Page 36 of True Colors

Jealous of that damn firefighter of hers.

Jealous of how she smiled at him.

Jealous that she goes home to someone who gets to hear her laugh.

Jealous. Period. Over Anouk Starling.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I stay annoyed at work for the rest of the day, and when I leave, I can see that both Erin and Vijay are relieved to be done with my company.

I go home and make dinner—a mushroom risotto.

Simple, but demanding enough that if I don’t pay attention, it will punish me. Which is exactly what I need. Something precise to do. Something that forces my brain to focus on the stove instead of replaying how I screwed things up with Anouk.

Again.

I grab the cutting board, slice the cremini mushrooms thin, listening to the rhythmic tap of the knife against wood alongside Tupac.

I add olive oil to the pot.

Sauté the mushrooms until they release their moisture and go golden at the edges.

The smell is warm, earthy. Comforting.

I toss in the shallots. They hiss, sputter.

“Just cook,” I mutter to myself. “Don’t think.”

I add the Arborio rice and coat it in the oil, stirring, stirring—because risotto demands the kind of attention that leaves no room for self-flagellation.

But, of course, I think about her anyway.

About the meeting.

About how sharply I spoke.

How she shrank, and how I hated myself instantly for making her shrink.

I pour in a ladle of hot broth, listening to the rice sigh as it absorbs the liquid.

Stir.

Stir.

Keep stirring.

My phone buzzes across the counter.

My mother.

I turn down the music and put on my earbuds. “Hey, Mom.”

“You sound…tired,” she says warmly. “Overworked already?”

“Define overworked,” I joke.

She laughs lightly. “Ria says you haven’t answered her texts. She’s threatening to drive up and make you cook for her.”