"I want to."
I head to the kitchen and start the most boring meal in history. Plain pasta. No sauce. No seasoning. No garlic. Just pasta and butter and maybe some salt if I'm feeling wild.
Emma joins me in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Her hair's falling out of its bun. She looks exhausted and beautiful and like she's carrying the weight of the world.
"How was your nap?" I ask, draining pasta.
"Terrible."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Okay."
I plate the pasta—plain, boring, pregnancy-safe—and set it in front of her. She looks at it for a long moment.
"This is the most boring pasta I've ever seen," she says.
"I'm trying a new recipe. It's called 'plain.'"
"Innovative. Sad."
"I thought so."
She picks up her fork and takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. Takes another bite.
She doesn't question why I made the world's most boring meal. Doesn't ask why there's no sauce. Doesn't comment that this is completely unlike my usual cooking.
She just eats it. Gratefully.
Because it's exactly what she needs right now.
We eat in comfortable silence. When we're done, Emma returns to the couch with her laptop. I clean up, then join her, settling into the chair across from her.
She's staring at her screen again. Not typing. Just staring.
"Want to talk about the Preston offer?" I ask carefully.
Her fingers freeze. She looks up, and there's something in her eyes—fear, relief, panic, all mixed together.
"You didn’t just see it. You read it."
"I saw it sticking out of your briefcase. I'm sorry."
"It's okay." Her voice is small. "I should've told you about it anyway."
"You don't have to tell me everything, Em. But if you want to talk about it?—"
"I don't know what to do." The words rush out. "About Preston. About Celtic Knot. About—" She stops abruptly.
"About what?"
Her mouth opens, then closes without sound. Tears form in her eyes.
"I don't know what to do about anything."
The tears spill over and I'm across the room before I consciously decide to move. I sit beside her, pulling her into my arms.
