“I’m sure it’ll be fantastic.” I finish one green onion and start on the next. “You know, no one’s ever made me a celebratory meal before. Not like this.”
She glances at me, surprise flickering across her face. “Really? What about when Kid Logic got picked up? Or on your birthday?”
“My parents didn’t...” I search for the right words. “They aren’t really the type to cook. They—” I shrug. “I haven’t really had people in my life who do stuff like this.”
Kiera’s quiet for a moment, her hands stilling in the marinade. “That’s sad.”
“Maybe a little.” I sweep the sliced green onions into a small bowl. “What else can I do?”
She hands me a knob of ginger and a grater. “Grate this. About two tablespoons worth.”
We work in companionable silence for a few minutes, the kitchen filling with the sharp, sweet smell of soy sauce and sesame oil. I watch Kiera out of the corner of my eye as she works—the way she bites her bottom lip when she’s concentrating, the efficient movements of her hands, the little satisfied nod she gives when she tastes the marinade and decides it’s right.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, grating the ginger carefully.
“Sure.”
“Are you close with Kiki? I know she took you in when you came to the island, but were you close before that?”
Kiera’s expression softens. “Yeah, we’re close. We always have been, even when we were kids.” She pours the marinade over the short ribs, making sure each piece is coated. “Our parents worked a lot just to make ends meet. My mom worked retail, and my dad had a job at a manufacturing plant. After our grandmother passed when I was three, it was mostly just Kiki and me at home.”
“That must have been hard.” I set down the grater and turn to face her fully. “Being that young and basically raising yourselves.”
She shrugs, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. “It was what it was. Kiki did her best to take care of me. She was only eleven when Grandma died, but she figured out how to cook basic meals, and when I got a little older she helped me with homework, and made sure I got to school on time.” She covers the bowl with plastic wrap and puts it in the fridge. “That’s actually how I learned to cook. Out of necessity. If we didn’t make something, we ate frozen dinners or cereal for the third night in a row.”
The image hits me hard—two young girls fending for themselves, trying to figure out how to survive on their own because the adults in their lives were too busy or too absent. And Kiera, learning to cook not because she loved it at first, but because she had to.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “That’s a lot for a kid to deal with.”
“It made me self-sufficient.” She leans against the counter, crossing her arms. “And it gave me something I’m good at. So I guess it wasn’t all bad.” She tilts her head, studying me. “What about you? What was it like growing up as a childhood television star? That must have been surreal.”
I knew this question was coming eventually, but it still makes my stomach tighten. Most people ask about Kid Logic with this breathless excitement, like being on TV automatically made my childhood magical. Kiera’s tone is different—genuinely curious, but careful, like she knows there might be complicated feelings underneath.
“It was weird,” I admit, measuring my words. “I loved acting, loved being on set, loved the work itself. But everything around it—the pressure, the expectations, the way people treated me differently—that was hard.”
“Your family must have been proud though, right?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “My siblings were busy with their own lives and successes. And my parents...” I pause, trying to figure out how to explain this without sounding bitter. “They never really saw acting as a legitimate career. Even when Kid Logic was at its peak, when I was on magazine covers and winning awards, they treated it like a phase I’d grow out of.”
Kiera’s eyebrows draw together. “How could they think it was a phase? You were successful. You were good at it.”
“Because it wasn’t what they valued.” I run a hand through my hair, surprised at how much I want to tell her this. I don’t talk about my family much, especially not the complicated parts. But something about Kiera makes me want to be honest. “My mom wanted me to go to an Ivy League school, become a lawyer or a doctor or go into finance like my brother. She didn’t like that I was acting.”
“But you were a kid,” Kiera says, and there’s an edge of indignation in her voice that makes something warm bloom in my chest. “You were doing something you loved and were talented at. That should have been enough.”
“You’d think.” I lean against the counter beside her, our shoulders almost touching. “Every success felt diminished because it wasn’t therightkind of success. When Kid Logic gotrenewed for a fourth season, she reminded me that I should still be thinking about college and a ‘real career.’“
Kiera is quiet for a moment, and when I glance at her, her expression is thoughtful and sad. “That must have been lonely. Having this huge success but not being able to share it with the people who were supposed to care the most.”
“Yeah.” The word comes out rough. “That’s exactly it. Lonely.”
She reaches over and puts her hand on mine where it’s resting on the counter. The touch is gentle, grounding. Not pity—understanding.
“For what it’s worth,” she says softly, “I think what you did was incredible. I’ve seen the way you talk about filmmaking, the passion you have for capturing stories. That doesn’t come from nowhere. You’ve always cared about this work, even when you were a kid. That matters.”
I turn my hand over, palm up, and she doesn’t pull away. Our fingers curl together naturally, and I’m acutely aware of every point of contact—her palm against mine, the slight tremor in her fingers, the warmth of her skin.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it for so much more than just the words. For listening. For understanding. For not judging me for the complicated relationship I have with my family’s expectations.
