I stand, pacing across the room.
I’m halfway through pulling on pajamas when my phone buzzes.
My stomach drops.
I freeze, shirt half in my hands, staring at the screen like it might confirm my worst suspicions just by lighting up.
It buzzes again.
A text.
And suddenly, I’m not thinking about curiosity anymore.
I’m thinking about doors.
About what happens when you open one before you’re sure you’re ready to close another.
I pick up the phone with steadier hands than I feel.
Unknown Number: Sorry I missed your call. I was tied up earlier. If you’re interested in working in a kitchen, I’d like to meet tomorrow while I’m in town.
I read it again.
And again.
Nothing about it is dramatic. No pressure. No familiarity. No emotional hook. Which somehow makes it worse.
My brain starts doing that thing it does when it’s scared. Cataloging details instead of feelings. No city named. No restaurant kitchens implied. No obvious power imbalance.
Still, my stomach tightens.
Because kitchens were never just jobs to me.
They were mornings that started before the sun and nights that ended long after my feet stopped feeling like mine. Callused hands. Burn scars I can map without looking. The hum of refrigeration, the sharp comfort of knives lined just so, the quiet satisfaction of a perfectly balanced plate sliding across a pass.
I worked for that life.
I earned my place in it with sweat and precision and stubborn refusal to quit when it would’ve been easier. I loved the rhythm, the discipline, the way everything else fell away when service hit and all that mattered was timing and trust and knowing exactly where your hands needed to be.
I was good at it.
That part still matters.
But guilt also sneaks in fast, uninvited.
Because of Boone, who is trying so hard to hold everything together without letting anything crack.
Because of Silas, who finally admitted he’s afraid of pushing me too hard.
Because of Caleb, who said something real and didn’t demand anything in return.
Because of Sadie, who trusts me with glitter and secrets and the quiet assumption that I’ll still be here tomorrow.
I picture the ranch kitchen. The warmth of it. The way the space feels mine without asking anything back. The safety that keeps sneaking up on me when I’m not watching.
And then I picture the other life.
The stainless steel counters. The heat. The rush. The pride. The version of myself who knew exactly who she was when she tied on an apron and stepped into the bedlam.
