“You have the ingredients for exactly two potential meals: sad, butterless eggs or more pasta,” I counter. “What happens if someone just wants a bowl of cereal? Or a sandwich? Or a single, life-affirming bagel?”
Tristan snaps his fingers. “That’s what’s missing! Bagels! I knew this place felt emotionally empty for a reason.”
“A house isn’t a home without a fully stocked pantry,” I say, my voice taking on a tone of mock-seriousness as I find my footing in this new dynamic. “It’s a fundamental truth.”
“Our chef used to handle the stocking,” Rett says, as if that explains everything. “He kind of set up grocery delivery for an entire year.”
“The same chef you fired for putting foam on everything?” I ask, unable to resist.
Tristan shudders dramatically. “So much foam. It was like eating shaving cream with a side of food.”
I just shake my head, a real smile finally on my face. “Okay, notepad.” I pause. “And a pen.”
They stare at me with identical looks of blank confusion.
“A... notepad?” Tristan repeats, as if I’ve just asked for a live unicorn.
“You know,” I say, making a writing gesture in the air. “Paper. For writing things on. With a pen. An ancient technology.”
“I have a tablet,” Rett offers, pulling a sleek, impossibly thin device from a nearby charging station. “The new SterlingPad prototype.”
“No,” I cut him off, pointing a finger at him. “No tablets. No apps. We are making a physical list. With paper. It’s a sacred ritual of grocery shopping.”
Diego opens a drawer, then another, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I think... I think there might be some stationery in Rett’s office.”
“Is there a junk drawer in this entire house?” I ask, genuinely curious. “You know, a drawer where you just throw random things? Pens, rubber bands, dead batteries?”
They all look at each other. The concept of a “junk drawer” is clearly completely foreign to them.
“I’ll go check the office,” Diego says.
“Wait,” Tristan says, snapping his fingers. He strides over to the sleek console table by the door, the one I remember leaving a certain... note... on a few days ago. He slides open the single, shallow drawer. “Aha!”
He returns, holding up a thick pad of cream-colored stationery and a heavy, silver fountain pen with a triumphant flourish. “Behold! The ancient artifacts of communication!”
I take the items from him, feeling the absurd weight of the pen in my hand. He’s so pleased with himself, and the memory of what I wrote on that pad is so at odds with his current cheerful energy, that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“It’s a start,” I say, my voice laced with an amusement they probably misinterpret. “Okay. New plan. We are going to the grocery store. And we are going to build a pantry fit for human consumption.”
Four sets of eyebrows rise in perfect unison.
“All of us?” Rett asks, sounding like I’ve just suggested we all go bungee jumping off the penthouse balcony.
“Yes, all of us,” I confirm, already scribbling on the paper. “If you want a functioning household, you need proper groceries. And since I’m temporarily living here, I refuse to survive on protein bars and kale.”
“I can have groceries delivered,” Rett offers, already reaching for his phone. “Whatever you want. Just make a list.”
I snatch the phone from his hand before he can unlock it. “No. That’s not how this works. Grocery shopping is an experience. You need to see the produce, smell the bread, judge other people’s carts.”
Tristan perks up at this. “We get to judge other people? I’m in.”
“That’s not the point,” I say, but I can’t help smiling. “The point is, this place needs actual food. And since I’m going to be here for... however long this takes, I refuse to live in a home without ice cream.”
“Ice cream,” Dane repeats thoughtfully, as if considering the strategic advantages of frozen dairy products.
“Yes, ice cream,” I say firmly. “And bagels. And coffee that doesn’t require an engineering degree to brew.”
Diego gestures at the shiny, complicated-looking coffee machine in the corner. “What’s wrong with our coffee?”
