Voice of the Nation

Chapter 14

G | C

June 12th, 2014

7:47 pm

I allowed the front door to slam closed behind me with a bang.

"Honey, I'm home!" I called as I kicked off my heels with enough force to send them clattering down the front hall.

I deposited my messenger bag—heavy with binders of memos and my new government-issued computer—onto our worn-out sofa as I hobbled toward the kitchen.

Ava glanced up from the boiling pot she was stirring to greet me, but a sudden burst of steam fogged her glasses making her scowl all the more comical.

"Jesus, what happened to you?" She shook her head, dismissing the question in favor of the inevitable solution: "There's wine chilling in the fridge."

"Bless you..." I muttered as I stalked toward the fridge, wincing with each painful step. "Hal insisted I have the full tour of the White House today."

"But you wore your cute shoes!"

I nodded heavily as I placed the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc on the counter and searched for the corkscrew. "Yes, I did."

Ava waved her wooden spoon indignantly, apparently oblivious to the green droplets she sent splattering across the kitchen. "It was your first day! You wanted to make a good first impression—of course, you wore your cute shoes! You had to, even though they pinch—you had to!"

"It was my first day at the White House, of course I had to." I agreed as I opened and closed yet another drawer. Why did we never keep the damn corkscrew in the same place?

Finally noticing my searching, Ava dug her hands into the pockets of her floral apron and magically produced the missing corkscrew.

I took it with a grumbled thank you and set about removing the foil wrapping from the top of the bottle.

Ava tossed her long, blonde ponytail back over her shoulder before returning to her pot. I peered over her shoulder and sighed internally—soup and by the looks of it a healthy one, too.

What I wanted tonight was a burger or a greasy pizza or even better—a tub of ice cream and a bottle of wine with a straw. Today had been a day and I wanted comfort in any form I could get it.

But I wouldn't complain about the soup—not to Ava's face anyway. And despite its likely bitterly healthy contents, there was some comfort in the mere act of a friend making you a bowl of soup.

Never mind that it was a balmy 1,000 degrees outside.

This was our routine: I'd come home—no matter what crazy hour of the night it was—to find Ava cooking up a storm in the kitchen.

By day she was a transcriber for a law firm, but by night she was a chef... Unfortunately, one obsessed with vegetables and supposed "superfoods." She often joked eating well was her only hope of buttoning her jeans since she absolutely abhorred working out, but I never believed it for a second.

She found cooking in general meditative, but cooking for me she found a never-ending puzzle of how to most convincingly hide vegetables and whatever vitamins she injected my food with.

And despite my histrionic groaning, I loved her for it.

Before moving in with Ava, the only homecooked meals I ever ate were made by friends' parents on weekend home visits and vacations off from boarding school. Now having one every night felt like a mind-blowing luxury.