Three months after the warehouse
Genevieve is standing in my kitchen in nothing but my T-shirt and a pair of socks that don’t match, and she’s yelling at a pot of rice.
“Don’t you dare,” she says, pointing a wooden spoon at it. “Don’t youdarego gummy on me. I will throw you out. I will start over. I’ve done it before and Iwilldo it again.”
The rice does not respond.
Cavall, who’s sitting at her feet with Virgil clamped in his mouth, tilts his head like he’s genuinely invested in the outcome.
I lean against the doorframe and watch, because this is the best part of my day, and I’m not about to interrupt it.
She’s been teaching me to cook. That’s what she calls it, anyway. What it actually looks like is Genevieve moving through the kitchen like a conductor, narrating every step inreal time while I stand next to her and try to absorb information that my brain immediately files underthings I will never be as good at as she is. Last week, she taught me how to make a proper roux. I burned it twice. She didn’t even flinch. Just scraped the pan, handed me a clean one, and said, “Again, Champ.”
I’ve never had someone be patient with me like that. Not about something that doesn’t involve violence.
“You’re staring again,” she says without turning around. “I can feel it.”
“You’re pretty to stare at. And I’mthinking.”
“About?”
“How you talk to food like it can hear you.”
“It can. Rice is sentient, Lance. If you don’t respect it, it punishes you.” She turns, and the hem of my shirt rides up past her thighs, and my train of thought derails spectacularly. “Also, our coffee maker’s broken.”
“It’s not broken. You just don’t like how it tastes.”
“Because it makes terrible coffee. You’ve been drinking terrible coffee for years, and you didn’t even know.”
“I knew. I just didn’t care.”
“That’s worse.” She turns back to the stove, adjusting the heat. “I live here now, so my standards apply. I ordered us a new one. French press. It arrives Thursday.”
She says it casually, like it’s nothing, but every time she uses the wordusorweorourin the context of this cabin, something unlocks inside me that I didn’t know was still bolted.
Her moving back in wasn’t a conversation or a plan. She just stopped leaving. Her toothbrush appeared next to mine. Her books colonized the shelf by the fireplace. Her coat tookpermanent residence on the hook by the door, and her shampoo invaded the shower, and one morning I opened the fridge and found it organized by protein, produce, and dairy, and I knew she’d annexed the territory.
Cavall was the first to surrender. He sleeps atherfeet now, not mine. Virgil has migrated to her side of the bed. The betrayal is absolute, but I’m not even mad about it.
“Come here,” I say.
“I’m busy. The rice—”
“The rice is fine.”
“The rice is temperamental and requires supervision.”
“Half-Pint.”
She turns, spoon still raised like a weapon, and I cross the kitchen in three steps and take it from her hand and set it on the counter. She opens her mouth to protest, and I cover it with mine. She melts. It’s my favorite thing about kissing her—the way the fight goes out of her body and she softens against me, her hands finding my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. I back her against the counter and she makes a sound against my mouth that I feel in my spine.
“The rice,” she murmurs between kisses.
“Turn it off.”
“It needs three more minutes.”
“I’ll take three minutes.”
