I don’t tell Bandit any of this, though. As evidenced by my conversation with Zeke, I can’t talk about my best friend without choking up.

He moves assuredly, adding fish sauce, jalapeño vinegar, garlic oil, and chili pepper to the rice. He then garnishes it with chopped cilantro and spring onion and places the steaming bowl in front of me.

I perch on a stool, feeling absurdly touched. “This is so fancy. What is it?”

He laughs again. The warm sound pulses through the room. “Kao tom pla,” he says. “And it’s the opposite of fancy. Basically, it’s just rice soup. The dish can be made with pork, shrimp, tofu, anything really. I used sea bass, which they don’t really do in Thailand. Kinda my own American twist.” He stops. Pushes the hair off his forehead. “You like seafood, right?”

“I love it.” I take a bite. Oh, wow. I’ve never made anything even half this delicious in all my years of trying. Where’s my camera when I need it? My followers would be panting over this dish. Especially if I included a photo of the chef.

“Are your parents home?”

“Nah.” He slides onto the stool next to me. “They work so much, they’re never around. My khun yai used to live with us before she passed away. I made kao tom for her every morning during the last couple of years. She cooked for me when I was a kid, so it was only right.” He shrugs again. “The cycle of life, you know.”

He’s different here, in his house. In this kitchen. Warmer, more open. It’s like he’s shed the armor that keeps out the rest of the world.

I like it, I realize. I like him.

“Are you eating?” I ask.

“Maybe later. I’m still trying to keep down water.”

I drop my spoon, my appetite suddenly gone. For heaven’s sake. I’m sitting here, scarfing down his food. Trying not to sneak glances at his broad shoulders. Completely forgetting that I poisoned him, that I have an ulterior motive for visiting. What is wrong with me?

“Listen, Bandit.” I look down into the soup and let the steam heat my face. “I’m really sorry about the cupcake.”

“Why? It wasn’t your fault. Cristela probably left the frosting out too long.”

Jumping up, I pace the gray tiles. Each seam I step on makes me more agitated. It’s like the crack that breaks your mother’s back. But Mom left a long time ago, so the only thing breaking is the tenuous sway my older self has over me. “I should’ve known. I could’ve pressed harder. Asked more questions.”

He shakes his head, mystified. “It was an accident. I don’t see how you could’ve known about it.”