Ryan misses take-out.
Teresa's mother cooks every night, for more people than Ryan has ever seen in the house. There's always a plate waiting for him in the oven when he gets home, usually later than he can justify. Empanadas, rice, chicken, piles of tomatoes with onions and peppers. Ryan's never hungry, but he eats now, because it makes Teresa will worry less and she won't have to look at him, frowning with her brow furrowed, when she finds his plate still full every morning.
Just once, though, Ryan wishes he would walk into the kitchen and see something taking something out of a box or bag. He misses Chinese, lo mein and moo shoo pork. He wants to use chopsticks. He misses lasagna, and baked chicken with shiitake mushrooms, and poached salmon with tarragon. He would even settle for a crab-and-brie fillo puffs. He misses the scrape of plastic lids against styrofoam containers. He misses joking about Kirsten's cooking, sitting around the table laughing. He misses sitting beside Seth, sharing amused glances when Sandy compliments the chef.
It's Sunday morning, and Teresa and her mother are at Mass. Arturo hasn't been home all weekend, and so for one hour, Ryan has the house all to himself. He's decided to make an omelet, with spinach and mushrooms and feta cheese, like the ones they serve at the café down the street from Harbor.
The corner store doesn't have any feta cheese, but Ryan figures he can improvise. He grabs mozzarella, cheddar, and baby Swiss. There's no spinach, either—well, no fresh spinach—so he decides to go with tomatoes instead. He grabs a loaf of bread, too, and some orange juice, and piles everything in his backpack, bread on top, before biking home.
He gathers his ingredients on the counter and tries not to think about the bright, sunny kitchen in Newport. He dices the tomatoes and tries not to think about Thanksgiving and cranberries and solemn promises. He mixes the eggs with a fork, not a whisk, and tries not to remember teaching Seth how to make the perfect omelet that morning when they made breakfast in bed for Kirsten and Sandy's anniversary, even though Seth refused to actually serve the breakfast in bed, because, ew. He adds the cheese liberally, waiting for the sides to begin to congeal, and tries to pretend that he doesn't miss home so much he can't breathe. He makes whole-wheat toast and pours a big glass of orange juice and eats in silence, trying not to realize that all the things he misses about home are inextricably linked to Seth.
He tries not to think that what he really misses, the most, is just Seth.