I stalk around my apartment, searching high and low for something to feed Chase. I mean, I’m a grown adult so I should have something that I can cook, right?

I dig through the cupboards, pulling random boxes of food out and setting them on the floor.

Becca, who’s come along for my cooking adventure as moral support, wrinkles her nose in disgust. “So, I think Jason and I are becoming a thing,” she says out of the blue, as I pull more boxed food out.

What the hell was I thinking, buying pasta in a box? Like I’d ever eat any of this. How many times did I go drunk shopping, anyway?

“He’s so sexy,” she continues, sighing happily. She obviously doesn’t need any encouragement to keep going. “Can you believe it – we’ve already started talking about having kids. I want two, but he wants three. You think that’d ruin my ass too much if I had three kids?” She turns around and around in the kitchen, trying to see her own ass. I roll my eyes as I start pulling canned food out. Maybe I’ll have more luck with that.

I stare down at the can in my hand. Canned potatoes? What the hell do you use canned potatoes for? Most of this doesn’t even look familiar, and I start to wonder…what if this isn’t even my food? What if I inherited it from the previous tenant, and just never opened the cupboards to find out?

That is entirely possible.

“Where would you live?” I murmur, staring at the food surrounding me, trying to recall if I’d actually bought all of this stuff. Maybe I had. The few times I remember going grocery shopping, I’d been about four margaritas to the wind, and just sure that this time, I’d learn how to cook. I’m never that stupid when I’m sober.

Except tonight, apparently. It’s amazing what hormones and gratefulness will do for a girl. Who promises a home-cooked meal as a thank-you gift, anyway? I sounded like a lead character out of a 50s sitcom.

“I don’t know,” Becca says, frowning. “We haven’t talked about that part yet. I don’t want to leave the firm, but really, what does a cowboy do in New York?”

“Huh,” I say, because that’s all the brain power I can devote to the question, as I’m busy trying to find a pan. Or a pot. Or a something to cook in, really.

“What's the difference between a pot and a pan?” I ask, searching through my cupboards for anything that resembles a cooking thingy. I’ll take just about anything at this point.

“I don’t know,” Becca says with a shrug. “Hold on, is that…boxed potatoes?” she asks, picking up the offending Betty Crocker box between forefinger and thumb. “I think they use dried powdered cheese in these things.”

“Yeah?” I ask, pulling my head back out of the cupboard to look at the box in her hand. “Huh. I don’t know. I remember that one; I bought it once when I was starving, but then it had all these directions on the back side that looked complicated, so…” I shrug.

She opens the top tentatively and then draws back in disgust. “Carla, this smells awful!” she yelps, and shoves it under my nose.

Of course.

I can’t just take her word for it, no I have to—

I start coughing hard. “Oh god,” I exclaim, “get that thing out of my face! It smells like rotten shit!”

“Rotten?” she says with a grin. “As opposed to the fresh kind?”

“Yes, exactly! Go take that outside and throw it in the dumpster. I can’t cook that for Chase. I’m a bad enough cook without starting off with rotten food.”

She shrugs and heads out the front door. Now that’s a best friend – someone who is willing to carry your rotten food to the dumpster for you.

I stick my head back in the cupboard and look around.

Oh god! I recoil in horror.

I have potatoes that are so old, they’re growing these giant white thingies out of them. I didn’t even know potatoes did that, but damn if the bag didn’t look like some kind of alien life form. Totally creeped out, I slam the cupboard shut and then sit back against the wood with a heavy sigh. The chances of me becoming Betty Crocker in the next five minutes are pretty minute, right?

So, why even try? Why not…?

I grin to myself. I had a much better plan for dinner than boxed potatoes—something I am guaranteed to be good at it.

I scramble off the floor and head to the bedroom.