“The old Pedro Molina would probably laugh at me before running to tell his mom all about how the Salt girl can’t bake,” I say, and I can hear the bitterness in my voice.

I hate to throw accusations at him again. But I can’t take it back. Every time I think I’m overcoming my resentment toward him, more comes bubbling up.

Pedro thinks for a while, looking contrite. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

It makes me feel awkward. “Forget what I said. It’s fine.”

“No. I agree with you. And you need an apology.” Pedro’s shoulders slump, and I know he’s feeling put on the spot, too, but he doesn’t break eye contact with me. “I thought people would think I’m cool if I acted exactly like my grandfather. I thought if I antagonized you and proved I was better than you, maybe I’d feel better myself.” He takes a step closer, his eyes sincere. “But I’m telling you now, I’m not that guy anymore. I don’t want to be that guy anymore. I’m not going to use your cooking against you, like I did when we were children. I actually respect that you’re learning to cook. I really do. That suggestion to add basil leaves to black beans, that was brilliant. You may not have experience, but you love food. And you know food. You have no idea how I admire you for it.”

I wasn’t expecting him to say all this.

“You...admire me?”

Pedro’s ears go red. “Yeah, I do,” he says. “I can’t help it.”

We stare at each other, and I get the feeling that Pedro both wants to say something else and is waiting for me to speak, but we’re just stuck waiting for the other to make the first move. My heart feels derailed. I want to tell him that I’ve learned to admire him, too. I want to tell him that sometimes, when I think of him, my chest feels too small for all the pent-up feelings, but—

I can’t say any of that.

I can’t feel any of that.

I think he gets it, because he offers me a tiny nod and turns around to start cleaning utensils in the sink.

I should leave now, before it’s too late. Before he sees that I’m confused about us. But I end up sitting on the counter next to the sink, while he washes dishes.

“That flower soup incident when we were kids, I think it bothered me so much because you were right,” I admit. “Back then, when you challenged me to drink it, to prove that it was really soup, I knew I’d never be able to. Because I’d never even made soup at home. I just played with flowers, trying to imitate Mom and Grandma, but I didn’t know the first ingredient.”