I shake my head, grinning down at my Cobb salad. I’ve never seen anyone enjoy food the way this woman enjoys french fries. Aaron tried nearly a dozen times to recreate them at home, but Abby was never satisfied.
“The grease is too fresh,” she would say defiantly. “I want them to taste like they’ve been cooked in a fryer that hasn’t been cleaned since 1980.”
A mix of fondness and grief stabs me in the chest, and my grin falters when I look back up.
“You okay?” Abby asks, mild concern etched on her face.
“Yeah,” I say, mustering another smile. “Just a weird piece of chicken.”
“Please don’t mention chicken,” she says, suddenly looking a pale shade of green. “Don’t mention anything other than fries, actually.”
“Has it really been that bad?”
She nods slowly, taking slow breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth.
“I can barely keep anything down,” she says, voice strained. “That’s part of why I came to find you at the station, I needed to look at something other than my toilet bowl.”
“We need to try and find something that works for you,” I say with a frown. “You can’t survive the next nine months on a diet of french fries.”
“If you can find something that I can stomach, by all means,” she sighs. “I feel like I’ve tried everything.”
I’ll see if Granny has any tricks.
Making a mental note to stop by her house later, I settle up our tab and take Abby home with the largest to-go order of fries this world has ever seen.
***
A few hours later, I knock on the door, casserole in hand.
“Jack,” Abby says, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Miss me already? Has it even been five hours?”
“I was worried about you,” I mutter gruffly. “I talked to Granny. She made this.”
I stick out the casserole dish, holding it directly in front of her face until she takes it.
“What is it?” she asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I told you I can’t keep anything down right now.”
“I know,” I say, “But Granny said she made this at least once a week when she was pregnant with my dad. Said it was the only thing she could consistently rely on.”
She takes the dish from me, walking it back to the kitchen. I follow behind her, taking a seat at the small dining table. She lifts the corner and sniffs it nervously.
“You know what?” she muses. “It’s not bad. It might even be good. What’s in it?”
“I don’t really know,” I shrug. “I’m not good at that stuff. All I know is I told Granny that chicken was off limits.”
She turns to face me, eyes full of tears.
Shit.
“Wait, what’s wrong?” I say, jumping to my feet. “Is that bad?”
“No,” she sniffs. “It’s nice. That you remembered.”
“We only talked about it a few hours ago, it’s not like I had a ton of time to forget it,” I mumble. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a big deal to me,” she says, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “It makes me feel less alone, somehow.”
“You’re not alone,” I murmur, pulling her into a hug. “I’m right here. We’re all here for you.”
