Back at the house, I pull up my Amazon Music account and listen to some of my favorite albums as I cook. Bones supervises from the kitchen floor, no doubt waiting for me to drop something. He slants his head hopefully any time I even glance in his direction. I toss him a few pieces of chicken once it’s cooled.
For never having a dog before, I’m quickly falling in love with Bones’ company. Maybe I’ll get a dog when I find my own place again—something small, though, so it won’t threaten to knock me over like Bones does.
By the time I’m done, the entire house smells incredible. I set the oven to warm for the lababdar, then wash the dishes and wipe the counter. I lift the cake to cool above the fridge, remembering what Fletcher said about Bones eating the biscuits.
The last thing I want to do is make their dog sick from eating chocolate cake.
My heart is light when I’m finally done. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed this. I used to cook all the time, but now it takes too much out of me. I’m leaning heavily against the counter for support, my shoulders sagging—but I did it.
This is more than I’ve been capable of doing in… probably over a year. I might pay for it later, but hey. If it makes Fletcher smile, it’ll be worth it.
My guitar catches my attention. I’d brought it up to the house thinking I’d have time to play it while the cake baked, but that didn’t happen.
Grabbing it, I sit on the couch and pull my feet up, plucking the chords to some of my favorite melodies. The sound calms me instantly—always has.
The pain will come back, and the fatigue. They always do, coming in waves. But today, at least, I feel like myself, and that’s saying something.
I only planned to stay in the house for a little while—long enough to find the energy to walk across the yard. So when the front door swings open, I startle. I didn’t realize it’s time for Georgie to be home already.
Footsteps echo between bursts of laughter and joyful conversation in the hidden foyer around the corner.
“Wait. What’s that smell?” an unfamiliar female voice says. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”
“You’re right, it does.”
A moment later, Georgie comes around the corner, followed by another teenage girl with long blond hair. They both have their noses in the air, sniffing.
Georgie grins instantly when she sees me. “Oh, hey, Vince. Did you cook something?”
I swallow hard. I should’ve gone back to my room. “Yeah, I made dinner for tonight.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
I sit back, my guitar still in my hands. “Your dad’s done a lot for me, so I wanted to do something back.”
She squints. “Okay, but like—this smells amazing. Like spicy amazing.”
The other girl snickers. “Hopefully you didn’t make it too spicy, ’cause Georgie’s dad is a wuss with heat.”
I chuckle. “I’ve kind of figured that out. I went light.”
Georgie sets her backpack down in the middle of the floor and plops down near me, looking at the guitar. “I didn’t know you played.”
“I have since I was a kid.”
“What kind of music do you play? Like, do you know any songs?”
“I know several of them.”
“Can you show me?”
Her dark eyes are full of hope and curiosity, making it impossible to say no.
I strum one of my favorites, fingers dancing across the strings as best I can through the tingles.
“Wow. You’re really good,” the other teen says.
The compliment lands awkwardly in my chest. I haven’t played for anyone in a long time since my fingers don’t do what they used to—they can’t. Sometimes they don’t feel the chords at all, so I miss notes or have slower transitions. But none of that seems to matter to the teens, their awe evident in their wide smiles.
