Page 65 of Boots & Scars

Two days ago, a police officer had come by to take my statement about the attack—rape, I made sure to say. I didn't want to soften what had happened to me. I told the officer everything, sparing no detail. His sympathetic nods and clipped responses were a bitter reminder of how little could be done. Cooper had been livid when he found out, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his fists clenching and unclenching.

I shook my head, trying to focus on the task at hand. The past few days had been a blur of emotions, a rollercoaster of highs and lows that left me feeling dizzy and unsteady. This ham was supposed to be a small step towards normalcy, something tangible that I could control.

Stepping back from the counter, I sighed deeply.

"That's as good as it's going to get," I murmured.

I placed the brush down and stared at my handiwork, hoping it would be enough to bring some semblance of peace or joy.

I turned off the stove, feeling the heat from the burner dissipate almost immediately. The smell of burnt ham lingered in the air, mingling with the steam rising from the pot of corn. My eyes darted to the clock, ticking away relentlessly. Time seemed to slip through my fingers like sand.

Grabbing a potholder, I lifted the pot and carefully made my way to the sink. The steam billowed up, clouding my vision as I tipped the pot over, straining the corn. I noticed some kernels had stuck to the bottom, their edges charred and blackened.

"Double frick," I murmured.

I tried scraping them off with a spoon, but they crumbled into unrecognizable bits. Defeated, I transferred what was salvageable into a serving bowl and moved on to the mashed potatoes.

The bowl of potatoes sat on the counter, looking lumpy and unappetizing. I picked up the masher and went at them again, hoping to smooth out some of the chunks. My arms ached from the effort, but no matter how much I mashed, they remained stubbornly uneven.

"Come on," I whispered to myself, pressing harder. "Just cooperate."

I added a splash of milk, hoping it would help achieve a creamier consistency. Instead, it turned into a soupy mess that looked more like gruel than mashed potatoes.

"Triple frick," I repeated, louder this time.

Desperation clawed at me as I searched for something—anything—that could save this disaster of a meal. Butter? Maybe butter would help. I grabbed a stick from the fridge and hastily chopped off a chunk, dropping it into the bowl. As it melted, I mashed again with renewed vigor.

It didn’t help. The potatoes were now both lumpy and watery—a combination that was far from appetizing.

"Great," I muttered under my breath.

I stepped back from the counter, surveying my attempts at a home-cooked meal gone wrong. The ham was overcooked on one side; the corn had burnt bits mixed in, and the mashed potatoes looked like something out of a nightmare.

Tears prickled at my eyes again but I blinked them away furiously. This wasn’t just about food; it was about proving something to myself—and maybe to Cooper too—that I could contribute in some small way.

But standing there in my kitchen full of half-burnt food and lumpy potatoes, all I felt was frustration and defeat.

"Frick," I whispered one last time as I leaned against the counter, trying to figure out how to salvage this meal before Cooper arrived.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Cooper stepped inside, his nose wrinkling almost immediately.

"What's burning?" he asked, eyebrows shooting up.

I forced a smile, brushing a stray lock of hair from my eyes. "Well," I began, my voice trembling slightly. "I tried... um, I tried to make you a nice, home-cooked meal."

He crossed the room in a few long strides, peering over my shoulder to inspect the food. The ham, the corn, the sad bowl of mashed potatoes—none of it escaped his scrutiny.

"Were you planning on killing me, sweetie?" he asked, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Of course not," I replied quickly, though my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"I'll just order something," he said with a sigh, pulling out his phone. But before dialing, he gave me a long, assessing look. "You know, the ice was empty today. Just like it was yesterday."

"Oh?" I responded weakly as I dumped the potatoes into the trash.

"Look, darling," he said gently, taking the bowl from my hands and setting it aside. "We need to get you out of this house."

"If you're saying you need me to leave?—"

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