“It was alright.” I shrug. “Lots of nonsense stuff.”
“Well, that’s good. Better than high-stress situations, right?”
“Yeah,” I agree and bring the spoon to my lips. It’s a stew of some kind. Brown gravy, carrots, potatoes, beef. It smells good, and when I taste it, I’m very thankful that it is also edible.
“This is good, sweetheart.”
“Good. It’s Campbell’s. Nothing crazy.” She smirks, sipping on the broth.
I smile, but inside, there’s a little tug of…man, I grew up spoiled.
Mom never bought canned soup a day in her life. Everything was homemade—soups simmering all day, breads rising on the counter, pies cooling on the windowsill. Comfort wasn’t a can you popped open, it was something she baked into the house.
I don’t mind Campbell’s—not at all—but part of me already imagines a future where Megan’s filling our kitchen with the same kind of smells I grew up on.
She breaks my thoughts with a soft, “You sure your day was okay?”
I glance up. Her eyes meet mine—blue, light, and bright, so full of life it makes my chest ache a little.
“Yeah. Promise.” I go back to my bowl, my gaze catching on the floral placemat beneath it. Pink roses again. Of course.
“Are you excited to marry me?” she asks, tilting her head, eyelashes batting playfully.
“All I’ve been thinking about, babe,” I say, grinning. “You?”
“Same.” She blushes, that small, shy smile tugging at her lips.
We talk through the last-minute things we need to finish tomorrow—packing, rehearsal stuff, the rings—silverware gently clinking between sentences. We circle back to the dinner, something about meal planning when we get back from the honeymoon.
“You know, my mom makes a good beef stew. I bet she’d give you the recipe. It’s one of my favorites.”
Megan nods as she reaches for her drink. We finish eating the last few bites and she stands to clean the table before I do, grabbing the pot. I gather our bowls and trail her into the kitchen.
When I glance at her again, her shoulders are tight, jaw set.
“You okay?” I ask.
She hesitates, her eyes darting away.
“Megan?”
She sighs. “You said something I didn’t appreciate.”
My chest grows heavy, heart sinking fast, my mind spinning over what I could have possibly said to hurt her feelings. “What did I say?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just keeps her hands busy at the sink, water running hot, steam curling between us. And all I can do is stand here, bracing myself, because I hate knowing I upset her and not knowing how.
She finally shuts the faucet off, the silence louder than the running water ever was. Her fingers fidget with the dish towel.
“When you brought up your mom’s stew,” she says quietly. “It just makes me feel like I’ll never measure up.”
My chest clenches and I step closer. “Babe…”
She shakes her head fast, not looking at me. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid if it hurt you.”
“I’m fine.” She hangs the towel over the sink, wipes her palms down the sides of her jeans. “Really. Forget I said anything.”
