Enya swallowed hard. “I miss you, too.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with all the things she wasn’t able to say out loud.
I’m scared.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay.
What if I can’t come back from this?
But her mom, ever the pragmatist, was the one to break it. “You got onions for that meatloaf?”
Enya sniffed, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “Yeah.”
“Good. Don’t skimp on the salt when you sweat ’em down, and make sure you let the meatloaf rest before you cut it, or it’ll fall apart. Your daddy never could wait the full ten minutes.”
Enya laughed. “I remember you stabbing him with the fork by accident one time.”
“I did, didn’t I? He was madder than a rooster with hens and next week’s eggs to protect.” Mirth warmed her mom’s voice. “Now go on. Make those boys a meal they won’t forget.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hung up and set the phone down, her fingers lingering on the screen for a second longer than necessary. Then she squared her shoulders, grabbed the onion, and got to work.
As the kitchen filled with the sharp, sweet scent of caramelizing onions, the rhythm of it came back to her like muscle memory. She dumped the beef into the bowl, added the eggs, the breadcrumbs, the ketchup, and then hesitated over the Wash Your Sister sauce.
A glug.
She tilted the bottle.
One.
Two.
Three.
There. That feels right.
She added the cooled onions. Her hands moved on their own as she mixed everything together, her fingers digging into the meat, kneading it like she was working dough. It was messy andjust as much fun as she’d remembered it to be. She shaped the loaf, patting it into place in the baking dish, then slid it into the preheated oven. The timer beeped as she set it for fifty minutes.
The potatoes were next. She peeled them at the sink, the skin curling away in long, thin strips, the water running cold over her fingers. Her mom had always made her do this part when she was little.
‘Keep the peels thin, Enya. Waste not, want not.’
By the time she had the potatoes boiling and the greens washed and trimmed, the kitchen was a symphony of sounds and smells from the bubbling water, the timer ticking down, and the rich scent of meat browning in the oven. She leaned against the counter, her arms crossed, and let herself breathe.
The timer on the oven beeped, startling her.Fifty minutes already?She pulled on an oven mitt and cracked the door open, the heat rolling out in a wave. The meatloaf was golden brown, the edges just crisp enough, the glaze caramelized in places. She pulled it out, setting it on the stovetop to rest, just like her mom had told her.Let it sit, baby. Patience.
She drained the potatoes, the steam billowing up around her, then dumped them back into the pot. Butter, milk, and a pinch of salt. The masher made quick work of them, the potatoes breaking down into creamy, fluffy piles. She tasted a bite, decided they needed a little more salt, adjusted, then tasted again. “Yum.” Perfectly rich and smooth enough to make her close her eyes and sigh.
A groan from behind her made her jump, and the wooden spoon she’d been using on the potatoes went flying.
“Christ.”
Her eyes widened as Rowan ducked to avoid the flying potato bomb, but didn’t quite make it, and it hit his chest, leaving a smear of mashed potato on his shirt. “Shit, I’m sorry.” She grabbed a dishtowel and raced across the room to try and wipe the mess off Rowan’s shirt. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for—” She stopped in front of him, rag in hand.
Rowan blinked. His gaze flicked from the smear of potatoes, then to her, a grin spreading across his face. “You threw mashed potatoes at me.”
“Very funny.” She rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
