She raises a brow. “Uh-huh. No phone.”
I don’t care about my phone right now, but I can’t help but smile at her determination to scold me. I can guarantee I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never act out again as long as she’s here. I’ll be the perfect sister she always wanted. I’ll do the dishes. I’ll pick up my room. She could ask me to fly to the moon and I would.
She grabs a pot and fills it up with water before putting it on the stove. She sets the heat on high and salts the water so quickly it’s like it’s second nature to her.
I, on the other hand, just realized why my pasta is always so bland: I’ve never salted the water. I should’ve paid more attention to how Mallory cooked. I should’ve takenthe time to learn from her and to help her with all of the chores Mom left behind. Instead, I spent all my time resenting how she ordered me around like she was trying to replace Mom.
It wasn’t until she was gone I realized how much she did for me. I took it for granted. Every breakfast she set out, every pile of folded laundry, and the fridge that was always full. She did all of it without being asked to, and I never thanked her for it.
“I can help with dinner,” I say.
The look that fills her face is a cross between bewilderment and humor. “Since when?”
I shrug, grabbing the pasta out of the pantry. “You shouldn’t have to do it every night.”
She clears her throat, patting her chest. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
I hand her the pasta. “Please, there has to be something I can do to help.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. Is it really so shocking that I offered to help? Or does she assume I'll screw this up like everything else I do?
“Um—” Her eyes glance around the room before they land on the cutting boards that are propped up against the side of the fridge. She trades me a cutting board for the pasta. “You can cut the vegetables. I was going to put some zucchini in the pasta sauce.”
I smile, happy she gave me a task even though I know she didn’t want to give up control. I’ll show her I’m capable of making her load lighter. I’ll make up for all the times I pushed her patience.
I grab a zucchini from the fridge and bring it to the sink to wash it. I happily cut it as the water reaches a boil andMallory adds the pasta. “Do you want me to cut anything else up? Maybe some onions or bell pepper?”
She glances over at me again with soft confusion. “Since when do you like onions?”
I shrug. “They’ve grown on me.”
I used to hate them, but I had to get used to them since Mrs. Meyers included them in every single dinner she brought over while we were grieving, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her I didn’t like them. After a while I grew accustomed to their flavor, and now I’d go so far as to say I enjoy them. Past Emma would be shocked.
Mallory hands me a yellow onion. “Do you want me to show you how to cut it?”
“I’m good,” I say, slicing the onion in half. Then I make another slice horizontally before dicing it into small pieces.
“Who taught you how to do that? I’ve never seen you in the kitchen.”
Did I impress her? “Mrs. Meyers taught me a few weeks after—” I stop myself, realizing I’m about to talk about a time Mallory isn’t a part of.
“After what?”
My brain spirals, trying to think of a good excuse, but I can’t. “After I . . . I was over there one day and I saw her cut an onion when she was making dinner.”
“You learned by watching her one time?” I can sense the doubt in her voice.
And no, it took me a lot of practice, but Mrs. Meyers said I needed to learn, and if no one else was going to teach me, then she would.
Heat rises to my ears, but I hope she doesn’t notice. “Mm-hmm.”
I can tell she’s about to question me more, but the doorbell rings, saving me.
“Watch the water. I’ll be right back.” She runs out of the kitchen.
I should be good and pay attention to what I’m doing, but I’m curious who’s at the door.
I peek my head out of the kitchen and peer down the hallway.
