"I tried to make dinner." My voice sounds small. "I think I killed it. Twice."
There's a long silence, and then I hear a sound I've never heard before.
Sean islaughing.
It's quiet, just a huff of breath at first, but then it grows into a real laugh, warm and genuine. I risk a glance at him and find him looking at the disaster on the stove, one hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking.
"It's not funny," I manage, but my voice wavers.
"Maeve." He's still smiling, and it transforms his face, makes him look younger. Almost happy. "Did you burn water?"
"I don't know!" The tears are threatening now. "Maybe! I don't know what I'm doing. I've never cooked anything in my life, and I thought I could just... I wanted to..."
Be useful. Be a good wife. Be something other than a burden.
The smile fades from his face as he looks at me.Reallylooks at me, as if he’s studying me, trying to figure me out. "Hey. It's okay."
"It's not okay,” I insist, still on the verge of tears. “Look at this mess. I can't do anything right."
He crosses to me in two strides and takes my hand, the one I burned. He examines it carefully, his touch gentle.
"It's not bad," he says quietly. "Just a little red. Come here."
He leads me to the sink and runs cold water over my hand. The relief is immediate, and I let out a shaky breath.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For ruining dinner. For making a mess. For being useless." Tears waver on my lashes, and I can hear my voice choking up.
His hand tightens on my wrist. "You're not useless."
"I am. I don't know how to do anything. My family made sure of that."
He turns off the water and dries my hand carefully with a towel. When he speaks, his voice is low and intense.
"Your family did you a disservice. But that doesn't make you useless. You’ve already proved you can learn. If you want things to be different, they can be fixed."
I look up at him, and he's closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see how green his eyes are, the deep scar on his jaw.
"How?" I ask, swallowing back tears.
"I'll teach you." He releases my hand and moves to the stove, surveying the damage. "First lesson: this goes in the trash,” he adds with a chuckle.
He dumps the ruined pasta in the bin and starts cleaning up. I move to help, but he shakes his head.
"Just watch for now."
I lean against the counter and watch as he works efficiently, wiping down surfaces, doing dishes. Then he starts pulling ingredients from cabinets.
"We're going to make this properly," he says. "Pay attention."
He shows me how to peel and chop garlic without crushing it. How to dice an onion into even pieces. How to tell when oil is hot enough.
"You want the garlic to be fragrant, not brown," he explains, stirring the pan. "Brown is bitter. Just sauté until you can smell it, then add the onions."
I watch his hands as he works—scarred, capable hands that I've seen hold a gun, throw a punch, and now move with surprising effortlessness as he cooks.
