Cooking in someone else’s kitchen always feels a little like trespassing. Mamá would disagree. She’d say feeding someone is how you tell them they matter when you don’t have the words yet. She’s been saying that since I was sixteen and burning rice on her stove, trying to help after Papá‘s first surgery.
The coffee maker sputters its last drops into the pot, and I pour two mugs—one black for me, one with the honey I found inher cabinet. Small details. The kind you pay attention to when you’ve been in love with someone for years.
The eggs are almost done, scrambled, with a little shredded pepper jack cheese. The toast is toasting. The bacon and sausages wait on a plate. Her kitchen might be small, but she keeps it well-stocked.
I hear movement down the hall. Soft footsteps. A pause.
Then Sadie appears in the doorway wearing an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts. Her hair tangles into a messy knot on top of her head. She stops when she sees me, eyes widening slightly.
“You’re still here,” she says.
“I told you I was staying the night.” I gesture to the counter. “Coffee’s ready. Breakfast in a minute.”
She crosses to the counter slowly, like she’s not quite sure this is real. When I hand her the mug, our fingers brush. It’s such a brief moment, but I feel it—that spark of awareness that’s always there between us, whether she wants to acknowledge it or not.
“You’re still hereandyou made breakfast,“ she says softly, wrapping both hands around the mug.
“You need to eat something.”
“Mateo—“
I point to the table. She rolls her eyes lightheartedly and sits.
“I also called some people,” I say, plating the eggs before she can argue about me being here or taking care of her or whatever protest is forming on her lips. “Macy, Isabel, and Dean. They’re meeting us at the shop in an hour to help clean up the paint.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “What? No. I don’t want to bring others into this. It’s not their fight.”
I set two plates on the small table and sit down across from her. “My father had a saying—’Todos necesitamos que alguien nos cuide.’”
She smiles. “You know my Spanish isn’t very good. What does it mean?”
“‘Everyone needs someone to take care of them.’ You shouldn’t have to face this alone. And you shouldn’t have to clean it alone either. Let your friends help.”
For a moment, she just stares at me. Then her eyes start to shine with tears she’s too stubborn to let fall.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I nod. “Eat. Then we’ll go deal with the mess.”
We don’t talk much while we eat. She picks at her eggs, drinks her coffee, and I can see her mind working, most likely running through everything she needs to do and face, and everything that could go wrong.
When she stands to get ready, I clear the plates and rinse them in the sink.
Within a half hour, she’s back in the kitchen, now dressed in jeans and a Wildflower Books t-shirt. Her hair is damp from a quick shower, she’s put on minimal makeup, and she’s still holding her coffee mug like a lifeline.
“It’s now or never,” she says, taking a sip. “I don’t suppose you have a time machine. Or maybe one of those flashy pen things from that alien movie that erases memories. That would be amazing right now. If you could just forge one up out of thin air.”
“Fresh out of memory-erasing alien tech,” I say. “Best I can do is a really sturdy fireplace poker. Though I’m not sure how that helps.”
“Well, it’s a start.” She laughs, short and surprised, but real. “I’m sure Judith would smite me if I tried poking her with one, though.”
“Fuckin’ Judith,” I mutter, still watching her over the rim of my coffee mug, “But just remember, if I erased everyone’s memories, they’d forget how incredible you are, and we can’t have that.”
Her cheeks flush slightly. She takes another sip of coffee and doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Let’s go,” she says quietly, setting her mug down.
I rest my hand on her lower back as we move toward the door. When we step out onto the small landing, I reach for her hand. Her fingers curl around mine—hesitant at first, then holding on like she needs the anchor.
