Chapter 4

FOUR

C ricket returns to the apartment just before sunset that evening. Moriah buzzes her in from the entryway and watches on the little screen as the woman maneuvers two large shopping bags through the downstairs doorway.

Moriah squints skeptically, but opens her apartment door as she hears Cricket coming up the stairs so she can enter without having to set anything down.

"Oh good, thank you so much," Cricket pants as she sets the bags down with a thud on the couch. "Phew, that was a walk, even just from the bus stop."

"Where'd you end up going?" Moriah asks and returns to the kitchen, where her challah dough is proofing in the unheated oven. She crouches down and looks through the glass, and decides to give it another few minutes before she braids it.

"I went down to Back Bay," Cricket calls from the living room. "I wanted to get Bruce something, I know his birthday isn't for another month, but I waited until the last second last year and it didn't come in time, so I wandered around a bit to try to be proactive."

Moriah returns to the living room, watching as Cricket digs through her two large plastic bags. She triumphantly pulls out a long, thin package wrapped in paper. When she unwraps it, she reveals a canvas carrying case with a snap closure.

"Violà," she says and carefully unwinds the fabric. Inside are a series of elastic loops holding in place a dozen-odd wooden posts of varying thicknesses, all ending in screws. They're labeled with numbers, and after a moment, Moriah recognizes them as high quality, hand made, interchangeable knitting needles designed specifically for knitting in the round. They're They're sleek, carved in smooth shapes and stained in simple colors, and she can't help the gasp she lets out.

"Oh, he'll love those," she murmurs and approaches, leaning over the pack. A strand of her hair falls from behind her ear and touches Cricket's hand. She looks up, and their faces are close— closer than they've ever been, and closer than Moriah has been to another person in months.

"Thank you," Cricket replies. Her lips are pink, and Moriah watches as her tongue darts out to wet them.

Cricket spins around, wraps the knitting needles back up, and the moment is over.

"Then, I figured I had to get him some yarn to go with, so I went to like three different yarn shops, because I know the little one in Caerlloyd doesn't have much variety, and picked out these," she says and pulls six skeins of yarn out of the bag. Three are a pale periwinkle, and the other three are a deep maroon. The blue is a sport weight, and the red is worsted.

"Do you do any fiber crafts? These are great picks, for someone who doesn't," Moriah notes. Cricket's cheeks darken— or, that might just be the lighting, as the sun is just beginning to sink toward the horizon outside.

"I've just spent a lot of time with Bruce, I think," she says and waves a hand dismissively before putting the skeins of yarn back into the bag. "Anyways, then I went down to the waterfront, and I found this tiny little artisanal olive oil store, and I spent maybe an hour in there talking to the oil sommelier, and he told me about his boyfriend who does commercial real estate in the city but with the old-ass historic buildings. He said that he sells oil in bulk to a couple of bakeries, and that there's a bunch of old Victorian mansions for sale in Mass that are surprisingly budget friendly, so I was there for ages chatting with him. I got his boyfriend's business card, too."

Moriah's head swims with the onslaught of information, and she struggles to connect the oil anecdotes with the facts about local property, but when Cricket pulls out three small bottles of olive oil and offers them to Moriah, any lingering confusion dissipates in favor of a mouth-watering gratitude.

"I got the vibes that you cook a lot," she says, "so I picked these up too. One is rosemary, one is garlic, and the third is plain, but they're all made from these super high-quality olives that are pressed in some fancy way." Moriah's mouth falls open and she accepts one of the three small bottles. Even in the smallest size, they must've been costlier than she'd like to think about right now. "Here, smell."

Cricket twists open one of the bottles and offers it out. Moriah leans in, and she realizes too late that she's still staring into Cricket's eyes, green and gold, just like the olive oil itself. She inhales, but all she can smell is bergamot perfume and freshly brewed coffee.

"Thank you, Cricket," she says softly. Cricket's name in her mouth, with its sharp edges and harsh, spitty sounds, feels like when you stretch after a nap and everything in your body pops in sequence. It feels like the click of a lighter, like fresh popcorn, or coffee beans in the roaster, chaff expelled in a burst of energy. "I'll use some of this tonight, actually. I hope chicken is okay."

Cricket withdraws the small bottle with a grin on her face.

"Anything is okay, if you're cooking."

There's a tug, like a bit of twine tied between them, like a string of fate pulling them sternum to sternum. Cricket's lips stay parted, and Moriah traces a connect-the-dots between each of her freckles until she lands on the mole just beside her mouth. Her round nose twitches, and Moriah is reminded, absurdly, of a rabbit, afraid for its life in a wide-open field. Briefly, she wonders if this makes her the dog, the routine hunter, sharp teeth and viscera.

"It's Shabbat, so I have challah proofing," Moriah says and returns into the kitchen before her thoughts can drift any further. "It's about ready, I think, so I'm going to, uh."

Cricket's smile grows impossibly bigger and she follows Moriah into the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast nook with the last plastic bag still in her hand.

"And look, I got this!" Cricket pulls out a bottle of white wine. "I didn't know what you had planned for dinner, but I figured this would go with whatever— shit, I didn't ask if you drink, I just assumed—"

"This will be delicious, Cricket," Moriah says and smiles, trying to push as much earnestness into the words as she can as she pulls the bowl of dough out of the oven. "I do, if it makes you feel better."

Cricket chews on her lip, but her eyes are still upturned at the corners in a lasting echo of a smile. "Alright, then," she replies, and her tone is soft, like butter left on the counter. "Do you cook often?"

"I like to do it almost every night," Moriah says as she starts splitting the challah dough into six small, approximately even sections. One comes out a little bigger, so she rips a bit off of it and distributes it accordingly, then rolls each into a ball to examine the sizes again. "I like to meal prep on Sundays, but that's mostly putting meat in marinades, chopping vegetables, whatever. And I always cook on Shabbat."

She starts to work each of the lumps of dough into long, evenly distributed strands, gently stroking and rolling them out on her counter until all six are stretched out and ready to be braided. Then, she presses each of the tips together in somewhat of a fan shape, which she carefully rolls up under the dough so it won't show in the final braids.

"I cook a lot, too," Cricket says, and Moriah hears her voice moving closer. "Do you have a wine opener?" Moriah pulls out a drawer and Cricket quickly scoops up the corkscrew. "I do breakfast every morning for the B she manages to keep her voice steady as Cricket's warm body presses close to hers to tuck the corkscrew back in its place.

Cricket snorts. "Wine glasses?" Moriah tugs open a cupboard, to which Cricket leans in and takes out the only two. They're angular pieces, rescued from a thrift store after being separated from the rest of their set, and Cricket hums in approval as she sets them down on the counter and begins pouring. "No, he lived in this raggedy-ass shack out by the cliffs. It was dangerous as hell, but he wouldn't give it up. I think he had too much pride. I'm just glad Simon convinced him, because he's been so much happier since they both moved into the lighthouse."

Moriah smiles. It's been a month or so since she's seen her best friend in person, but such is the cost of living a few hours apart. He's happy and healthy, and she trusts Bruce to keep him that way.

"Wine?" Cricket offers. Moriah tucks the final ends of the braided strands underneath the other end of the loaf and fits it onto a baking sheet that she pre-sprayed with butter. Then, she turns to the sink and pumps soap out— one, two, three— and begins to scrub her fingers.

"Yes please," she says over the water. "You can set it on the counter, there."

Cricket sets Moriah's glass down and pours another, which she raises to just underneath her nose and waves it back and forth, inhaling deeply. "Mmmm," she sighs. "Yeah, this is the good stuff."

"You're the one who picked it," Moriah points out as she scrubs under her nails, dragging each over her palm to get in every crease of her fingers. This isn't the last time she'll wash her hands while she's making dinner— she hasn't even started working on the chicken, and raw chicken always gets her compulsions going— but she doesn't do things halfway.

"Yes, but I wasn't sure, still." Cricket shrugs and leans against the counter, all too close to the sink where Moriah is standing. She can feel the shorter woman's body heat from here. "I like to be right."

Moriah turns off the scalding water and dries her hands on the towel hanging off of the oven's handle. "I think everyone does," she retorts and picks up her glass of wine, leaning into Cricket's space to do so. She also lifts it to her nose, even though she doesn't have the faintest idea of what she's supposed to be smelling other than alcohol and maybe essence of grape, but she inhales deeply.

It's quite floral— herby, maybe— with an aftertaste of fruit, something that lingers in her sinuses long after she pulls the glass away. She takes another breath before taking her first sip, allowing the wine to linger on her palate.

Cricket's eyes drag down Moriah's face, stilling on her mouth. Moriah is sure she isn't imagining it this time— Cricket is definitely watching her mouth. So, she swallows the wine, and then darts her tongue out to lick her lips. Cricket's lips part and she sways forward.

"Cricket," Moriah says softly, and Cricket's gaze flicks up. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is still parted, perfectly pink lips against pale skin, and—

Brrbt . Brrbt . Brrbt .

The alarm for the challah dough rings through the apartment as Moriah's phone vibrates violently on the laminate countertop. Cricket promptly moves out of Moriah's way, wine glass still in hand, as the moment, once more, dissipates.

"It's the timer for the proofing," Moriah says without being prompted, "so I can put it in the oven before it overproofs."

"Yeah," Cricket says breathlessly, "like on the Great British Baking Show." She adopts a faux posh, low voice and says, "Overproofed, soggy bottom, et cetera."

Moriah snorts as she takes the pan and slides it into the oven, setting another timer on her phone, and one on the oven itself for good measure.

"Raw in the middle," she comments in a worse, but similar enough accent. "Inedible."

"Better do fantastic in the signature, then," Cricket replies, and then a grin breaks out over her face and she starts giggling. Moriah can't help but smile along as she begins to cook.