River leads me to the kitchen, and I’m grateful for something to focus on besides the hollow feeling growing in my chest. He heads straight to the pantry while I set my bag on the counter.
“Okay,” he says, emerging with a small container. “I know today has been rough, but I promise this mystery ingredient will make it better.”
He sets the container on the counter between us, and I lean forward to examine it. Inside are several cloves of garlic, but they’re completely black—soft and almost jammy-looking, nothing like regular garlic.
“Black garlic,” I say, picking up one of the cloves. It’s sticky and slightly sweet-smelling.
“Have you worked with it before?”
“No. But I’ve read about it.” I turn the clove over in my fingers, my mind already working through possibilities despite the emotional chaos Victoria left behind. “It’s regular garlic that’s been aged through a fermentation process. It’s supposed to be sweet and umami-rich, almost like balsamic vinegar.”
“Exactly.” River leans against the counter, watching me with that focused attention that usually makes my heart stutter. But right now, it just makes Victoria’s words louder.Infatuated. Temporary. A phase.
I force myself to focus on the black garlic. “I’m thinking pasta. Maybe with mushrooms and cream, since the black garlic will add that umami depth. And for dessert...” I pause, the idea forming. “Black garlic caramel. Drizzled over vanilla ice cream.”
“That sounds good.” But there’s something hollow in River’s enthusiasm, like he’s going through the motions.
“Go,” I say, making shooing motions toward the hallway. “Do your editing thing. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”
He nods and disappears down the hallway. I hear the door to his editing room close, and I’m alone with my thoughts and a container of black garlic.
I get to work almost on autopilot. The black garlic gets mashed into a paste and mixed with butter, which I toss with fettuccine and sautéed mushrooms. Heavy cream and parmesan turn it into this rich, earthy sauce that coats every strand of pasta. For the caramel, I melt sugar until it’s golden, then whisk in the mashed black garlic and a touch of cream. The result is this dark, glossy sauce that’s sweet and savory and completely unexpected.
By the time I plate everything and call River to the dining room, I’m proud of what I’ve created. But the hollow feeling in my chest has only grown larger.
River appears and takes his seat, examining the pasta with genuine interest despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “This looks good.”
We eat in near silence. River makes appreciative sounds about the pasta—the way the black garlic adds depth without overwhelming the dish, how the mushrooms complement the flavors—but his heart isn’t in it. He’s going through the motions, same as me.
When we finish, the black garlic caramel drizzled over vanilla ice cream actually makes him smile for the first time since his mother left. “This is genius,” he says, taking another bite. “Sweet and savory at the same time. The judges would love this.”
But even his praise feels muted. Distant.
We clean up the dishes together, our usual rhythm slightly off. I’m hyperaware of every time our hands brush, every casual touch that used to feel natural but now makes Victoria’s words echo louder.
Stop fooling yourself.
“River,” I say as we finish loading the dishwasher. “Do you want to watch your favorite Korean drama? The one you told me about—with the mermaid?”
He looks up, surprise flickering across his face. Then something soft and genuine breaks through the exhaustion. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I think we could both use something fun right now.” I force a smile. “Besides, I’m curious to see what’s so great about this show.”
His smile grows wider—the first real smile I’ve seen from him all evening. “Are you sure? It’s kind of ridiculous. And romantic. And there are a lot of episodes.”
“I’m sure. Maybe we can watch one or two episodes tonight, and the rest later.”
“Okay.” He grabs my hand, threading our fingers together. “Come on.”
He leads me down to the theater room, and I settle onto the sectional couch while he pulls up the show on the massive screen. The opening starts—bright and colorful with scenes of the ocean and the mermaid—and it’s completely at odds with the heaviness sitting in my chest.
River wraps an arm around me, pulling me against his side, and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Thank you. For suggesting this. For being here.”
I snuggle into him, letting myself have this moment even though Victoria’s words are screaming in my head. He’s warm and solid, and I can hear his heartbeat beneath my ear. For a few minutes, I try to focus on the show—on the quirky mermaid protagonist and the con-artist love interest, on the bright colors and ridiculous plot.
But it’s impossible to ignore the growing dread in my stomach.
River shifts slightly, tilting my face up toward his. His eyes are soft, searching mine for something I’m not sure I can give right now.
