Stephenie Meyer - The Chemist

“Maybe you’re more competitive than I am. Maybe you would have fought it out for the crown.”

He leaned casually into his shooting position and fired a round at a bale a hundred yards farther away than hers.

She fired again. “Maybe I would be happier as an accountant.”

Daniel sighed. “You’re probably right. I was pretty happy as a teacher. Not a glamorous career, but the mundane can be quite satisfying. In fact, being ordinary in general is highly underrated.”

“I wouldn’t know. But it sounds nice.”

“You were never ordinary.” It wasn’t a question.

“No,” she agreed. “Not really. Unfortunate, as it turned out.” Always too smart for her own good, though it had taken her a while to see things that way. She shot her target in the head twice in quick succession.

Daniel straightened up and leaned the long rifle against his shoulder. Einstein got to his feet and stretched out his back. “Well, I had my few areas where I transcended the mundane,” he said, and Alex could tell from his tone that he was purposely lightening the mood. “And lucky you,” he continued, “tonight you get to see me work in my favorite field.”

Alex set the SIG down and stretched, much like the dog had. Her muscles got stiff more quickly with her injuries. She wasn’t moving the way she usually did; she was favoring the damaged parts of her body. She needed to force herself to use her limbs equally.

“Sounds exciting. And I’m hungry, so I really hope the field you’re talking about is the kitchen.”

“It is, indeed. Shall we?” He made a sweeping gesture with his free hand toward the truck.

“As soon as we clean up our toys.”

Daniel did seem very at home, humming as he diced things and sprinkled spices on things and put other things into saucepans. Of course, she couldn’t help but notice that a lot of the tools appeared to be brand-new and hadn’t been in the cupboards when she’d dug through them earlier. She would hold off on the lecture about how people who were just passing through town rarely bought things for their kitchens. It was starting to smell kind of amazing and she didn’t want to jinx anything.

She sat sideways on the sofa, her legs curled up under her, watching the news and Daniel at the same time. Nothing interesting on TV – just a lot of local stuff and a little bit about the primaries, which were still about nine months away. The whole election process was irritating to Alex. She would probably have to stop watching the news altogether when the real campaigning started. As someone who knew better than most the kind of darkness that went on behind the scenes and how little any of the important decisions had to do with the figurehead spokesperson the people elected, it was hard for her to care much about left or right.

Arnie had eaten another frozen dinner and retired around seven thirty, as seemed to be his habit. Alex had tried to convince him that a home-cooked meal was worth waiting for, but he hadn’t even bothered responding to her coaxing. She was surprised that Daniel didn’t give it a try, but maybe he was concentrating too hard on the food to notice. She offered to help once or twice only to be told in no uncertain terms that all she was allowed to do was eat.

Daniel grumbled to himself as he set out the unmatched plates, random silverware, and coffee mugs. She would have to remind him that he wasn’t to go off on another shopping spree for monogrammed china. He moved all the food to the table, and she got up eagerly, famished and driven half wild by the various fragrances wafting through the room. He held a chair out for her, which reminded her of things she’d seen in old movies. Was this what normal people did? She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t think so. At least, not in the places she went out to eat.

With a flourish, he pulled out a lighter and lit a blue-and-pink-polka-dotted candle shaped like the number 1 that he’d stuck into a bread roll.

“This was the closest I could find to a taper,” he explained as he saw her expression. “And this was the best I could do for wine,” he continued, gesturing to the bottle that sat open beside her coffee mug. The words on the label were all unfamiliar to her. “It’s the choicest vintage the United Supermarket carries.”

He made as if to pour, and she automatically covered the top of her mug with her hand.

“I don’t drink.”

He hesitated, then poured a small amount for himself. “I got some apple juice this morning. Or I could get you some water?”

“Juice would be great.”

He got up and headed for the fridge. “Can I ask? AA or a religious preference?”

“Safety. I haven’t touched anything that might cloud my perception in four years.”

He returned and poured her a mugful of juice before sitting opposite her. His face was carefully nonchalant.

“Didn’t you start running just three years ago?”

“Yes. But once it really sank in that someone might try to kill me at any moment, it was hard to think about much else. I couldn’t afford to be distracted. I could miss something. I did miss something, I guess. If I’d really been on my toes, Barnaby might still be alive. We shouldn’t have waited.”

“You don’t feel safe here?”

She looked up at him, surprised by the question. The answer was so obvious. “No.”

“Because I was stupid this morning?”

She shook her head. “No, not at all. I never feel safe anywhere.”

She heard how blasé the words sounded, the way the words of course seemed to be embedded in her answer, and watched his face fall a little in response.

“Hey, but I probably have PTSD. It doesn’t have to be like that. I’m sure another person could handle things better.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Yes, Kevin seems completely normal.”

They laughed again. She hadn’t laughed this much in the past three years put together.

He lifted his fork. “Shall we?”

“No, I’m not exaggerating. I am fairly certain this is the best meal I’ve ever eaten in my entire life. Granted, I’m generally a fast-food girl, so I’m not a very sophisticated judge, but I also mean what I say.”

“Well, that’s a lovely compliment. Thank you.”

“What is this again?” She poked her fork at the dessert on her plate, wishing she had a tiny bit more space in her stomach. She’d eaten herself nearly sick, but still she craved just one more bite.

“Bananas Foster butter cake.”

“I mean …” She went for it, ignoring her stomach and savoring a small forkful. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“I took a few culinary courses in college. I watch a lot of the Food Network on the weekends, and I practice when I can afford to.”

“Time amazingly well spent. I think you might have missed your calling, though.”

“I worked in a few restaurants back in the day. It wasn’t conducive to a social life. When I was dating my ex… well, she wasn’t a big fan of the schedule. My day job gave us more time together.”

“Not everyone would make the sacrifice.”

“It wasn’t one, really. Working with the kids always felt most important. I loved it. And it wasn’t like I couldn’t cook at home. So I got both for a while.”

“Then you stopped?”

He sighed. “Well, when Lainey left… I didn’t want to fight. I let her have whatever she wanted.”

Alex could easily picture how that had worked. She’d seen Daniel’s postdivorce bank account. “She cleaned you out.”

“Pretty much. Hence the ramen diet.”

“That is a crime.” She looked longingly at what was left of the butter cake.

“Life,” he said. “You’ve had your share of heartbreak.”