There she is.Wearing jeans and a cozy sweater. Hair loose. Holding a little tote bag that I’m 99% sure contains the power to bring me back to life.
She grins up at me. “Hey.”
Something in my chest unstitches at the sight of her.
“Hey,” I breathe. “You weren’t kidding.”
She kicks off her shoes and sets her bag down. “So? How’d it go?”
I look at her, at the only person who makes the weight of today feel manageable.
“Brutal,” I admit. “But I walked out. Didn’t say yes to anything. Didn’t shake his hand. Didn’t agree to pretend we’re something we’re not.”
She steps closer. “And how do you feel?”
I hesitate. “Like... I didn’t get what I wanted, but I got what I needed. I saw him. I heard the truth. And now I know.”
She nods, reaching up to brush her fingers through my hair. “I’m proud of you.”
“Even if I told him to go to hell?”
“Especially because of that.”
I grin.
“I brought provisions,” she announces, holding up a paper bag like it’s sacred treasure.
I blink. “What kind of provisions?”
She grins and walks straight into the kitchen. “Let’s see… one bottle of Glenlivet—because I figured this was atop shelfkindof meltdown. One large pizza—half roasted garlic, half your beloved pineapple. And...”
She pauses dramatically and pulls out a small bag of treats with pastel packaging.
“For Melody,” she says.
I stare at her. “You brought my cat treats.”
“I came prepared,” she says. “I Googled ‘bribing emotionally intelligent cats’ and this was highly rated.”
Melody chooses this moment to slink into the room, eyes narrowed like she already knows she’s about to be placated. Nora crouches down and holds out the bag.
“Would you like one?”
Melody sniffs, considers, then graciously accepts a treat and wanders off like a tiny furry empress. Nora beams. “We’re making progress.”
I laugh—actual, startled laughter. It feels strange in my mouth after the day I’ve had. Strange, but good.
“Seriously,” I say, stepping closer, “you didn’t have to do all this.”
She shrugs, busy unpacking the pizza. “You had a day. I figured whiskey and carbs couldn’t hurt.”
I chuckle and grab two glasses. “You want a pour?”
“Definitely. But small. If I get tipsy, I’ll start singing badly and emotionally petting your couch.”
“I’d pay to see that.”
We settle onto the couch with two slices each and a generous pour of whiskey. Melody hops up beside us, clearly angling for more treats. Nora tosses her another.
