Chapter 4

Ian stared at the message, his breath hitching for half a beat.

Cynthia had asked only one thing, but it was the one thing that only the two of them knew. No garlic. She was verifying her facts.

Ian looked up at Emily. She stared back at him, her face blank. "Ian, why does Professor Lynch even care whether you put garlic in your soup? What am I supposed to tell her?"

He pushed the phone back toward her, his voice steady as he said, "Tell her I do use garlic."

She blinked. "What? But you never—"

"Tell her I do."

Emily grumbled under her breath and typed out a reply.

Ian chased her out of his room and shut the door again. He leaned his whole weight against it, the back of his head pressed to the wood. His heart was pounding way too fast, thudding against his ribs like it was trying to break out.

Cynthia suspected something, and he'd just told the dumbest lie of his life.

There hadn't been a single shred of garlic in that soup, or any onions. The parsnips were cut into perfect chunky wedges, every piece just the right size to scoop up with a spoon. The pork was also soft enough to feel like it would melt on the tongue.

None of that had come from a recipe. That was muscle memory, built up from standing in front of a stove countless times and figuring it out by feel.

And then there was that final pinch of wolfberries.

Cynthia had once said, offhand, that the berries were sweet and could cut through the greasiness of the pork. She'd only said it that one time.

On a random Tuesday night three years ago, she'd been curled up on the couch with her laptop, tearing through edits on her thesis. Ian had brought her a bowl of soup, and she'd tossed out the comment after taking a sip.

He'd never forgotten.

His hands were more honest than his head. This morning, they'd grabbed the wolfberries and tossed them into the soup before he'd even thought about it.

He had no idea how Cynthia would take that text. Would she be relieved, or would it just confirm what she already suspected?

Who was he kidding? Simply stating that he used garlic in his cooking wasn't going to fool anybody.

The sound of Emily's indoor slippers slapping against the floor as she came down the hallway rang out. She said from outside the door, "Ian, she texted back."

Ian pressed himself flat against the door, every muscle tense. "What did she say?"

"Just two words. 'Got it.'"

He yanked the door open. She showed him the phone with the chat right there, clear as day.

The Devil Incarnate: "Got it."

Emily scrunched up her nose. "Seriously? That's it? I thought this was gonna be a big deal or something. She's so weird sometimes. Asks me this random question and then just drops it. She had me stressing for nothing."

She pocketed her phone and bounced back to her room.

Ian stayed where he was, planted in place. His throat felt dry.

Anyone else would either buy it and move on, or not buy it and push for details. The back-and-forth would be clean and logical.

But Cynthia wasn't just anyone else.

…

The lights were off in a unit on the sixth floor of Brooksdale University's faculty housing.

Cynthia sat beside the bed, her phone face-down on her knees.

"My brother always puts garlic in his soup."

She ran that sentence through her head three times. The first time, her fingers shook. The second time, she set the phone down. The third time, she curled up in the corner where the wall met the foot of the bed. She wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her forehead against them.

Emily's brother said he used garlic.

Cynthia shut her eyes, the cramped kitchen of the old rented apartment flickering to life in her mind.

Steam rolled off the dented pot on the stove. Ian stood there in a cotton T-shirt faded from one too many washes, the sleeves shoved up past his elbows. He held the lid in one hand and skimmed foam off the surface of the soup with the other.

She was sprawled at the tiny table in the doorway while editing her thesis. She looked up and asked, "Why don't you ever put garlic in your cooking?"

Without even turning his head, he said, "Because it makes you nauseous."

"I only said it in passing."

"But I remember it."

She laughed, then buried her face in her draft, her ears burning.

After that, every meal he'd cooked—every bowl of soup, every dish that was brought to the table—hadn't had a single slice of garlic in it. Not even when he stir-fried vegetables, where practically everyone she knew used garlic.

It wasn't about seasoning choices. It was about taking someone else's preferences and etching them into one's brain.

Cynthia opened her eyes, grabbed her phone, and typed two words. "Got it."

After sending the message, she tossed the phone onto the bed and stayed on the floor. She didn't budge for a long time.

…

Ian's alarm went off at 5:28 am.

Honestly, he'd barely slept. He'd spent the night tossing and turning, wondering if Cynthia had seen through him. The more he thought about it, the more panicked he got. The more panicked he got, the more awake he was. The more awake he was, the more pissed off he felt at himself.

At 3:00 am, he'd gotten up and stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. At 4:00 am, he'd crawled back into bed. At 5:00 am, his alarm rang, and he'd shot upright in bed, dark circles stamped under his eyes.

Ian walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. A chunk of fresh garlic sat on the shelf, about the size of his fist. He set it on the chopping board and stared at it for five full seconds.

Then he reached for a knife. With a few loud thuds, the garlic exploded into uneven chunks, the biggest almost half the width of his thumb.

The smell hit so hard that it stung his eyes.

Ian scooped up a fistful of the pieces and dumped them into the pot of soup. He grabbed another handful and threw them into the bowl where the meat strips he'd marinated last night were waiting.

He was going to make pepper steak, Emily's favorite dish.

He tossed the meat and the garlic together in the pan. After piling everything into Emily's lunchbox, he glanced down. There was more garlic than meat. The bell peppers were more like a garnish now.

He fished out two extra chunks of garlic and buried them at the bottom of the pasta he'd prepared to go with the pepper steak. Then he put the lid on and snapped it shut.

When he finished, he dropped the knife onto the chopping board and stood there, taking some time to come back to himself.

What was he even doing? He'd used up heads of garlic just to prove he was the kind of guy who cooked with it. It was absurd, but he didn't see any other way out.

…

At 7:00 am, Emily shuffled into the kitchen, yawning. She bent over at the table and grabbed the lunchbox, popping open the lid to glance at what was inside.

Three seconds later, her shriek shattered the quiet morning.

"Ian, have you lost your mind?"

She shoved the lunchbox under Ian's nose, poking at the contents with a fork. "Are you sure this is pepper steak and not garlic steak? Is this even edible? Am I gonna taste anything besides garlic for the rest of the day?"

Ian took the lid from her, snapped it back onto the lunchbox, and shoved it into her arms.

"You said I use garlic in my cooking, didn't you?" He looked into her eyes. "So today, you're getting all the garlic you can handle. Take it or leave it. If you don't want the lunch I made you, then you can go hungry."

Emily parted her lips to argue. But when she saw the stormy look on Ian's face, she looked back down at the lunchbox in her arms and swallowed every comeback she'd been about to fire off.

His vibe was terrifying. In fact, it was scarier than when Cynthia went off on her.

"…Fine. I'll take it." She bolted with the lunchbox in her hands, grumbling as she fled. "You're the one who told me to say it, so why am I the one getting tortured?"

…

It was noon. The people in Room 312 in the humanities building stopped for lunch.

Emily sat at her workstation, staring at the open lunchbox in front of her like it was a biohazard. She picked out the garlic chunks one by one with her spoon and fork. A small pile had already formed on the desk.

Brandon leaned in from across her with his bowl of instant mac and cheese. He glanced into her lunchbox and almost dropped his food.

"Emily… is that supposed to be food or just straight garlic?"

"Don't ask." Emily plucked out a chunk bigger than her thumbnail and held it up high for everyone to see. "I'm 99% sure something snapped in my brother's brain last night. Look at this thing! Is this meant for human consumption? Who cooks like this and thinks this is a normal amount of garlic?"

The more she talked, the more worked up she got. She jabbed her cutlery back into the lunchbox. "What, is he trying to prove that he loves cooking with garlic? He even buried two chunks in my pasta! Two of them! Hidden underneath the pasta! Tell me that's not unhinged!"

Brandon was trying hard to keep his laughter in and didn't dare respond.

Emily let out a long-suffering sigh and went back to fishing out garlic. The pile on the lunchbox lid grew into a small mountain of golden-yellow chunks.

From the hallway came the sharp click of heels against the tile. The footsteps stopped two paces behind Emily.

She didn't notice. She was still ranting to Brandon. "I'm telling you, he did this on purpose. What's the point of messing with me when I'm not the one who said he doesn't put garlic in his soup? Professor Lynch was the one who asked…"

Brandon started frantically shooting her looks, tilting his chin so high it was practically pointing at the ceiling.

Emily finally caught on. She went stiff and slowly turned around to see Cynthia standing behind her, holding a white ceramic mug. Steam curled up from the rim.

She wasn't looking at Emily, though. Her gaze had locked onto the carefully picked-out, absolutely ridiculous heap of oversized garlic pieces on the lunchbox lid.

The room went dead quiet. Even Lauren, who'd been eating nuts at her workstation across from Emily's, stopped mid-bite.

Cynthia stared at the pile of garlic for three whole seconds. Then, she lowered her eyes, turned with her mug in her hand, and walked away.

Emily whipped back around, her eyes wide with shock. "Did she just… smile?"

Brandon shook his head. "I didn't catch it."

"The corners of her lips lifted the teeniest bit. I swear I saw it." Emily slapped her palm on the desk, making a couple of garlic slivers jump and roll off the edge. "What was she smiling at? Why did she smile at me being tortured by my brother? Is it that funny?"

No one answered her.

Cynthia's office door was shut tight. Inside, she set her mug down and pulled a thermal flask out of her bag.