“Third time’s the charm, huh?” I said.

Her pan hissed with the addition of the sauce, its odor going from old onions bad, to old onions and old tomatoes worse.

“I needed that chicken yesterday . . .” She clomped to the other side of the table, leaving her concoction to start boiling out of the saucepan.

“Oof. Bossy too.”

“Hey, thanks.” She stretched towards me, her torso longer than I’d imagined, and grabbed the chicken.

“Don’t mention it. Now what?”

“You can make the rice.” She rescued her pan with a stir, just in time.

“Yes. I’ll make the rice.” The cat-sized bag of rice perched securely on top of Ms. O’Connor’s massive cupboards. “How can two thousand tiny grains take up this much space?”

“Want me to do the rice? You can stir the pan.”

“And concern yourself with this trivial task? Not today, Chef.” I made a show of how easy it was for me to carry the giant, enormous, heavy (seriously cannot overstate how big it was) bag of rice.

“Hey, these are things you’re gonna have to know next year. When you can pull off a three-course meal for your college girlfriend, you’ll have me to thank.”

My mouth went dry. In my experience, girls mention the existence of a bro’s real or future girlfriend for two reasons: one, they want to pry into the relationship, look for flaws, and find a way to feel like the superior female; or two, the girl wants you to subconsciously link the word “girlfriend” to them instead.

Eliza’s comment gave me further proof that I had a fighting chance here.

I leaned against the marble island, trying to look as suave as possible. “Yup, I’ll call you up in the middle of my date to let you know.”

“You’d better.”

“Can’t wait to tell you all about the meals of your sweetest dreams.” She kept her back turned to me, and my head started to spin. Before this year, things with Eliza had always felt easy. Why was I now overanalyzing everything she did? Every stupid thing I said back to her? Was I being? No. Definitely not. Pathetic?

“Be right back.”

Trying not to panic, I bolted to the O’Connors’ downstairs bathroom and paced between the shower and the cupcake-shaped hand towels. Maybe Madison was right, and I’d need more than my charm for Eliza. Perhaps, an honest-to-gosh real connection?

Speaking of Madison, a solution to my troubles was a text message away.

Am I really going to do this? Yup. This is happening.

I grabbed my phone. Ready for advice, I sent, ASAP plz, making dinner with her now.

Time to wait for a response. For how long? I didn’t want Eliza to think I’d abandoned helping her, but I couldn’t read Madison’s answer in front of her. I decided to count to one hundred and then go back.

Sixty-three . . . sixty-four . . . the phone buzzed in my hand.

I’m sad you never made me dinner , Madison had texted. Hope you lovebirds are having fun. What you want to do is . . .