She rests her hand on my side, fingers curling gently. “Thank you for today. I don’t think I would’ve managed half of that without you.”
Oh, you have no idea. It’s actually the other way around.
I watched her navigate her own home, smooth, confident, muscles remembering what eyes can’t. She counts steps. Touches walls lightly. Places her phone at a specific angle so she can always find it. She didn’t stumble once.
She’s more competent than half the alphas I’ve met. And I’m supposed to be protecting her? She doesn’t realize I’m the one learning here.
She gets up, all lithe beauty and grace, and walks to her desk in front of the window. My heart aches to think that if she could still see, she could’ve sat at the desk and looked out at the beautiful view. When she settles into her chair and the tablet begins speaking in that mechanical voice, I tilt my head.
“Braille labeler. New shovel for gardening. More dog toys. Harness upgrades. Cooking books for blind chefs…”
The screen reads everything at triple speed.
I blink. So, that’s how she functions. I definitely had a lot to learn.
But for the first time in my entire life, I want to learn every single damn bit of it.
Chapter 10
Violet
If joy had a soundtrack, it would contain, among many sounds, the pop of a champagne bottle, Meemaw’s laugh, Jason’s soft grumbling whenever I say something ridiculous, and now the sound of bacon sizzling in a pan.
The champagne pop because it tells my brain, instantly and automatically, it’s time to celebrate. Before the accident, it meant birthdays, promotions, tiny victories. After the accident, it meant I’d survived something brutal and unfair and was still allowed to have good things.
Meemaw’s laugh because it’s the sound that held me together when everything else fell apart. It’s home and comfort and the kind of love that doesn’t flinch when life gets ugly.
Jason’s soft grumbles because for reasons I refuse to unpack just yet, he makes me feel seen. He reacts to me, not my blindness, and my nonsense delights him instead of exhausting him.
And bacon sizzling?
It’s warmth in sound form, a tiny reminder that good things can still sneak up on me, even after everything.
This is the first time since the accident that I’ve cooked bacon.
The popping fat and unpredictable splatter used to intimidate me. I didn’t want to risk another burn, another lesson in how fragile my body is now.
But today, I’m putting on my big-girl panties and cooking a fancy meal from a recipe I’ve never tried before.
Beef bourguignon.
I sway my hips to Ed Sheeran playing from my TV and let myself give in to the pure, undiluted optimism rising in my chest. I’m going to smash this challenge I’ve set for myself. I am.
“Step one, Jason,” I announce, doing a little twirl because why not? “Crispy bacon equals crispy confidence.”
I sing the lyrics into the spatula while the bacon pops in the pot, humming off-key like I’m auditioning forNailed It: Singing Version. Jason sits somewhere behind me, silent but here, the way only a dog can be.
I drag the spoon through the pot and smile at the sound of the fat talking back. I can feel the heat brush my wrist when I hover close enough.
Top tip: if you’re scared of bacon-splatter burns, fry the bacon in a pot, not a pan.
Thank you, @IcanSeeClearlyNow. Listening to her helpful tips has been a game changer for me.
The bacon is starting to feel crispier beneath my spatula, and I grin. “See? Already a success. Suck it, Gordon Ramsay.”
Jason lets out a low huff. He probably has no idea who Gordon Ramsay is.
Honestly? That makes him equally unlucky and lucky.
