"Three years I planned events for people who couldn't remember my name at the holiday party. Organized a gala that raised two million dollars. You know what my bonus was? A gift card. To a restaurant I don't even like."
Something loosens in my chest. Not at the story. At the way she tells it. No self pity. No bitterness. Just a woman who looked at the shape of her life, didn't like what she saw, and left.
"So you quit."
"Sold my apartment. Packed my car. My mama cried. My best friend Tasha said I was having a breakdown. Maybe she's right." A shrug. "But it's the first time in ten years I've eaten anything without checking my email first. So if this is a breakdown, at least the food's better."
We eat standing up. Rain pounding the windows. Duke migrating from the fireplace to the kitchen, positioning himself next to her left leg. She feeds him a piece of cheese when she thinks I'm not looking.
"He's on a strict diet."
"He's on a strict diet of sadness and loneliness. One piece of cheddar won't kill him."
The storm gets worse as time passes. She sits on the couch with Duke's head in her lap. The fire pops. Wind howls against the windows. She pulls the Rilke book off the shelf, flips through warped pages with careful fingers.
"You read poetry."
"Sometimes."
"My grandmother used to read Maya Angelou out loud on her porch. Every Sunday. Didn't matter if anybody was listening." She runs her thumb across a page. "Said poetry was the only honest conversation a person could have with God."
Quiet. The fire. The storm. Duke's breathing.
"She's the one who taught me to cook. Stood me on a step stool in her kitchen when I was five. Said every woman needs to know how to feed herself so she never has to stay somewhere just because somebody else holds the groceries."
A laugh escapes me. Small. Surprising. Feels unfamiliar in my mouth.
Jada looks up. Those brown eyes go wide. "Did you just laugh?"
"No."
"You did. You laughed. That was a laugh."
"It was a cough."
"That was a full on laugh. An actual laugh came out of your face." She's grinning now. Full wattage. The kind that could power a small town. "Your grandmother and mine would've gotten along."
Something dangerous is happening. Something I haven't felt since before the collapse, before the lawsuits, before I stopped being a person and became a cautionary tale. This woman is sitting on my couch in a storm, talking about grandmothers and gift cards and poetry, and the empty cabin feels full. Not crowded. Full.
"My grandmother made terrible pie." Don't know why I say it. "Crust like cardboard. My grandfather ate it every Sunday for forty years. Never said a word."
"That's love."
"That's insanity."
"Same thing." She scratches behind Duke's ear. "My mama says love is just insanity with better PR."
Another laugh. Can't stop this one either. She beams at me and the tightness in my chest cracks. Just a fracture. A hairline. But enough to feel the air come through.
"You should smile more."
"Don't push it."
"Too late." She pulls the blanket around her shoulders. Duke groans and repositions. "I push everything. Ask anyone who's met me. Tasha says I could start a conversation with a fire hydrant."
"I believe it."
We sit for another hour. She talks about the road trip. A diner in Missoula where she ate the best pie of her life. A motel in Cranbrook where the shower ran cold for twenty minutes before turning scalding with nothing in between. A gas station in Fernie where the attendant's dog wore a bandana and she spent fifteen minutes photographing it.
