When I found what I needed, I got to work on those as well. Cooking had always been something I loved. On Sunday mornings, my mom and I would make breakfast together while my dad read the paper at the table. Breakfast was always her thing, and dinner was my grandmother’s. I learned so much from both of them. Those were the good days. Before the fire. Before everything fell apart.
I was halfway through whisking eggs when my phone rang on the counter.
Dad.
My hand froze mid stir as I stared at his name on the screen. I smiled at the photo from three years ago, him in his fire chief uniform, smiling at something off-camera. Back when he still smiled. He’d been presented with Community Leader of the Year, and I’d come in to surprise him.
I let it ring, instantly feeling some type of way.
Brixxi whined at my feet, begging. Sometimes, I hated how spoiled she was, but I dropped a piece of bacon down anyway.
“Now shoo,” I said, waving her out of the kitchen.
The phone stopped ringing. Then, it immediately started again.
“Persistent this morning,” I muttered, flipping the bacon.
I could answer. But I knew how it would go. He’d make small talk for five minutes. Then he’d say he had to go, had a meeting or a call or some other excuse, and we’d hang up. He might tell me about Aunt Missy and whatever mess she was in. We’d say we miss each other, yet do nothing about it. I let it go to voicemail again.
The waffles were almost done when I heard footsteps behind me, but I smelled him before I saw him.
“Damn, you cook too?” DaVinci’s voice was rough with sleep. “Of course you do.”
I turned and saw him leaning against the doorway in nothing but basketball shorts, looking way too good for someone who’d just come off the road twelve hours ago. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, and that smile he wore pushed at a part of me I didn’t think was open anymore.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Like ‘Mr. Bryns the house down’ in his prime, baby.” He walked over and wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Thank you for last night. I feel like putting fifty up on some niggas.”
“You’re welcome.” I plated the waffles, eggs, fried potatoes, and bacon. I added some fruit to a bowl. “Sit. Eat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We sat at his kitchen island, and for a few minutes, we just ate in comfortable silence. Brixxi settled at our feet, clearly already comfortable in his space.
“Your phone keeps buzzing,” he said, nodding toward where it sat on the counter.
“I know.”
“You gon’ get it? Or is it that nigga Josh?”
“No.” I laughed and took a sip of orange juice. “It’s just my dad.”
DaVinci set his fork down. “Just your dad? What that mean?”
“There’s not much to say about it.”
“Halo.” His voice was gentle. “Talk to me.”
I stared at my plate, pushing eggs around with my fork. “We’ve hit a rough patch. Guilt. Stubborn type of patch. And I’m tired of being the only one who tries.”
I was quiet for a beat. “The fire, my move... it’s also why my dad and I aren’t close anymore.”
“Yeah?” He reached for my hand and pulled me up out of my seat and into his lap. I wanted to tell him everything.
“He’s still the fire captain back in Coupeville. Still doing the job. Still saving people.” My voice cracked slightly. “He calls sometimes. We talk around it. But he won’t come here, and I can’t keep chasing him. That’s what he’s calling for today. To do everything but come see me, see the life I’ve built.”
“Bae, I’m not taking sides because I could never and would never, but grief is fucking hard and I know you know that but…”
