Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“So?” I ask, suddenly caring about her opinion on my not so humble abode.
I watch Mia move through my living room, her fingers trailing along the back of the leather sofa, her eyes cataloging everything.
“It’s very…” She pauses, searching for the word. “Clean.”
“You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It’s not.”
“Well, I do have a cleaning lady.”
She turns to face me, that sharp little smile playing at her lips. “It doesn’t look lived in. It looks like a showroom. Or a hotel.”
She’s not wrong. I’ve been here two years, and the place still feels like it belongs to someone else, like I’m just passing through, waiting for someone to tell me where I actually live. Someplace I can really call home. I’m not sure if that place will ever exist for me.
“I’m not home much,” I say. “Busy saving the world and all that.”
“Mmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s a truth.” She moves toward the windows, the afternoon light catching the faint strands of gold in her dark hair. She’s wearing jeans today that make her ass look fucking fantastic, along with a soft sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing a lacy bra strap that’s been driving me insane. “You can have more than one, you know. Most people do.”
I don’t have a response to that, so I head for the kitchen instead. “You hungry? You bring your lactose intolerance pills? I make a mean grilled cheese.”
“A mean grilled cheese,” she comments, sounding amused. She follows me, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “America’s superhero, domestic god.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, darlin’.” I pull out bread, butter, cheese, mayo, and the jar of pickled jalapeños I keep in the back of the fridge. “This is my specialty. Secret family recipe.”
“Your family had a secret grilled cheese recipe?”
“Well, I did. A secret everything recipe.” I start buttering the bread, the familiar motions settling something in my chest. “When you’re poor, you learn to make food stretch. My mom wasn’t much of a cook even when she was sober, which wasn’t often, so I figured things out.”
Mia is quiet for a moment. When I glance up, she’s watching me with an expression I can’t read.
“You cooked for Emma then.”
“Yeah.” Hearing her name still feels like a punch, but it’s softer now. Dulled. “Grilled cheese was her favorite. She liked it with tomato soup, but we couldn’t always afford both, so sometimes, it was just the sandwich. We always had jalapeños in the garden, though, and cheese was cheap. And for dessert…”
I trail off, the memory catching me off guard. Emma at the kitchen table, five years old, swinging her feet because they didn’t reach the floor yet, her face lighting up when I brought over the plate.
“Cinnamon toast,” I finish, back in the present. “Bread and butter, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Quick and cheap and easy. She thought it was the best thing in the world.”
“That’s sweet.”
“It was sweet. It was also survival.” I lay the jalapeños on the cheese, more than I’d normally use because I want to see if she can handle the heat. “Mom would be passed out on the couch or in her bedroom. Dad would be God knows where—the barn, probably, or just driving around, avoiding coming home. And Emma would be hungry, so I’d make us something.”
I press the sandwich together and slide it into the hot pan. The butter sizzles, and the smell of melting cheese fills the kitchen.
“How old were you?” Mia asks quietly.
“When I started cooking? Eight, maybe nine. By ten, I had a whole repertoire. Grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, boxed mac and cheese if we were feeling fancy. Plenty of homemade hot sauce to go with that one.” I flip the sandwich, checking that the bottom is golden brown. “Emma used to say I should open a restaurant. Nate’s Diner. She had the whole thing planned out—the menu, the decorations, where it would be located.”
“And where was that?” she asks, swallowing a LactoEase pill with a can of mineral water I open for her.
“Main Street in Livingston, right next to the hardware store.” I smile despite myself. Nostalgia can feel like a drug sometimes. “She said it needed to be somewhere people could walk to, because not everyone had cars. She was always thinking about stuff like that. About other people. About the planet.”
The sandwich is done. I slide it onto a plate, cut it diagonally—the only correct way—and push it across the counter toward her.
“Eat up,” I say. “Then tell me I’m not a culinary genius.”
She picks up half the sandwich and takes a bite. Her eyes widen immediately, and I watch her chew, waiting for the jalapeño to hit.
There it is.
“Oh my God,” she says, fanning her mouth. “That’s—”