“That’s because you add too much seasoning to everything.” I put the bag down. “Most people under-season, you know. You season enough to have Christmas every day.”
She laughs, her shoulders shaking, and my breath catches in my chest. “There does seem to be an overwhelming taste of nutmeg.”
“There definitely wasn’t a single mention of nutmeg in the recipe I left you.”
Her lips are still tilted up, her eyes sparking as she turns. She’s wearing a slouchy green sweater paired with a long skirt, her hair tied up in a short ponytail. “I like experimenting.”
I know.
She’s so beautiful that it makes my heart hurt.
“What’s that?”
I take a few steps until I’m standing in front of her, and I open up my hands.
The flower doesn’t look like much at first. The cluster of long, thin yellow flowers in the middle is surrounded by thick pink, velvety petals.
Emmy doesn’t move.
And fuck, but my hands keep shaking. I feel like a kid on prom night.
“It’s a protea,” I say unsteadily. “But – you probably knew that. Of course you did.”
Emmy lifts her eyes to mine.
“They can survive severe weather conditions, even through wildfire.” I swallow. “Strength. Courage. Resilience.”
“Jared,” she whispers. Her eyes are shining. “It’s beautiful.”
I gently tip the bloom into her hands. “You’re no ordinary rose, Emmy Marsters. You’re definitely a protea.”
She half-laughs, softly touching the petals. “I love it.”
We’re so close. She looks up.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Em,” I whisper. Her lips part.
And then I swallow, stepping back. “I think the curry might be burning.”
Em whirls, her cheeks pink. “Shit.”
Curry rescued with only a lingering aftertaste of nutmeg, we sit on opposite sides of her couch to eat. Em scrapes at her bowl. “I think the nutmeg brought it all together.”
There’s an odd note to her voice. She gets up, grabbing my bowl and stacking it next to the sink before she starts running the water.
I get to my feet. “I’ll do those.”
“I think I’m going to go back to work.” She doesn’t look at me as she blurts out the words. “I think I’m ready.”
Her words hollow out like a rock hitting the bottom of my stomach. “That’s… that’s great, Emmy.”
I mean it. Even if it feels like a punch to my ribs. “Have you spoken to Angelo?”
She nods, still not looking at me. “He told me to come tomorrow, but not to show up unless I brought baked goods.”
I can’t even smile. “What about The Setlist?”
Slowly, she shakes her head. “I think I want to focus on the flowers. The bar work, it was always a distraction more thananything else. Something to fill the time when I didn’t have anything better to do.”
