The kitchen is perfect.
It's not large, maybe twelve by ten, but it's thoughtfully laid out. White cabinets with simple hardware, butcher-block countertops that show the wear of use but are clean and well-maintained. A gas stove, an actual gas stove, not electric, with six burners and a griddle in the middle. The kind of stove that's meant for real cooking.
I open the cabinets one by one, taking inventory. Cast iron skillets, well-seasoned and cared for. A proper set of knives in a wooden block, not the cheap ones from a department store. Pots and pans in various sizes, all clean, all organized.
This is a kitchen that belongs to someone who actually cooks.
The pantry is modest but well-stocked with basics like rice, pasta, canned tomatoes, olive oil. Spices arranged alphabetically on a small shelf. Salt and pepper in ceramic grinders. A jar of honey, another of peanut butter.
I move to the refrigerator, hesitating before I open it. He said to help myself, but this feels invasive somehow. Like I'm looking through his private things.
But I'm hungry, and more than that, I want to cook. Need to cook. It's been so long since I had a real kitchen, space to work, ingredients to use. Derek always ordered in. He said it was easier, said my cooking was "fine but why bother when we can get whatever we want delivered."
Translation: another way to keep me from having purpose, from doing something I was good at.
I open the fridge.
It's not full, bachelor's fridge, clearly, but there's more than I expected. Eggs, milk, butter, cheese. Some vegetables in the crisper that look relatively fresh: bell peppers, onions, garlic. A package of chicken breasts. And in the back, surprisingly, a bag of frozen shrimp.
My mind immediately starts planning. Pasta with shrimp, maybe. Garlic, olive oil, a little butter, some of those peppers if they're still good. Simple but delicious. The kind of meal that feels like home.
A piece of paper on the fridge catches my eye. Numbers written in neat handwriting:
*Fire Dept: 555-0147*
*Hardware - Frank: 555-0892*
*Murphy: 555-0234*
Practical numbers. Emergency contacts. The kind of thing someone who lives alone keeps handy.
I look back at the shrimp, at the pasta in the pantry, at this beautiful kitchen that's begging to be used. He said to help myself to anything. He's been nothing but kind. The least I can do is make a proper meal—for Jackson, for me, and yes, for Tom when he gets home.
If he gets upset that I used his food, I'll apologize. I'll offer to replace it. But right now, I need to do this. Need to feel useful, capable, like something more than just a charity case taking up space in a stranger's home.
I start pulling out ingredients.
An hour later…
The kitchen smells like heaven.
Garlic and butter sizzle in the pan, filling the air with that rich, savory scent that makes your mouth water. I've got the pasta boiling, the shrimp cleaned and ready, the peppers diced. Classical music plays softly from my phone, Vivaldi, one of the few things Derek never complained about.
Jackson woke up twenty minutes ago and is now in the living room, making Rex walk across the couch cushions while narrating an elaborate story about dinosaurs in a jungle. His voice drifts into the kitchen, happy and animated, and my chest feels warm.
When was the last time I heard him sound like this? Not cautious, not scared, not trying to be quiet so he doesn't disturb Daddy. Just... happy.
I add the shrimp to the pan, watching them turn pink and curl. The smell intensifies: seafood and garlic and butter, a combination that never fails. I learned to cook from my mother, spending Sunday afternoons in her kitchen while she taught me how to make everything from scratch.
God, I miss her.
The thought comes unbidden. Four years since I've spoken to her. Four years since I screamed that she was a controlling bitchand stormed out of her house on Derek's arm, believing his poison about how my family didn't want the best for me.
She was right about him. She knew from the beginning. And I didn't listen.
How do you come back from that? How do you call your mother after four years and say, "You were right, I was wrong, I'm sorry"? How do you explain that you let a man isolate you so completely that you lost everyone who ever mattered?
The pasta is done. I drain it, toss it with the shrimp and garlic butter, add a squeeze of lemon from a withered lemon I found in the crisper. It's not fancy, but it looks good. Smells good.
