Page 146 of Ruined Vows

“What box might that be in?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says, flipping rapidly through the cookbook pages some more, flustered. “The one that says kitchen!”

I glance at the tower of boxes filling the little dining area off the kitchen, all of which are labeledkitchen.

After we signed the lease, a moving truck full of her stuff showed up.Allof her stuff. Apparently she’d still been “storing” a bunch of shit with her parents, and it’s now in boxes up to the ceiling in our living room, bedroom, and her office. I told her straight up my office was off-limits. Everything I owned fit in three boxes that I’ve already unpacked and put away. Last night, I built a sturdy little desk out of wood I got from the hardware store, and I’ve got a nice little office going. It’s the only room that’s got ten square feet of free space and that’s saying something in a fourteen hundred square foot house.

I heft down the top box and tear it open. Pantry items. I chuckle. Who moves their graham crackers and cereal from one house to another? Is any of this shit even still in date? I pluck a box of saltine crackers out and check. Best by 3/6/2021.

I shake my head and toss the crackers towards our most current trash bag. There’s a pile of them towards the door I need to take out to the bins before it gets dark out, and another pile of flattened boxes we’ve already worked our way through to take to the recycling center. There’s no way we’d be able to fit it all in the blue bin outside.

Frankly, I never lived in a place without dumpsters and a parking lot. This whole living-in-a-house thing is gonna take some getting used to.

I drag down another box. Then another. No pans to be found.

But there is a lot of plastic click-top Tupperware-type shit. Granted, I’ve never seen Kira cook before today, so I don’t know why she’s got all this shit for leftovers. Maybe it’s why it all looks so pristine.

“Oh wait,” Kira calls from over the U of the kitchen counter. “What’s that you just pulled out?”

I lift up one of the plastic rectangles and click off the lid.

“Perfect!” she declares.

I heft an eyebrow as I set it on the counter and slide it across to her. “Pretty sure the plastic will melt upon entry on the stove, babe.”

She rolls her eyes at me, blowing at some curls that have fallen in her face out of her hair tie. “I’m not going to put it on the stove. Who do you think I am? I haven’t lost my entire brain yet. There’s a video here that shows how you can make omelettes in the microwave.”

“Um.”

But she’s already bustling and pouring the whipped up eggs into the plastic rectangle. Then I watch on in amusement as she tears up some pepperonis—one of the few other food stuffs we have in the house in addition to frozen pizzas. Hence the extra pepperoni. Kira apparently thinks frozen pizzas never have enough, so she always buys extras to cover her pizzas so that not an ounce of cheese is left visible.

I’ve never in my life met anyone so averse to cooking a simple meal. But I guess frozen food and takeout are how she’s survived her short, adult life. They had a cook growing up, naturally.

But she got sensitive the one time I pointed this out and is now determined to learn how to cook. She uses a chopstick from last night’s takeout to stir the pepperoni into the eggs, then heads confidently over to the microwave.

“Any reason we’re having omelettes for dinner?” I’m glad she told me what she was making because I’m not sure I would’ve been able to figure it out otherwise.

I’m trying really, really hard to stifle my grin.

Her head whips my way with a glare. “Breakfast for dinner is like, athing.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Totally.”

“Plus, eggs and pepperoni were the only things in the fridge besides mayo and ketchup. We’re out of frozen pizzas.”

I nod. “Whatever sounds tasty to you.”

She’s reaching her hand up to the microwave but again she glares at me. Hard. “Are you mocking me?”

Again my hands go up. “I would never, Red.”

“Good.” She turns her head back to the microwave and starts punching in numbers. The machine whirs to life. We made sure the microwave was the one thing we kept track of so we could unpack it first thing. Did I mention the woman also lives on instant coffee? And instead of using an electric kettle, she microwaves her water?

I always thought all these little habits of living with someone else—especially a woman—would drive me nuts. Instead, I find them so fucking adorable.

And all the shit she unloaded in the bathroom. I love her making the place smell like her.

“Because I’m working really hard here to try to make this place feel like home even though Iwill never bea home-maker. God fucking forbid. But I thought it might be nice for my man to have a nice dinner to come home to and—” She stomps her foot and breaks out in tears.

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