I keep my voice low and gentle, careful not to spook her. “Hey.”
She stops just past the doorway, gaze flicking over the kitchen island, the containers, bags, and pans.
“Wow…” she says quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s Bianca.” I gesture to the island. “Come sit.”
She hesitates for a beat, then moves, padding across the floor. She climbs onto the stool like her body is tired.
I slide a plate toward her first, then another to the side for me.
Elsa watches my hands as I open containers.
I peel back the foil pan and the rich, smoky smell hits me—braised short ribs, dark and glossy in a reduction of some kind, the kind of thing that takes hours to make, which means she must’ve started working on it before we were even out of New York.
I pop open a deli container with bright green rapini sautéed with garlic and oil, red pepper flakes clinging to the leaves. There are roasted potatoes, crisp at the edges, rosemary, and sea salt. And a simple arugula salad with shaved parmesan and lemon dressing in a little jar.
The bread is still warm in the paper bag—two crusty rolls and a slab of focaccia wrapped in waxpaper.
“Again, wow,” Elsa murmurs, and I hear the faint awe under the exhaustion. “That’s… a lot.”
“Bianca doesn’t do ‘a little,’” I say as I start opening lids. “She does… this.”
I scoop a portion of the short ribs onto her plate, smaller than what Bianca would insist on, and I add potatoes and a little pile of rapini. Then I make my own plate—significantly more meat and potatoes, a massive scoop of rapini. A big slab of focaccia, and I spoon the salad right on top of it.
Elsa’s gaze flicks to the size difference and, for the first time since we got here, something almost normal crosses her face. A faint, disbelieving huff.
“What?” I ask, reaching for the dressing.
She shakes her head once. “Where do you put it?”
“Should I be insulted or flattered?” I put some focaccia on her plate.
“Both,” she says, and the corner of her mouth lifts.
Good. There she is. Even after all of this.
I pour water into two glasses and set one in front of her. “Eat.”
Her brows lift. “Bossy.”
“Persistent,” I correct, then nod at her plate. “Try the rapini with the meat. Trust me.”
She hesitates, then forks up a bite—rapini, potato, a shred of the short rib. She chews slowly.
Her shoulders drop by a fraction.
“That’s…” she starts, then her voice goes quiet. “Perfect.”
I take a bite of my own. The rich, familiar taste hits me. She’s right. It’s perfect right now. Just what we needed.
Elsa swallows, then takes another bite, bigger this time, less hesitant.
I keep eating too, because I know she will if I do. Because if I sit there watching her chew like she’s a patient, she’ll hate it. She needs normal. We both do.
A few minutes pass with nothing but the clink of fork against plate.
She sets her fork down and looks up at me.
