Viktoria glances up from her screen."What's the alternative?Quit?Let Mom's medical bills pile up?Let the house flood again next time a pipe bursts?"
I sigh, reaching for the garlic."No.Obviously not."
"Then we keep going."She returns to her coding."Besides, Richard's endorsement got you in the door, but your actual skills kept you there.That has to count for something."
I pull open the refrigerator, searching for the container of yogurt I need for the sauce.
On the door, held by a magnet shaped like Armenia, is a photo from three years ago.
Me with Richard at some charity gala.Both smiling.Both seemingly content.
The image strikes me as strangely false now.
What was I doing with him for three years?
Was it comfort?Convenience?The security of dating someone stable after years of shouldering responsibility alone?
"Richard texted Susanna last week," I say, pulling out the yogurt.
Viktoria's fingers still on the keyboard."What?"
"From Iceland."I close the refrigerator."He's in Reykjavík.With the knitter."
"That rat-faced, walking malpractice of a man," Viktoria growls."What did he want?"
"To apologize, apparently.And to let us know he's 'found himself through handicrafts.'"
"I'll handicraft him…”
I snort."He also asked if I was okay.Which is rich, coming from the man who almost tanked my career and possibly stole my identity."
"And still owes his share of Mom's water damage," Viktoria adds, eyeing the torn-up floor.
I glance at the repair estimate again."I think we can kiss that goodbye."
Returning to my prep work, I try not to think about how the plumbing repairs will drain the emergency fund I've been building, or how I'm one crisis away from financial disaster.
How every decision—including my "enhanced" resume—stems from the constant, gnawing fear of ending up like my mother after my father left.
Bewildered.Struggling.And utterly vulnerable.
"Remember Halloween, two years ago?"I ask suddenly."Richard's costume party?"
"The one where you went as Persephone?"Viktoria doesn't look up from her work."With the flower crown I made?"
"That's the one."I reach for my tablet where it sits beside the cutting board, wiping my hands before scrolling to the photo gallery."That's when I met Callum.Just for a few minutes."
The image shows me in my costume—flowing white dress, crown of dark flowers, pomegranate pendant.
And at the edge of the frame, partially cropped out, a tall figure in black with smoky, charcoal-smudged hands.
Hades.Callum.
"We talked for maybe twenty minutes before Richard found us," I say, staring at the photo.
The memory stirs something unsettling in my stomach.
I'd thought about that conversation for weeks afterward, the intensity in his eyes when he'd quoted Aeschylus, the unexpected deep throatiness of his laugh.
