The timer on the oven beeped as soon as I closed the front door behind me. I heard Janelle in the kitchen moving around and the clang of pots and pans. My stomach rumbled, something smelling good. A smile immediately took over my face as I made my way through the living room. This was the first time I’d come home to actual food—not that country fried steak in the microwave isn’t real food, but I could tell just by the aroma that this wasn’t bought on a frozen food aisle. I made it to the edge of the kitchen when I heard her curse beneath her breath.

“Something smells good.” It may have been the same line I recited every day when I walked through the front door, but I really meant it this time. I moved to stand behind her, and with a hand on her hip, I lifted the lid on the stockpot and peered inside from over her shoulder. “What’s for dinner?”

“Christine called this morning and gave me detailed instructions on how to make this recipe. She swore up and down that it was foolproof, and there’s no way I could mess it up.” It was obvious she was extremely irritated by the melodramatic way she spoke, overly enunciating her words, and for some unknown reason, saying them in a lower octave as if mimicking a man. But Christine wasn’t a man, which only meant one thing—Janelle had long ago passed frustration and had moved toward downright furious. “But apparently, it is possible to mess it up…because I did. No matter how long I cook the rice, it’s still hard and there’s still water on the bottom.”

She proceeded to elbow me out of the way in order to pull the chicken out from the oven.

After setting it on an empty burner, she tossed the oven mitt aside and huffed. “And the chicken doesn’t look right. I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t still be clucking.”

I tried not to laugh, I really did, but I couldn’t hold it in. The way she pouted was not only adorable, but hysterical, as well. Once I got it all out, and she finished slapping me for the last time, I glanced over the food she lovingly attempted to cook me. And it dawned on me. Really hit me like a two-ton truck…

Janelle Brewer cooked for me.

And if salmonella wasn’t a real threat, I would’ve eaten it just like that. However, I didn’t care to spend the night in the bathroom due to food poisoning, so I held onto her shoulder, my fingers extending to the back of her neck to keep her attention, and said, “It’s not a total loss. The chicken just needs to be cooked a bit longer.”

“I set it to three fifty and put it in there for as long as she told me to. I even moved the rack to the middle like she said. I did everything she told me to do. Foolproof, my ass.”

I was rather certain I knew what the problem was, but I worried I would insult her if I were wrong. Still, I didn’t care and asked her anyway. “Did you wait until the oven had preheated, or did you just stick it in there as soon as you set the temp?”

“I never preheat ovens and haven’t had a problem yet.”

“You mean…when you heat up frozen dinners that are technically pre-cooked?” I honestly hadn’t meant it as an insult, but the way she stood in front of me, eyes blinking rapidly, no words coming out, I knew she was more than likely contemplating the quickest escape route. “You know what? Let’s just stick this chicken back in the oven, and we’ll make a new pot of rice.”

“It’s pointless. I’ll throw this out, and we can order pizza or something.”

“Why can’t we just stick the chicken back in the oven and start a new pot of rice?”

“Because you’re probably hungry. Not to mention, it’s very obvious I don’t know how to cook. Like, at all.” She shoved the paper with the recipe on it in my face. “I’m pretty sure an illiterate chimpanzee could’ve followed these directions better.”

I set the handwritten recipe down, choosing to ignore the obvious reason the rice didn’t cook—she used a sixteen-quart stockpot for two cups of rice with a lid that didn’t fit properly. Instead, I held her face in my hands and attempted to calm her down. However, I didn’t actually think about the words before I said them. “Can you not cook? Is that why you’ve been feeding me Marie Callender’s for the last month?”

She gave me the death glare and tried to shove me away.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I’m not at all making fun of you—I swear. Hell, the only reason I know how to cook is because Matt moved out, and I had to learn. It was either that or starve. Well, I guess I did have the option of takeout, but I didn’t see the point in throwing money away. What kind of accountant would that make me?”

At least she stopped pushing me away. Her lips split into a wide grin, and it seemed as though her giggles refused to relent. “Dude…I’ve been feeding you Stouffer’s for weeks. Did you think I was just lazy and didn’t want to fix dinner or something?”

Her lips were mere inches away. Her body so close I could easily touch her. Realizing just how dangerous that was, I stepped away to give us space. I grabbed the pot off the stove and dumped the rice down the drain before setting it aside. “Honestly? I thought you were trying to prove a point. Kind of like you’ve done with everything else.”

“I will admit, at first, I fed you sandwiches to spite you. You made me feel like hired help, someone who’s at your beck and call for all the womanly duties of the house. You’d leave behind a list of things you wanted me to pick up at the grocery store without so much as a ‘could you please grab these things if you go out?’ And then you said you wanted dinner every night when you came home, like I’m technically your wife so I am expected to provide you these things. Your chauvinism bothered me. Pissed me off to the point that I sought revenge. I didn’t want to feel like that was all I was worth.”

“I thought we—”

“We did, Holden. That’s why I said at first. Then we called a truce, and after that, I can honestly say I gave dinner a genuine attempt. When you mentioned wanting to eat together, I figured you meant real food. Like…not macaroni and cheese from a box. I assumed that was your way of asking for real meals. Except I can’t cook real food, so the only option I had was frozen crap from a box—which you were never supposed to know about.”

Measuring water for the rice, I stood at the sink and asked, “Did you think I was under the impression you cooked all that? Yourself? From scratch? You do know I’ve eaten food before, right?”

She elbowed me before grabbing the stockpot from the counter. And rather than explain to her why we couldn’t use it, I moved around her and pulled a smaller pot from the cabinet and continued with the rice, knowing she was watching me and hopefully taking notes while we finished our conversation.

“Well…maybe not from scratch, but yeah. I thought it was good enough to fool you. I mean, I used the oven. There were a few things I made on the stove, and I opened some cans. Not to mention, I stored them in the freezer in the garage and threw the boxes away outside. How could you have possibly known?”

“Even if I couldn’t taste the difference between food someone prepared from scratch versus something that had been previously frozen and bought at a store? Janelle, I came home several times before you had a chance to move them from the cardboard they came in into a real dish.”

“Whatever. I put a decent effort into those meals. I can’t help it still sucked.”

I placed the lid on top of the rice to simmer and set the timer before turning my attention back to Janelle. With my hands on her face, I silently took her in. I admired her exotic and intoxicating beauty, how effortless it seemed to be for her. Even without all the paint on her face, she was…perfect.

“And I appreciated every single one of them,” I whispered, not having a clue as to where my voice had gone. Just then, we were interrupted by the obnoxious buzzing sound from her phone vibrating on the countertop next to us.

We both glanced over, probably reading his name at the same time. Never had two syllables bothered me the way those two did.

I stepped back, as if she had ignited into flames and burned me, while she lunged for her phone. It didn’t matter how fast she grabbed it, because the damage had been done. In fact, I didn’t even care if she ignored it or answered it.

My stomach had soured, and I couldn’t stop my mind from racing. Aside from randomly mentioning the money she’d get for marrying this asshat, we hadn’t spoken about him. She hadn’t brought him up or even said his name aloud. I had no reason to believe she wasn’t in contact with him, but for whatever reason, I had convinced myself she wasn’t. Which proved to have been a horrible idea, considering the truth could be crippling.

I excused myself from the kitchen, went to my room, and closed the door behind me to change clothes. It didn’t take me that entire time to put on something more comfortable to eat in, but I didn’t come out until I heard the timer on the oven go off. I refused to risk hearing her converse with him. I didn’t even want to acknowledge there had been a conversation I’d ignored.

When I made it back to Janelle, we both fell into place, moving silently around the kitchen as though this was our regular, nightly routine. I grabbed the pan of chicken from the oven just as Janelle reached around to turn off the burner on the stove. She got the dishes, I pulled out the silverware, and as if we were some well-oiled machine who’d done this for the last fifty years, we helped our plates and then made our way to the table.

I cut a piece of chicken, scooped up some rice on the fork, and much like every other night, hummed as soon as the food touched my tongue. “This is amazing, Janelle,” I mumbled between bites, like I did with every meal, after every first mouthful I took.

Normally, she’d smile and take all the credit for whatever meal she’d transferred from the freezer to the table, but this time, she didn’t. Rather than say anything, she sat there, fork in hand, food untouched on the plate in front of her, and stared across the table at me. Just stared. With a grin lazily tugging on her lips, and my heart beating with so much gusto I could hear it echo in my ears.

“Everything all right?” I asked with caution, worried about her reaction.

“Yeah. Everything’s great.”

“You’re kinda making me worried with the way you’re staring at me instead of eating. Like maybe your fork is going to haphazardly land in my chest instead of your chicken.”

“You clearly know how to cook. Not just crap, either, but real food. Good food. You can do it without a cookbook or recipe, and you don’t have to stand in the kitchen to make sure you don’t mess it up. So how come every night when you eat the shit I’ve fed you, you tell me how good it is? You and I both know it’s not amazing like you claim.”

Slowly, I set my fork down on the side of the plate and used a napkin to wipe my mouth. “I’ve never had anyone cook me dinner…not like this. I mean, I used to eat at your house when I was younger, but your mom didn’t cook specifically for me, she fixed food for everyone. And my mom…well, she worked a lot. So when she wasn’t home, the delivery guy fed me, and when she was home, we ate reheated takeout.”

The infectious grin fell from her expression, and her eyes turned soft with concern.

“Don’t feel bad for me. Most kids used to beg their parents for pizza or fast food. Me? I got that shit shoved in my direction without even asking for it. I was in heaven. In case you’ve forgotten, I wasn’t some sad, lonely child. I wasn’t neglected. I had your family, and got to enjoy plenty of meals around a bunch of people sitting at the same table every week.”

“Yeah…I don’t think my mom ever had food delivered to the house. And if we had fast food, she was probably sick and couldn’t cook—although…” She tapped her chin and stared above my head. “There was at least one child at home who was old enough to make dinner if she couldn’t.”

“You’ll never hear me complain. That woman fed me some of the best meals of my life. I used to tell Matt I needed to find a woman who knew how to make the same stuff your mom did, because I’d marry her and never let her go.” I laughed beneath my breath and shook my head. “He told me she made up every recipe, and they were secret, that she would never tell anyone how to make them. So I said I’d marry her and be his stepdaddy, and he’d have to call me Father Dearest.”

We both shared a laugh, followed by brief silence while we took bites of our food. “Who cooked for you in college when you lived with Matt?”

I winked and said, “Take a wild guess.”

She pondered it for a moment before her lips tightened with mirth. “My mom?”

“Yup. She used to bring us pre-prepped meals for the week. All we had to do was heat them up.”

“Oh my God, you two were so spoiled.”

“I wasn’t complaining.” I shrugged while chewing another bite. “But all that changed when Matt started to date Christine. Your mom said it was time to grow up—I’m pretty sure those were her exact words when we went over there to collect our weekly meals, and she handed us each brand-new frying pans. Somehow, Matt convinced Christine to come over and she took over duties as head chef for at least a few nights out of the week. Then they got married and moved out, and I had to finally learn to do something for myself.”

“Well, it’s amazing. The food, I mean. This food.” She snickered before shoving a forkful of rice into her mouth, and then swallowed it down with some water. “But at least we know one thing…our marriage was doomed from the start. You want a wife who can cook like my mom, and it’s evident I can’t make anything that doesn’t come out of a box with microwave instructions.”

“Janelle…” I waited until I had her full attention, and then said, “Regardless, if it was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or Hamburger Helper, I appreciate the time you spent to make it for me. So believe me when I tell you it’s amazing.”

She fluttered her eyes and went back to her plate.

She didn’t believe me, but she didn’t have to.

We joked while we finished eating, but she seemed quieter than normal. Part of me wondered if it had to do with her phone call, but I wasn’t about to ask. I didn’t care to know anything pertaining to that prick. Granted, I didn’t want her to stay quiet, but if it was between that or listening to her talk about the loser, I’d take her silence in a heartbeat. I figured if it got too bad, I’d give her a book and ask her to read it out loud—maybe a cookbook, but only if she didn’t find that offensive.

Though, while washing the dishes, I realized something was wrong. When I asked her about it, she just said she was tired, but I knew it had to have been more than that. Her eyes were distant and she appeared worn out, exhausted. So I sent her to bed and finished cleaning the kitchen.

That night, I realized how lonely the house was without her. Even though we didn’t always spend the evenings together, at least we were both home bustling around. Sometimes we watched TV, while other times, I watched it and she played on her phone—or vice versa. There had even been a couple nights we weren’t in the same room, but I could hear her from across the house, and I was sure she could hear me, both of us knowing the other was within reach.

But this night, it was silent.

Eerily so.

I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like with her gone.

Forever.

And I didn’t like how that made me feel.