But I stare at the closed bathroom door like it’s a line drawn in the sand, like if I look long enough, I’ll figure out some way to step over it without turning into the monster I’ve been afraid I’ll become. The water comes on. The old pipes in the wall shudder and groan. The hiss of the shower fills the apartment, a low, steady exhale, the sound intimate enough to make my throat go dry. Steam seeps under the door, slow and insistent, like a secret just begging for me to discover it.
I swallow hard and turn away.
Just let her shower. Be decent. That’s it.
Then my pocket vibrates, cutting through the haze of longing and guilt and something else I don’t have a name for yet.
My phone.
I don’t have to look to know who’s on the other end. I feel the clamp of fear around my ribs, the pressure so sharp it almost knocks the air out of me. A cold reminder of why I’m in Ironwood Falls at all. Why I picked this exact building, this exact unit, with this exact sightline to the parking lot. Why I chose to be close to the Devils’ bartender without ever letting her see the blade hidden behind my smile.
My sister’s face flashes in my mind — eyes wide, mouth trembling, trying to be brave for me even when she’s terrified; work harder; get closer; or June dies.
I clench my hand around my phone so tightly that the pressure leaves little squares in my palm. I flick the screen and don’t even need to read it: another photo, time-stamped a minute ago, of June’s hand holding today’s newspaper.
I’m not here to be decent.
I’m here to survive.
And I hate myself for what that means.
I pace into the kitchen, restless energy buzzing under my skin, and fling open the fridge like it’s going to offer me an answer. Two thick steaks stare back at me, vacuum-sealed on the top shelf. I bought them because they were cheap and because steak feels like something real and honest. Like something solid you can hold onto when everything else is breaking. It’s also fucking delicious. Broccoli, still bright, shivers in the crisper like it already knows what’s coming.
Fine.
If I’m going to do this — if I’m going to give her a reason to stay, without pushing, without cornering her into anything — then I’ll do it with food. Something simple. Something that saysI’m capable, not creepy. Something that lets me feel like I have control over at least one thing in my life, even if it’s just dinner.
I drag out the steaks, rip open the plastic with a serrated knife, and pat them dry. I work slow, deliberate, the way a man does when he’s pretending to have all the time in the world instead of the ticking clock of his sister’s life counting down somewhere far away. I line up the seasonings: kosher salt, cracked pepper, the sprinkle of steak rub I assemble from a dozen half-used jars. No delicate bullshit. I want that crust. That snap. I want something that doesn't lie about what it is, even if it’s just a meal.
Cast iron pan. Burner on high.
The pan heats, slow at first, then angry. I can feel the heat of it when I hover my hand above, the air shimmering.
The shower runs. The smell of steam and soap is obliterated by the first hiss of meat on iron — a sizzle that’s almost violent, like a shout in a quiet room. Fat renders, smoke rises, the scent punches me in the gut with something both primal and weirdly nostalgic. For a second, I see my mom — long gone, hair pulled back, sweating in the kitchen of whatever trailer we lived in that month, making the best of another night the electricity was on. She’s gone. She's gone. She never saw June and me grow up, never saw me become someone halfway decent, only to throw it all away because June is all I've got left, and now I am in a shitty apartment in a town full of ghosts, making steak for a woman I'm supposed to be using, and I know my mother would be ashamed of me. My chest tightens, and I grip the pan handle, steadying myself.
Molly’s in my apartment, naked, vulnerable, trusting me with her back turned; it’s a kind of intimacy that makes me want to be the man I’m pretending to be.
I yank open a drawer and grab a sheet pan, then toss broccoli florets onto it with a splash of oil and a rough handful of choppedherbs—rosemary, thyme, whatever the hell I’ve got. A few smashed garlic cloves. Salt. Then, because I’m not an idiot and because the smell of butter can soften even the hardest woman alive, I cut a thick slice and drop it on top.
The oven blasts heat when I shove the tray inside.
I flip the steaks with tongs, watching the crust crisp up, dark and jagged, something that would make my mom’s eyes widen in appreciation if she were here to see it. I spoon butter into the pan and throw in a couple of smashed garlic cloves. The butter foams, browns, mixes with the pepper and the meat juices. I spoon the hot fat over the steaks, basting them with a rhythm — sizzle, flip, baste — that keeps my hands busy and the rest of my brain from screaming. I don’t need a therapist to know why I love this part: the way you can take a piece of something raw and transform it with nothing but heat and time and a little bit of patience.
I should stop.
I should let her shower and leave.
But I pull two wine glasses out instead.
I pour a small amount into one glass and set the other beside it. Empty. Waiting. An offering, not a demand, because I know how she reacts to demands, and I want her close. The thought lands heavily in my chest, and it disgusts me because it’s not just the job talking.
It’s me.
The oven timer dings. I pull the broccoli out and the heat rushes at my face; the florets blistered and browned at the edges, butter melted and bubbling with garlic and herbs.
Perfect.
I plate the steaks, let them rest, and take a step back from the counter like I’m bracing for impact.
