Chapter 55 Chapter Fifty-Five - Gabriella
I’ve quickly realised that being Jartre’s soulmate means I have to process overwhelming doses of unimaginable information on the weekly. I feel like my head is going to pop off. Sometimes what I learn is amazing and has me feeling like a child looking at the world in wonder, and other times it makes me want to shake the shit out of him and ask him if they make supernatural therapists because he sure as fuck needs one.
I was able to accept what Ezillus told me about Jartre’s – for lack of a better term – psychotic break but learning just five years ago he intentionally murdered innocent people and tortured another…that’s pushing my limits. It’s not like I can go to the police, and as horrified and disgusted as I am, I don’t feel like I have a right to my moral outrage. No magical person is out for his blood. The guy he wronged ended up coming to him apologising and wanting peace and the chick he tortured was grateful he at least exposed her lying animai. Is it just me or is the supernatural world completely fucking demented?!
It's like these people are so used to battles and wars and magic that defies the laws of science, that the definition of ethics and morality becomes so blurred they have to create entirely new case-by-case meanings for them. It’s exhausting as fuck.
Needing a distraction, or at least a chance to process my thoughts and feelings, I’ve decided to spend a couple hours practising my routine for the Glitter Hole next week. When it came time to pick a song to perform to, I was going through my playlist and when this one came on, the lyrics hit me with new profound meaning. When I hear these lyrics I think of Jartre. It reminds me of his playful side that he only shares with me. His otherworldliness, his passion, and the way he has lit up my entire world. I’ve always used song and dance to express myself and now is no different.
The song I’m listening to comes to its end again, so I walk over to my phone, and this time, put the song on repeat. I tighten my ponytail, wipe the sweat from my brow and get back into position on the front deck of the beach. As I begin to rehearse the number again, through my earbuds I hear the sound of yelling and clattering, and I feel this rage and frustration simmering away in my gut. I look into the house as I take out my earbuds and see Jartre in the kitchen having some kind of meltdown and crushing a skillet in his bare hands like it was made of paper and tossing it behind him, out the open shutters.
I quickly turn off my music, place my earbuds down and make my way inside. I slowly approach Jartre as he breathes in heavy frustration, bent over the kitchen stove.
“Babe…are you okay?” I carefully ask.
“I’m fine,” he says through clenched teeth.
“Which is why your face is all tense like that.” I look around, seeing the kitchen island laid out with various food items and utensils. “What are you doing?”
He stands up straight and smooths his hair, suddenly giving me major Fabio vibes.
“I’m cooking us lunch,” he breathes out.
I blink in astonishment. “Come again.” Cook? Did he just say cook? The man who, despite owning a kitchen, I don’t think has ever used it. Why would you when you can just snap your fingers and have instant service?
“You’re a human, so I want to share in some of your human experiences. I thought it would be a nice gesture if I cooked for you,” he says, waving at the selection of ingredients.
“Jartre, you don’t need to cook for me,” I say appreciatively. “I don’t mind you using your magic to conjure us food,” I say sincerely, walking over and rubbing his hand.
“But I want to. I want to experience new things with you, and you humans seem quite fond of cooking.” He squeezes my hand, sincerity shining in his metallic eyes.
“Okay, if this is what you want, but do you mind if I watch?” I ask excitedly.
He shrugs, “If you wish.”
I race to the other side of the island and jump onto one of the stools, propping my hands under my chin as I lean against the counter, giving him my undivided attention. He takes a deep breath and resumes working on our lunch just as an idea comes to me.
“Would my sexy thunderbolt be kind enough to bring me my phone, so I don’t have to get up?” I ask coquettishly.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Sexy thunderbolt?” he thinks over my new pet name and graces me with a sexy smirk. “I rather like that.”
With a half-assed wave of his hand, my phone and earbuds appear in front of me. I blow him a kiss, open my phone and begin secretly recording him, because I have a strong suspicion I’m going to want to relive this moment. I mean, how often do you get to watch a God learn to cook for the first time? Ezillus enjoys cooking for the fun of it, but Jartre has never felt the compulsion. I think it’s incredibly sweet that he wants to do this for me. Further proof that he genuinely wants to make changes in his life.
“So what are you making?” I ask, watching the way he keeps referring to a tablet on the kitchen counter. He even conjured a freakin’ tablet just to look up recipes! You have to admire the dedication.
“I am attempting to make a stir fry.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise. “Are you sure you don’t want to start with something easier?” I ask tentatively.
“Why? Do you think I can’t handle it?” he asks, sounding affronted.
I wave my hand in surrender, “Hey, I’m just the observer. If you want to make a stir fry and feel you can, then you go ahead and do it,” I say encouragingly.
He eyes me carefully but gets back to work.
Stir fry? I would have gone with a toasted cheese sandwich or scrambled eggs. Something easy and something you’re not as likely to fuck up.
I watch, fascinated and bewildered as he carefully reads and attempts to follow each step of the recipe. He heats a wok on the stove and picks up an onion. He glances from the onion to the recipe and back in confusion. He shrugs his gargantuan shoulders and tosses the onion straight into the wok, outer layer and all. I snort with laughter as it rolls around and begins to sizzle, the outer shell quickly turning black. This is giving me Sleeping Beauty nostalgia. It’s a very glorious “fold in gently” moment, and I’ve got it on camera.
“Babe, you’re meant to cut up the onion,” I say, biting back laughter.
“It says to toss in one whole onion.”
“Yes, but they mean after it has been cut up.”
“Then they should fucking say that,” he huffs in irritation, and I swear I’m about to bust a gut. “Glad you’re so amused.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, sheathing my teeth with my lips to stop from smiling. I don’t think it’s working.
Jartre flips the wok tossing the now burnt onion behind him out the shutters with that crumpled pan. He grabs another onion and starts cutting it up haphazardly on the counter.
“Would you at least let me show you how to chop an onion?”
He sighs. “Fine,” he relents.
I prop up my phone, hop off the stool and walk over as he extends his knife to me, which I graciously accept.
“It’s very simple. First, you want to take this layer off. We don’t eat that,” I explain as I peel away the outer shell. “Then you want to cut off the ends, especially the root.” Once I chop the ends I cut the onion into decent-sized chunks and place the knife down. “Once it’s cut like this, then you can toss it in.”
He watches me intently, nodding as he takes in each step. “They really should have specified that in the recipe.”
“Sometimes they do, but I guess this person just assumed whoever was reading the recipe already knew that. Poor judgement on their part.” I reach up on my tippy toes just as he leans down and I place a kiss on his cheek.
I walk back over, taking my seat as I watch Jartre resume his cooking. As he adds in the various ingredients, he once again looks at the recipe in confusion.
“Cook on medium-high heat. What the fuck is medium-high heat? How can something be both medium and high? Whoever wrote this sounds like they’ve got shit for brains,” he says in irritation.
I burst out laughing, slapping my hand against the countertop, and cackling like a hyena. This is high-quality entertainment right here. Watching an absolute cooking virgin try to understand terms that most of us adults understand with such ease, not only makes you appreciate the knowledge we are blessed with, but it’s also hilarious as fuck.
I watch on as my laughter switches to trepidation as Jartre adds various ingredients to the wok. The contents sizzle and spit as smoke rises from the wok, the smell of burnt onion filling the air as it intermingles with all the other ingredients creating a new and unpleasant smell.
Jartre at the same time gets to work on boiling some noodles and cutting up some meat, which he’s doing decently well. However, he’s cutting the beef the wrong way, which means it’s probably going to end up on the tough side. As he works on unpackaging the noodles, I notice the pot of water reaching boiling point.
“You may want to turn down the heat.”
It only takes a second for the water to bubble over, hitting the open flame below with a sizzle.
Jartre is quick to pull the pot off the stove and place it down, his nostrils flaring in anger.
“That fucking does it!” He raises his hand in the air, electric currents moving around his hand, crackling like an exposed wire as his eyes glow with the ferocity of…well, a God.
I throw my arms up to get his attention and calm him down. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you doing?!”
“This fucking stove is mocking me!”
“It’s a stove! It’s an inanimate object, it can’t mock anyone,” I say incredulously.
I’m starting to wonder: Was Jartre blessed with the power to harness lightning because he is just as volatile, or is it his volatility that allows him to produce such a gift in the first place? Either way, it’s a match made in…whatever godly realm he hails from.
He breathes hard, his pectorals enlarging with every lungful of air he sucks in.
“Babe, lower your hands and step away from the stove,” I instruct.
He huffs and lowers his hand, the glow of his eyes dying down and the current around his hand disappearing as he takes a step back.
“I don’t know how you humans tolerate this,” he says petulantly.
“We don’t have a choice. We need to feed ourselves and we don’t have the luxury of conjuring up our food like you can. It doesn’t mean we don’t make mistakes too. I’ve had my food boil over plenty of times. Can’t tell you how many times watching Netflix caused me to overcook soup.”
“That does make me feel a little better,” he says begrudgingly.
“It’s only your first time. Most of us have been learning this by watching our parents our whole lives. You’re learning this all for the very first time. It’s like expecting a baby to know how to cook.”
His mouth forms a hard line. “While I appreciate the metaphor, I don’t enjoy being compared to a baby,” he gripes.
I roll my eyes, “You get my point.”
“I suppose I do.”
He cleans up the spilled water, takes another calming breath and gets back to cooking. I grab my phone and end the recording deciding to spare the rest of his dignity. I can just replay the rest in my head for future reference.