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“I’m being stupid.” I turn away, staring at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. A corporate zombie stands in my place, all pressed suit and dead eyes. “Forget it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

I spin around. “Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you. You’ve been walking around here like a drone for months.” He steps in close, eyes hard. “You think I enjoy watching my brother die a little more each day in these meetings? And now you’re finally showing a spark of life, and you want to what? Run away?”

His words carve through me, opening old wounds I can’t see but definitely feel.

Neither of us moves. Neither of us blinks.

Finally, Elijah speaks. “Can you still cook?”

My brain stutters. “What?”

“To make it happen. The restaurant. You need to cook. So can you?”

Can I? The last time I tried… But that was different. I was drunk, grieving, angry. “I think so.”

“Prove it.” Elijah retrieves his phone. “Cook for Gemma and me. Show me you can do it, really do it, and I’ll back you completely. Whatever you need.”

What should I cook? Duck? Steak? Something simpler? “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” His eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see the brother who used to sneak tastes of my experimental sauces. “This weekend?”

That’s soon. But if I don’t do this now, I might lose my nerve. “Sunday?”

“Deal. And Brandon?”

“Yeah?”

“Make something Mom would be proud of.”

The weight of the grocery bags hits the counter with a satisfying thud. Fresh vegetables, thyme, rosemary, garlic, and premium cuts of beef that cost more than I’d admit to anyone are spread across the counter.

The screen of my phone lights up.

Naomi: Are we still on for later?

Brandon: My place.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Naomi: See you there.

When I cooked for Naomi, it was different. Pancakes could be misshapen. Wraps could be messy. She made imperfection beautiful just by existing in my kitchen.

I can do this. “Sunday will be perfect.”

My cutting board finds its home in the center of the counter. Clean, seasoned wood. None of that plastic shit that dulls blades. Mom taught me that.

“Everything has its place.” I arrange the ingredients in stations.

Vegetables on the left: carrots, celery, onions. Herbs in small bowls: thyme sprigs, whole garlic cloves, fresh rosemary. And the beef rests at room temperature, waiting.

I roll up my sleeves and wash my hands under scalding water. The familiar sting grounds me, my fingers flexing, itching to wake from their slumber buried under months of corporate bullshit.

I retrieve my favorite knife. Eight inches of high-carbon steel that used to be an extension of my arm now sits foreign and clumsy in my palm.

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