust. I don’t give a shit about wearing a bra. The best feeling in the world is taking that contraption off at the end of the day. I’m not about to put one back on now.
I return my towel to the bathroom, which is now empty and void of Rocco’s clothing. After wringing out my underwear, I hang it ceremoniously over the shower rail. I have a feeling that this time Rocco won’t bite my head off over it.
****
When I walk into the kitchen, Rocco has a first-aid kit open.
“Okay, let’s patch you up,” he says and points to a stool, which I sit on. He unscrews a small bottle of Dettol and holds a cotton ball on the end, swishing the liquid onto it.
“This is gonna sting a bit,” he says, as he dabs the brown liquid against my skin.
“Ah! You’re not wrong,” I say through clenched teeth.
He’s fast, yet gentle. He squeezes a dollop of white cream onto his finger and smooths it over the wound. In next to know time, he’s tended to both knees and has patched them.
“You’re good at this,” I compliment him. You’d make a good dad. Wait, why am I thinking that?
“What? Putting on Band-Aids? I’ve had to patch up worse than this.”
With great care, he inspects my hands and gives them the same treatment, except he uses smaller Band-Aids this time. “Your hands aren’t quite as bad. I think you’ll live.”
“That’s great news, Dr De Luca,” I tease.
“Isn’t it?” He winks at me and starts packing up the kit.
“I’m sorry I can’t afford to pay your rent,” I blurt out.
He shakes his head and mumbles something I don’t quite catch. Something like ‘I know a way’? The wicked look that casts over his face is every bit cheeky, and I know what he’s thinking.
“And don’t even think about sexual favours,” I warn him, with an erect finger aimed at his face.
“Promise. I wasn’t. You’ll engage in them because you want to, not because you’re obliged to.”
“Very funny.”
“Like I said before, I don’t give a shit about rent. It’s not an issue for me. I’m just glad you weren’t seriously hurt.”
Aw, look at Rocco being all sweet. It appears he does care about someone other than himself, and he was fine about the rent problem. Money mustn’t be an issue for him.
“You and me both.”
“Can you cook?” he asks.
“Nope,” I proudly admit. “You’ve seen the extent of my culinary capabilities. Green jelly and two-minute noodles. Oh, and don’t forget popcorn. I’m a legend when it comes to microwaving that stuff.”
“Yes, you are,” he says through a deep chuckle. “What if I showed you how to cook a few things? Think you could handle it?”
The eggs he cooked the other day were incredible, but I get the feeling he’s hiding more talent in this area.
“You can cook, huh?”
“I’m not just a pretty face.”
No, you’re not.
“Why do you want to teach me?” I ask, curious to know what his angle is.
His brows bunch together and he smooths one hand across his chest. He gazes into my eyes, then turns and packs up the first-aid kit. “Because noodles aren’t my thing.”
I don’t buy it. That conflicted look he just gave me tells me there’s more to this.
I reach out and place my hand on his forearm. “Tell me why,” I say in a soft voice and stare into his dark eyes.
Rocco puts down the kit and lets out a long breath through his parted lips. “I wanna get back into cooking. I like it, okay? But there’s no point putting in the effort for just one person, and I thought …”
A grin stretches across my cheeks as I realise that he’s actually serious, and sharing something of himself.
“Wipe that smile off your face,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “You need to eat better, too.”
I nod. “You’re right. I do. Teach me about food, oh wise one, and I’ll try not to burn the place down.”
Rocco laughs and pats the top of my head. “That’d be a good start.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ROCCO
“Is there something you don’t eat?” I ask her as I gather a few things from the fridge.
“I’ll eat pretty much anything. Except broad beans. I hate those. My mother used to shove them down my throat, but I never liked them.”
“Ha. Me too.”
As I slice some mushrooms, wielding my butcher-style knife as if I’m a professional chef, Soph watches me with keen interest.
“These don’t look like normal mushrooms,” she says.
“These stumpy looking ones are porcini and the flatter ones are portobello,” I say, pointing to each of them with my knife.
She nods.
The chopped vegetables sizzle when they hit the heated olive oil in the pan. I add some garlic and toss. It doesn’t take long for the aroma to fill the kitchen.
“Hmm, they smell amazing,” Suds coos.
The chopped tomatoes and chilli are chucked in next, and I scatter them with a good couple of grinds of salt and pepper. I add dried pasta to a pot of salted boiling water.
“My mamma would have had me make my own pappardelle pasta, but I’m too hungry to muck around with that tonight.”
“You’re shitting me. You can make your own pasta?”
I look at the cupboard above the fridge and point to it. “I’ve got mamma’s old pasta maker stashed up there.” Maybe one day soon I can get it out and give it a whirl. I have someone to cook for. I totally should. By the time V gets out, I’ll be cooking like mamma and I used to when I was a boy.
“How come you were all dressed up today?” I’ve been keen to ask her since she stumbled in the door.
“I was doing something I should have done a long time ago.”
“And what’s that?”
“Starting to get my shit together.”
“And how’d it go?”
“I might be put forward for a job, just had to send a reference through. With any luck, I should hear something in the next week.”
His mouth pulls into a smirk. “Good work.”
“You know I have you to thank,” she says. I’m stumped to think what I could have done.
“For what exactly?”
“Kicking my arse the other morning.”
“Yeah, right.” I rub my hand over the back of my neck. I really was an arsehole to her that day. “Sorry ’bout that.”
“Don’t be. I needed it.”
I drain the pasta and toss it with the vegetables. When the pasta is mixed through, I dust it with a handful of grated Parmesan cheese.
There aren’t too many words over dinner. We’re both too busy eating. I have to admit, though, it was nice to actually sit and eat with someone. And to not be getting pissed at the same time. Something about simple human contact. Not being alone. It makes me think of V, which is probably why I don’t have much to say. It also makes me wanna drink when I try and imagine his life inside … his living hell.
While I clean up the kitchen, Suds makes some calls, cancelling her cards and stuff. What a pain in the arse that’d be. Later, I turn on the lights and we move to the lounge room. Instead of sitting on separate couches we sit on the same one. It doesn’t feel weird at all. After blood and showers and nudity, I think we’re both past that.