So even though I’m her literal boss, and should damn well order her around as I please, I decide to be a little bit smarter going forward. A little bit gentler.
Happy wife, happy life. Or whatever the fuck the boss/nanny equivalent might be.
I realize I’m still holding her hands in mine. So I drop them like it’s nothing, and I start getting ingredients out from the fridge.
“Jonah and I usually eat dinner around six,” I tell her. “That work for you?”
“Sure. No problem.”
As I take the steaks out to rest and start chopping the potatoes to go alongside them, Sadie cleans up the dishes they used for baking.
There’s golden evening light streaming through the windows. My son is playing outside. And I’m in the kitchen with Sadie, doing the ordinary, domestic stuff I’ve been craving for so long. Not alone, but together with her.
Fuck the stage lights. Fuck the spotlight.
This is real life. The sunset, the evening summer breeze, a well-used kitchen. This is how I grew up. This is what I wanted for myself, for my son, before everything got all fucked up.
At least I’ve got things on the right track again.
Sadie's humming something under her breath at the sink. I don't think she knows she's doing it.
I’d fucking kill for her to be humming one of my songs.
After drizzling olive oil, salt and pepper on the potatoes, I put the baking sheet in the oven. And that’s when I notice Sadie taking a box out of the freezer and reading the instructions on that back.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“My dinner,” she says absently. “What wattage is your microwave?”
“What, you don’t like steak? Are you a vegetarian or something?”
She blinks up at me. “What are you talking about?”
I gesture at the meal I’m in the middle of cooking. “I told you, I’ve got dinner covered.”
“I see that. Don’t worry, I’ll eat in my room so you and Jonah can have your time together.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Sadie. Jesus. You’re eating with us.”
A long pause. “I am?”
“What is this, Cinderella? You think I’m gonna have you sweeping ashes and eating gruel alone in your room while my son and I dine on steak at the family table?”
She clutches the box. “This is turkey chili. Not gruel.”
“Looks like fucking gruel to me. You’re eating a real meal at a real table.”
She rolls her eyes, but puts the meal back in the freezer. “So bossy.”
“I amliterallyyour boss now.”
It’s a stark reminder, said aloud that way.
And it clicks in my head, just like that.
Because it’s all too easy to treat Sadie the way she treats me, like just one person to another. Like no matter the difference in age or money or status, we’re both simply human.
And maybe that’s what it was, when we first met.
