“That was intentional,” I decide. “For aroma.”
Jason snorts.
“Quiet, you,” I laugh. “I’m romanticizing my mistakes.”
I follow the heat to the pot, then reach for the spoon. My elbow taps something, and there’s a clatter of metal hitting metal.
Then white-hot pain lances across the heel of my hand as my skin brushes the oven’s rim. “Shit and fucking damn it!”
I jerk back, shaking the sting out. My pulse flares in my wrists, in my throat, but I breathe. I regroup. I always regroup.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Then I smell the smoke.
Just a whisper of it at first, that acrid tickle curling into my nose, the barely-there warmth gathering high in the room.
“Don’t,” I whisper, as if smoke follows verbal instructions. Then the whisper thickens and grows until it becomes something real. My stomach drops.
And the universe, always dramatic, decides to punctuate the moment.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
The smoke alarm shrieks so loud, my bones vibrate. I flinch, jerking back, and my shoulder slams into the cupboard behind me.
“No, no—shh!” I shout up at the ceiling, waving the towel like a deranged bird. I can’t see the smoke, but I can feel it: the warmth rising, the heaviness of the air, the metallic taste settling on my tongue. I cough, eyes watering, fanning blindly until my arm aches. The pot lid rattles. Somewhere Jason’s claws click nervously on the tile.
I’m moving too fast, grabbing too high, too low, searching for knobs and lids and switches like they’re all strangers.
Finally, mercifully, the heat cuts off. A draft from the window chases some of the smell away. I rush over and throw the window open wider.
The alarm chokes out one last offended beep and dies. Merciful silence. And everything inside me collapses.
I slide down the cabinet until my ass hits the cold tile. My legs fold in. My breath shudders out, small and broken.
“I try so hard,” I whisper.
The words taste like defeat.
Jason moves. I feel him before I hear him, a warm weight settling beside me, pressing close. Like he’s bracing me from tipping over.
“I just want to do normal things,” I breathe. My throat burns. “Just cook dinner. Just follow a recipe. Just… function. And I hate that it’s so hard now. I hate that I have to think about every inch of this kitchen. Every step. Every sound.”
My voice shakes. I can’t stop it.
“I hate that I can’t just look and know what went wrong. I hate that I have to pretend I’m fine because if I don’t pretend, I’ll fall apart and never stop.”
My fingers find his fur. I grip it, trying to keep myself tethered. Jason presses his forehead against my shoulder, and the warmth of it nearly undoes me completely.
“I know I’ll get there,” I whisper. “I know I will. I know it takes time. And adapting. And customizing everything. And building the systems that make life livable. But, God?—”
A sob slips through.
“I am so tired of acting like I’m not drowning some days.”
