“Nah, I spend too much time away from home. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Since I don’t have a home, this is the understatement of the year.
She nods. “Makes sense. Do you travel a lot to teach people like me to cook?”
“Something like that.”
Again, she looks suspicious.
I try to lean casually on the counter. If my mind thinks I’m casual, maybe I’ll stop acting like a tool. But my elbow slips and hits the cutting board. Garlic flies in all directions. A piece even hits her on the chin. Jesus, what is happening to me?
“Everything’s good!” I announce. “Normal kitchen noises! Nothing weird happening at all!”
She wipes her face. “Not for nothing, Jason, but you seem to be clumsier in the kitchen than I am.”
Think fast!“Uh… it’s all a test to see if you can handle yourself if the unexpected happens. Ten out of ten, by the way.”
“Isn’t there a way to do that without destroying my kitchen? You could use a water pistol or bang on pots or something.” She laughs.
I wasn’t wrong when I said she’s a ten out of ten. She handles herself beautifully. Unlike me. If I’m going to survive even five minutes of this charade, I’m going to need help.
Possibly divine intervention.
But for now, I clear my throat and pray she doesn’t notice the fact that I am sweating like a criminal.
“All right,” I say brightly. Too brightly. “Back to cooking.”
“Jason, you’re a good dog, but you’re being a little distracting today. Can you lie down and let me finish this? I’ll give you a huge treat when I’m done.” She reaches out to scratch Jason.
Fuck. I drop to all fours, shift, and let out the fakest little whine.
“Aww,” she coos, rubbing my wolf ears. “You really are tired today. I might be overworking you.”
I pad out the kitchen like I’m listening to her, then shift back instantly and sneak back beside her before she turns.
We get back to cooking, and now that I’m on two legs, I notice she has some things labeled in her kitchen but not everything. I saw on one of the videos I watched that a braille labeling machine can be very helpful. And I overheard the note on the phone to get one. I’m worried about how she will take the advice. I don’t want her to feel like I don’t think she’s capable of figuring this stuff out for herself, but I go ahead anyway.
“You know, it would make your life a bit easier if everything was labeled in your kitchen. That way you wouldn’t mistake a tin of dog food for a tin of tomatoes.”
She laughs, and the sound floats through the kitchen on the breeze from the open window. “Don’t think that hasn’t happened before.”
Laughing with her is so damn easy.
“I had a labeling machine, but I misplaced it in the move.”
“It’s amazing how easily that can happen.”
“Right?” She grins. Today has been a good day for her. Violet smiles a lot, but it feels like she’s smiling more today. Maybe it’s because she had such a tough night last night.
“Do you have any family nearby?”
I hate asking her questions I already know the answers to. It feels worse than playing the dog, more manipulative somehow. Like I’m choosing the lie instead of wearing it.
But I want to hear her say it. I want to know what she gives me that she never gives anyone else.
“Just Meemaw. She and my late papaw took me in after my father ran away with someone barely old enough to consent, and my mother chose her bad habits over being a good mother.”
She turns a deep, mortified red.
