He checks the microwave clock. “There’s still time for you to run to the gas station for frozen pizza.” He hands me his keys.

“I’m all pizza’d out.” I hand the keys back. “When you go get us some burritos, I want the chicken and cheese, not beef and cheese.”

We commence a fierce stare-down. I’m doing him a big favor by staying here with him in this house that’s probably haunted, saving him from miserable dinners with his mother where she’ll criticize every single restaurant employee in the most devastatingly personal way possible. “Go get the burritos and I’ll be nice to you forever,” I say.

“Go get them yourself and I’ll be nice to you forever.”

Not worth it. “Nah.”

“Don’t you want to see how the Jeep drives? You’ll like it better than the Saturn.” His lips twist. “Much, much better than the … ah … what kind of car did you trade it for?”

“It’s a monster, and I love it like it’s my child. Besides, I can’t go anywhere because I’m still shaken up.”

I’m not shaken up, because being far removed from Deborah has revitalized me. He can tell.

“Fine.” He relents, performing another inventory of our fridge. “I’ll fix something for myself, then.”

“So will I.” I open the cupboards and hope to god there’s an entire Thanksgiving meal up there. “For myself.”

He gets out bread crumbs and eggs. I’ve seen this pattern before: he’s making mozzarella sticks. They sound amazing.

My first thought is to make spaghetti. He doesn’t like my spaghetti? Then I’ll cook enough for a banquet and let it overflow from every Tupperware container we own.

Nicholas watches me retrieve a box of spaghetti noodles. “I see you’re still mad about the spaghetti thing.”

“Not mad.” Just holding on to it forever.

“Sure, sure.” He smiles, because the idea of successfully pissing me off makes him just as gleeful as I’m going to feel when he realizes I ate all the mozzarella cheese.

I scavenge for a big jar of tomato sauce and come up with nil. I do find a leftover plastic tub of marinara from Benigno’s and plenty of ketchup, so I say what the hell and squirt it into a saucepan. I find that the spaghetti box only contains four noodles, so I have to supplement with half-empty boxes of gluten-free fettuccine and organic brown rice farfalle. I put them on to boil and wish I lived with someone less nutrition-conscious when it comes to carbs.

“What are you making?” he snickers.

“Farfaccine.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It’s my favorite food ever. I talk about it all the time; not my fault you don’t pay attention.”

He rolls his eyes and turns to root through the fridge. My body coils tight like a jack-in-the-box, waiting. Finally: “Have you seen the mozzarella?”

“Nope.”

His gaze falls onto the trash can. He pops the lid and sees the crumpled mozzarella stick wrappers. Busted.

“Darned Leon,” I say. “I bet he kept a spare key and snuck inside last night. We should change the locks.”

Nicholas glares, then dumps his prepared breading into my saucepan.

“Hey!”

“It’s going to suck, anyway.”

“It is not.”

“Your pasta’s overcooked. And you forgot to stir.”

“Fudge.” I hurry to drain it. There are clumps stuck to the bottom of the pot. Gluten-free anything is already atrocious. Boiling it just makes it worse. While I’m fussing with the pasta, the marinara-ketchup combo starts spitting. I rush back and stir, then throw in some seasoning. I’m a regular Alex Guarnaschelli.

“Interesting choice.”

“Huh?”

Nicholas taps one of the spice bottles I just used. Cinnamon.

“Oh. Yes.” I stand tall. “It’s the secret ingredient.”

Nicholas is still hunting for a mozzarella replacement. It’s no use. We have nothing. He gives up and eyes my pasta with resignation. “Farfaccine, eh?”

“A traditional Italian dish passed on from grandmother to grandmother.” It smells like raw sewage.

“Maybe if it were creamier?” he says helpfully. “Looks a little dry.”

We’re out of milk, so we do something dubious here and dump in half a cup of coffee creamer. It does look better afterward, even if the foul smell intensifies. Nicholas gets cocky and adds a sprinkling of pink Himalayan salt.

Our stomachs are growling. We ladle slop into our bowls and prod it with our forks to make sure it’s not still alive. There are so many weird textures at play. Our low food supply reflects our carelessness, and the only place in Morris that delivers is closed. I’m stricken by a thought: Benigno’s might not deliver all the way out here. I think their policy is delivering only within city limits.

Morris sucks. Nicholas should have taken that job in Madison.

We take a bite on the count of three. I want to spit mine out but he bravely chews his mouthful, so I make myself do the same.

Nicholas takes another bite. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

Nicholas thinks Warheads are haute cuisine, so he doesn’t get to pass judgment on farfaccine. “The cauliflower you poured buffalo sauce all over and told me was a chicken wing,” I say. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

“It’s going to be a drill next, what with all the Butterfingers you eat. Storing them in your cheek like a chipmunk and letting them slowly erode your molars. You’ll be in dentures before you hit forty.”

“You’ll be right there with me, pal. You and your Skittles.” I can’t believe we’re still eating. We’re going to end up in the emergency room. “My tongue is numb. Is that normal?”

“I can taste this in my sinus cavities. Taste. Not smell.”

I dig out a can of La Croix and we split it. The taste pairs horribly, so it’s right on theme.

“We should mark today on the calendar and memorialize it by eating this travesty every year,” he remarks.

“I’ll copy down the recipe. Cinnamon, bread crumbs with egg in them. God, did we really use coffee creamer?”

“We’re artists. No one understands.” He slurps his sauce, a ring of red around his mouth.