Fine. I just cleaned yesterday, anyway. But you remember how small my kitchen is?
Me:
I do, and I like it.
Violet:
Why?
Me:
Because I have an excuse to stand closer to you.
I stare at the screen for a second after sending that.
Violet:
Wow, look at you being smooth.
I shake my head, smiling.
Me:
Get used to it.
Violet:
I already am.
I am really looking forward to tomorrow.
Me:
Me too.
The grocery store sits at the edge of town, the same one my mom used to drag me to when I was a kid. On Friday’s, the bakery would give out free cookies to kids, and I always picked the biggest one on the tray like it was some kind of personal victory.
I grab a basket and walk into the produce section, scanning the shelves as I begin to build a plan in my head. Nothing too complicated. I don’t want to spend the whole night stressed about timing dishes or burning something.
Pasta. Garlic butter shrimp. A simple salad. And maybe something sweet.
Fresh basil and a couple of tomatoes drop into the basket.
Cooking had always been something I enjoyed. Back in LA, it had been one of the few things that forced me to slow down after long days on set or in endless meetings.
You can’t rush a good meal. You have to focus on it.
The thought of me cooking for Violet tonight makes me smile like an idiot standing in the middle of the produce aisle. Lemons next, then garlic, and a bottle of wine before heading toward the checkout.
If someone had told me two months ago that I’d be standing in a small town grocery store planning a dinner date with Violet Hartwell, I’d probably have laughed. I would never have thought that this would be my life. But I couldn’t be happier. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time I get back to my parents’ house, the kitchen counters are covered in grocery bags. My mom walks in just as I am unpacking everything.
She pauses in the doorway and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of food.”
“Yeah, I am going out tomorrow, but I’m cooking! I wanted to get everything today, so I wouldn’t be rushing tomorrow,” I say, putting the food away.
“Who are you cooking for?” Mom asks, and she smirks. I know she already knows the answer; she always told me that moms know everything.
