“Hi, Fran,” I say, offering her a small smile. “I was thinking… maybe we could get a manicure tomorrow?”
Fran’s face lights up. “Oh, Lexi,” she says, and her entire body softens. “I would love that.”
That night, I sleep in the guest bedroom that Dad and Fran have always kept for me, despite how infrequently I visit. After changing into a T-shirt and boxer shorts, I slip into the double bed, pulling the pink quilt up to my chin and doing my best to ignore the humidity that creeps through the window despite the eternally running AC.
When I close my eyes, Dad’s words echo in my head.It’s not about achievement, it’s about comfort. Food is your love language.
And just like that, inspiration strikes.
26
TWO MONTHS LATER
DAMN IT, I’VE LOSTthe edge of the tape again. Biting my bottom lip in concentration, I slide the edge of my thumbnail beneath the sticky surface. I’m cross-legged on my bedroom floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes as I pack up the last of my mother’s clothes to give to charity.
When I first moved into my parents’ bedroom a few years ago, I took her clothes from their closet and stuffed them into my much smaller one. Back then, getting rid of her things felt like a betrayal. Like I was letting her go. But now, the timing feels right. I find the edge and lift the sticky film, then use it to close another box.
In the end, I kept three things: her wedding dress, her treasured leather briefcase, and her favorite blue sweater, the one she wore on repeat toward the end, when she was skin and bones, and almost always cold. I run my thumb over the cotton, pilled from so many washes, and press it to my nose. Time has erased any lingering trace of her smell, but the familiar fabric is still comforting.
As much as Jake’s words hurt, I couldn’t ignore the kernel of truth buried within them. I have unintentionally made theapartment a shrine to my lost family. It’s time to let go of the life I once had and make a home of my own.
So, with Dad’s blessing, I listed the apartment. Given its amenities and prime location, it sold within a week, and I used the profits to pay off the rest of my student debts in full, with plenty left over for my next venture. In four days, I’ll be moving in with Chloe until my one-bedroom rental in Cobble Hill is ready in February.
My buzzing doorbell startles me, and Jake’s face flashes briefly through my mind. I brush the thought away. I don’t let myself think about him, not anymore.
In the days following our breakup, he called and texted every day, filling my voicemail box with messages. I deleted each one without listening and erased all the old ones, so I wouldn’t be tempted to torture myself. He didn’t give up, of course. My phone buzzed for four days straight, until finally, I blocked his number and deleted his contact info. It’s what we needed: a clean break.
Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to erase my photos of him. What we shared might be over, but I can’t pretend it never happened.
The doorbell rings again. I drop the sweater onto the bed and head down the hallway. When I pull the door open, I feel only the faintest tinge of disappointment to see a different familiar face on the other side.
“Hey, thanks for coming.” I step aside to let Mia in. Her eyes widen as they drift around the living room, which is covered floor to ceiling in moving boxes. She pauses when she spots a lone unpacked object on my bookshelf.
“What’s with the mallard?”
“Oh, that. I haven’t quite decided what to do with it yet.”
She stares at me for a long moment, then steps into the kitchen and surveys the messy countertop.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” she says. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her sound impressed.
“Yeah, I’ve been recipe testing at all hours.” I head into the kitchen and grab my notebook from the cluttered countertop. “But I think I’ve settled on at least three dishes.”
Once the sting of losing my job at Olive & Pomegranate wore off, I spent some time thinking about what I wanted to do next. Getting fired was a setback, but it didn’t have to ruin my plans entirely. I could have updated my résumé and started looking for a new restaurant job. I could have spent the next ten years pursuing my dream, working my way up the food chain until an executive chef position opened.
But the more I thought about it, the more I dreaded filling out applications. Because as hard as it was to admit to myself, Jake was right. My dreams have changed. Yes, I love cooking. But it’s never really been just about the food. It’s about taking care of people. And that’s when it all clicked into place.
A La Heart will be a gift service that allows customers to send comfort-food care packages to loved ones. During my flight home from Florida, I sketched out my preliminary business plan on a drink napkin. Selling the apartment took care of seed money for startup costs, and Chloe volunteered to help with marketing. But when Mia texted me a few days ago to say she’d quit her job at the restaurant, I knew bringing her on as my business partner was the final piece of the puzzle.
We’re starting off with three boxes: Flu Fighters, stocked with the matzah ball soup recipe I finally mastered; Comfort Food Rx, containing bite-sized portions of the Johannsson Special; and Tastes Like Home, which includes an individual portion of Southern macaroni and cheese casserole.
Mia shoves my notebook aside to set down the small blue cooler she’s been carrying. She extracts a small, square Tupperware and pops off the lid with a flourish.
“My mother’s famous empanadas,” she says, her chest puffing with pride.
I dig in with a fork, closing my eyes as my tongue rolls over a bite of savory beef and crispy dough.
“These are incredible,” I declare, and Mia beams. “Which box are you thinking? Tastes Like Home?”
