And every second she spent at my house, that happiness was getting refilled.
Just like mine.
In some ways, that night with Dean was the beginning. The start of her new life. The start of mine. And I was going to do my fucking damnedest to make sure that life was perfect.
As the bruises lightened and she no longer winced every time she moved, grabbing her side in pain, her smile began to get larger. The bags under her eyes weren’t as dark and deep and defined. More pounds slowly added to her magnificent body.
And whenever Dean and her mother came up in conversation, when the drinking and the screaming, the manipulation and verbal abuse were referenced in any way, her tone was getting lighter. Now that she was outside that hell, knowing I would never let her return, the memory getting further and further away, she wouldn’t take so many breaths between sentences. She wouldn’t stop mid-word, her eyes wandering away from me as she got lost in those moments.
Her little time off was no longer spent locked in her closet of a bedroom with her back against the door.
Instead, we spent it in my kitchen at home. A place I’d avoided for a long fucking time. A place I now craved to be.
Alivia would come up with recipes and pairings and sauces, and we would try every one. Together. The two of uswith different roles—mine more of an assistant, her the lead. I wanted her to achieve complete comfort—not just in my house, but in the kitchen. I wanted her confidence to build. I wanted her to be able to look inside a fridge and create something out of nothing. So, that was how we spent the evenings when we weren’t at Charred. Multiple courses would cover my island, pots and pans overflowed in the sink, some kind of ingredient would land in her hair or on her cheek or the side of her lips.
And there was laughter.
So fucking much of it.
Not just from her, but from me.
On the days when she didn’t have to be at the assisted living facility, we would stay in bed as long as possible, well into lunchtime. One of my favorite things to bring up in bed was her dreams. She wanted her cooking to be a warm blanket, but how did she want to spread that blanket? What would it look like? What did that mean to her? That was what I would ask her almost every day.
And each time, she would tell me she was closer to having an answer.
Until one late morning, while she was resting her face on my bare chest, she said during a quiet bout of cuddling, “Walker, I know.”
“What do you know, baby?”
She leaned up on her elbow and peeled her face off my chest. “I know how I want to spread the blanket.”
“Tell me.”
“Okay, hear me out. I want to open a restaurant that’s dedicated to those who can’t afford to really eat in one. Those who crave the kind of food a restaurant serves, but they find themselves ordering fries at a fast-food joint because that’s what’s in their budget. I’m not talking about a soup kitchen. The food wouldn’t be completely free.” She sat up, folding her legs infront of her, pulling the blanket over them. “But what would set this restaurant apart from, say, a diner or a food truck is what’s inside. It would be a place that feels extra comfortable. That’s over-the-top welcoming. Where it feels like Thanksgiving dinner every day.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Where single moms don’t have to worry about how they’re dressed or when they last showered or, in some cases, if it’s their car they’re going to sleep in tonight.” Her eyes opened, her head tilting. “Where they can fill their stomachs with good, quality food instead of junk. Where they’ll leave full and consoled and uplifted.” She pushed her hair off her shoulders. “What do you think?”
Fuck yes.
This was what LA needed.
Shit, this was what every city in America needed.
I traced the outside of her cheek. “I think you know exactly what’s needed, and I think there’s no better person in this world to provide it than you.”
She leaned into my hand. “I want a small menu, maybe two options, and everything will be warm. Sandwiches, as much as I love them, don’t cut it. You can buy a sandwich at a convenience store. What I craved back then was a meal, and that’s what I want to give them.” She palmed the blanket. “I don’t know how I’d make enough to carry the costs of this restaurant. Food is outrageously expensive. Then there’s rent and labor and?—”
“You happen to be dating someone who runs those numbers for a living.”
She smiled. “My dreams don’t have to be your dreams, Walker. I wouldn’t put this on you.”
“What if I want to help?” I sat up and put my back against the headboard. “What if I told you this idea has me more excited than Toro and Horned and Musik and fuckingCharred?” I held the side of her neck. “What if I told you I’ve been looking to find that passion again and I’m staring at it right now?”
I watched her shake her head. Her throat move as she swallowed. The disbelief, which had lived on her face, lift.
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” I stroked my thumb across her lips. “Now hear me out.” I smiled. “The first issue is the cost of food. You want quality, and you’re right, that’s expensive. To keep it as low as possible, you need buying power. The more you buy, the more you save.”
“Except I wouldn’t be buying a ton for a cozy space and I don’t have that kind of power.”
