Page 63 of Unhinged Love

Her eyebrow shoots up. “Really.”

“Really.”

“You. Making dinner.”

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“You know what? I’m not even going to waste any time arguing about it. I would much rather see you in action.”

She’s trying and failing to hide her glee as we leave her room so she can follow me down the stairs and out into the kitchen. Our bare feet slap against the floor before she drags a chair away from the island and takes a seat, wrapping her legs around the chair legs and propping her chin in her hands.

“You don’t need to make it seem like you’re sitting down to watch a show.” When she doesn’t even twitch, I add, “Should I pop some popcorn? Really give you the full experience?”

“You know what? No, because I don’t want to ruin my appetite for whatever wonderful thing you’re about to cook.”

I told myself I wanted her to open up to me, didn’t I? That I would do anything to make her forgive and forget. I guess I can’t be too pissed that she’s feeling playful now. “Is it just like being a chef on your own show?” she asks while I look through the fridge.

“Yeah, except the audience won’t shut the hell up.”

There’s some shredded cheddar in here. Milk, eggs. I pull all of that out before going to the pantry for a box of macaroni. “What about macaroni and cheese?”

“You mean actual mac and cheese? Not the kind with the powdered sauce? Don’t get me wrong,” she adds. “I love that stuff. But there’s, like, actual cheese on the counter.”

“It’s very easy to make from scratch, actually. This is really my mom’s recipe.”

Funny how easily that came out of my mouth. She’s not somebody I talk about ever, not if I can help it. “Trust me. If it was difficult, she wouldn’t have made it.”

She doesn’t say a word while I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. “Is there anything I can help you with?” she asks in a soft voice.

“No—I mean, if we had blocks of cheese, I would ask you to grate them, but the pre-shredded stuff will be fine. Just don’t report me to any food influencers or whatever. I’d be crucified.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” I glance her way, and she grins. “You don’t talk about your mom. I’ve been curious, but I figured you wouldn’t appreciate me asking.”

She’s not wrong. I kind of wish I’d never started this in the first place. But we’ve already shared a lot, even if I’m not sure that’s always a good thing. It can feel good to share. If anything, it takes more energy to avoid shit than to talk about it.

“There’s really not that much to say. She left when I was a kid.” I can only offer a half-hearted shrug. “She was always more interested in herself than she was in me or Dad.”

It’s only when she winces that it hits me. I could be describing her mom. She doesn’t say anything, though, only lowering her gaze and chewing her lip.

“I don’t think she ever wanted to be a mom,” I muse, going to the stove again to dump macaroni in the boiling water and stir it around. Once that’s done, I measure out my milk and add a couple of eggs before beating them together.

“Where is she now?” she asks.

“I don’t have a clue. But she probably did me a favor,” I conclude, and there’s no bitterness behind it. No anger. It’s the simple truth. “I’m probably better off. Dad did a pretty good job, or at least the best he could.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right about that. I mean, not like I knew her or anything, but I know how it feels to have a mom who probably should never have been a mom in the first place.”

The water starts to boil over, and I give it a stir. If anything, it’s a way to avoid her sad gaze. “Do you think that’s true? Really?”

“Oh, come on. We both know it is. I’m not looking for sympathy,” she’s quick to add before I can even think it. “But you see how she is. You know, the night in the pool, the night I told you about?” I look her way, nodding. “She pretty much brushed it off. I went home in tears and told her about it. I was shaking, I was crying, I even threw up.”

A whole range of emotions wash over her face, and all of them make me sad for her and pissed as fuck at Irene. Like I needed more reason to be. “She told me I was being dramatic.”

People say shit like this all the time, but I mean it. “I’m really sorry that happened to you.”

She looks appreciative when she smiles. “Thanks.”

It’s time to drain the pasta, which I do at the sink before tossing butter into the hot pan so it will melt. “She’s pretty hard on you, isn’t she?”

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