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Istep out of the elevator and get hit by a million different smells that I can’t properly describe: some pleasant and some not so much.

I rush down my hallway, excited to spend Thanksgiving with my Lettie. Did Scarlett cancel her plans to stay with me this weekend? That has to mean something, right? Look at me turning into a teenage girl over this woman.

I twist the doorknob, walk through the door, and head straight to the kitchen. There are pots, pans, open jars, and food everywhere, but no Scarlett.

There’s a slight haze in the air, and a harsh, burnt smell touches my senses.

What happened?

“Lettie?” I call out.

“Down here.” Her voice is soft, coming from the other side of my kitchen counter. I round the corner and find her sitting on the floor next to my oven with a large roasting pan in her lap. The pan is filled with crisp, black something.

Is that the turkey?

It’s barely recognizable if so.

My eyes drift up to her big, puffy eyes. Tears have dried onto her bright red face, but her eyes don’t meet mine.

“Hey, Lettie baby.” My voice is soft. “What’s wrong?”

Her shoulders are slumped, and her face is grim. “I’m sorry! I ruined everything!”

I squat down in front of her and lean in to wrap her in my arms, but she flinches and throws both hands in front of her face to use as a shield.

I stumble back and fall on my ass, ensuring my body isn’t close to hers.

She creates slits in her hands so she can peek through to watch me. When nothing happens, her stiff body relaxes, and she drops her hands into her lap.

I’m floored.

“D-did you think I was going to hit you?” My voice strains.

“No!” she rushes out—too quick. She bows her head and then lets out a massive sigh.

Her eyes are elsewhere, but my eyes are glued to her.

“It’s just…” She pauses for a moment, then murmurs, “It’s just a reflex.”

“Fuck,” I say under my breath. A heavy lump forms in my throat as my chest constricts. “Who did this to you?” I growl.

Her eyes widen at my statement, and, shit, I don’t want to make this situation worse.

I unclench my jaw that is suddenly tight and unball my fists that somehow formed.

I pause to catch my breath before clarifying. “So a reflex,” I state, feeling stupid. “This situation has happened before?”

Her head bobs down, just barely, but that’s enough confirmation for me.

I’m slow with my response, grasping to find the right words. Not wanting to mess this up.

“It’s just that I’ve screwed up dinner before.” Her voice is quiet and drained. “Often, really. I was a terrible cook when I was younger. Still am, apparently. I just—”

“Tried your best.” I cut her off before she completes that sentence.

“I ruined dinner, though,” she sighs.

“You didn’t ruin anything.” My voice is soft yet firm. “Why don’t I clean up here, and then I’ll meet you on the couch, and we can talk?”