I’m making waffles.
This is not a drill or a metaphor. I am actually standing in my rental kitchen at seven in the morning, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt I’m pretty sure I slept in, making actual waffles from scratch because Delilah Smart is coming over for breakfast.
Delilah Smart, in my kitchen, for breakfast.
I’m not panicking. Definitely not freaking out.
The waffle iron beeps. I open it and discover that one’s a little dark. Not burned, just aggressively toasted. I’ll eat that one and she gets the good ones.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I don’t look at it. I already know who it is. Diane has called four times since I landed yesterday, and each voicemailhas been progressively more pointed. The last one included the phrase “contractual obligations” and I stopped listening after that.
The light pours through the windows, turning everything gold. The ocean is doing its thing outside with waves rolling in and gulls wheeling overhead. Brett Walker really knew what he was doing when he designed this place with its floor-to-ceiling windows and open layout that makes even my mediocre cooking look intentional.
I pour more batter into the waffle iron. This one’s going to be perfect. I can feel it.
The doorbell rings.
I jump, bump the counter, and knock over the batter bowl.
This is fine. Everything is completely fine.
By the time I get everything cleaned up and open the door, I’ve accepted that breakfast is going to be a beautiful disaster.
Delilah is standing on my porch, and the sight of her actually makes my chest hurt. She’s wearing jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, her hair down, and she’s holding a bag from Twin Waves Brewing.
“I brought coffee,” she says. “In case yours is terrible.”
“My coffee is excellent.”
“You drink it black. That’s not excellent, that’s punishment.”
She steps inside, taking in the open layout and the ocean view before her gaze lands on the mess I made.
“Did something explode in here?”
“I had a minor incident.”
“I can see that.” She’s trying not to laugh. “There’s some on the ceiling.”
I look up. She’s right. There’s batter on the ceiling.
“That’s decorative.”
She loses the battle and starts laughing, and the sound fills up the space and makes everything better.
I watch her standing here with soft light turning her hair to honey, grinning at my mess, and I think:This. I want this every day for the rest of my life.
Which is a totally normal and not at all terrifying thought to have before eight a.m.
“Something’s burning,” she says.
“What? No, nothing’s—” I spin around. Smoke is rising from the waffle iron. “That’s not burning. That’s…caramelizing.”
“It’s very black.”
“It’s well-done.”
“Levi, it’s actually on fire.”
