The sizzle of the pan fills the space between us. Lexie sits at the kitchen island, bundled in an oversized hoodie and baggy sweatpants. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and her sock-covered feet rest on the rungs of the stool. She has her hands wrapped around a mug of sweet milk like she’s trying to soak up all its warmth. It’s a drink I used to make for Soph when she was down or couldn’t sleep. Soft jazz plays in thebackground. I’d picked out something mellow, hoping it might soothe her.
While she was upstairs, I looked up info on anxiety. There was so much to sort through that I barely scratched the surface, but one thing stood out: not everyone experiences it the same way. So far, I’ve learned that for her, it feels like thought overload, and distraction, music, and calming activities seem to help.
I flip the omelet, my mind once again replaying our kiss. I thought the tremors and shallow breaths were signs of her excitement. I thought she was losing herself in a way that matched what I was feeling. I didn’t realize, until it was too late, that somewhere along the way, her pleasure had turned into panic.
Her cries afterward had torn me up. She wanted me to leave, but I couldn’t, not like that. I couldn’t let her go through that alone. It’s what she’s used to—fending for herself and hiding her feelings. Not wanting to be a burden on anyone.
“You’re in your element,” she says, watching me over her mug. Some color has returned to her cheeks, but her big blue eyes are still shadowed behind her frames.
“I find it relaxing,” I say as I fold the egg in half, sealing in the sauteed vegetables and cheese before sliding it onto a plate.
“Very chef-y.”
Under different circumstances, I would’ve teased her back, asking if she found my chef-y-ness a turn-on. But with everything that just happened, I steer away from the joke.
I grab two forks and hand her one. “Mind if we share?”
“Not at all.”
Sitting on the stool beside her, I wait until she takes the first bite. Her eyes close as the flavors hit. “This is so good. Thank you. I love omelets, and the music’s a lovely touch.”
I grin, happy to please her.
We eat in silence; the only sounds are the tranquil vibrato of the saxophone and the scrape of our forks on the plate. It’s not awkward—the quiet feels like we’re both recharging after the emotional storm.
“Do you cook?” I ask after a while.
“I can. Nothing fancy, though. In Chicago, I lived mainly on salad kits, but here it’s been nice to prepare a meal and enjoy eating whatever I want.”
“You couldn’t eat what you wanted back home?”
“It’s not that I couldn’t; it’s that I gave in to the pressure to look a certain way, act a certain way.Never a hair out of place or a frown on your face.That’s an actual quote from my mother.”
Jesus. I shake my head. “That’s a lot to live up to.”
“It is.” She fiddles with the handle of her fork. “I tried so hard to be perfect—and failed.”
I tamp down a surge of anger, hating her parents for making her feel like she wasn’t enough. “You didn’t fail. You’re perfect just the way you are, Lex. Whatever else they expected was an impossible standard.”
“Not impossible to them.” She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “I was always under a microscope. Speech coaches for my nervous stutter, posture training for my slouch, strict diets to keep me thin, and braces to correct the tiniest gap between my front teeth. It was never-ending. I spent years twisting myself into someone I didn’t recognize or want to be.”
“You had the guts to come here and change all that,” I remind her. “That’s a big step.”
“It wasn’t guts that got me here. It was a thyroid tumor.”
“What?” My gaze swerves to hers, my heart hammering. Is it?—?”
“It’s benign,” she quickly assures me. “I’m on medication now to get my hormones back to normal. I’m sorry if this brings up difficult memories of your mom being sick.”
I appreciate her sensitivity—the way she focuses on me, even in the face of her own struggles. “I’m okay, Lex. I want to hear about this. Are you in any pain?”
“No, it doesn’t hurt. I was tired all the time, and I’d lost weight, but I thought that was just from my hectic schedule. I didn’t know anything was seriously wrong until I felt a lump while putting on lotion. It’s tiny.” She takes my hand and brings it to the front of her neck, below the larynx, pressing my fingers gently to the spot. “Feel that?”
I nod, my stomach clenching. It’s the size of a pearl—firm and round beneath her soft skin. “How are you now?”
“Much better. But at the time, I was angry at myself for being so focused on pleasing everyone else that I neglected my health. This little lump was my wake-up call. It could have been worse. I got lucky, and it was the catalyst for me to take control of my life.”
“Your fuck-it moment.”
