Page 35 of The Rebel with Broken Strings
“Different how?” Gunner asked, leaning casually yet somewhat uncertainly against the counter. He felt both weighted with missing his grandpa but also comforted, knowing he would be proud of the man Gunner was today.
Aubrey offered a tentative smile and explained, “Me cooking for you. I want to make a family recipe—my grandmother’s robust beef stew. It’s comforting, filled with memories…but also messy, like all our stories.”
“That sounds just right, I suppose.” He stepped closer. “I’m all ears…and taste buds.”
“Perfect, because you’re officially my sous-chef today,” she declared.
Gunner rolled up his sleeves. “Alright, let me help,” he said, both resolved and hesitant.
As Aubrey rummaged through a grocery bag, she mused, “Every ingredient here carries a bit of history.”
Gunner chuckled softly, lifting a crisp carrot. “Really now? Tell me about this one,” he probed, his tone edged with both humor and a hint of sorrow.
Aubrey returned his smile with warmth as she began slicing an onion with practiced ease. “Carrots were my grandmother’s favorite. She used to insist they sharpened her vision—even though her glasses were as thick as a whiskey bottle.”
“Nice,” Gunner teased while slowly peeling the carrot, each movement deliberate.
“She truly was the best,” Aubrey replied, her eyes dancing with playful mischief.
“Now, the celery,” she said, snapping a stalk in half with a fond sigh. “My mom used to say that life needs a bit of crunch—a reminder that we’re more than just fleeting moments.”
“One wise woman,” Gunner agreed softly as he accepted the celery with a gentle smile. When their fingers brushed briefly as he took the knife from her, it was a fleeting contact charged with things he could never name.
“Well, like most things about her, yes—even if, sometimes, I hate admitting that to her,” she quipped.
With all the ingredients prepped, their focus shifted to the stove. Gunner watched as Aubrey ignited the burner—a sharp click followed by a warm whoosh that seemed to pull at both his heart and stomach. The pan absorbed the heat, its glow painting a delicate blush across her cheeks as if hinting at the inner conflicts neither of them could fully speak of.
“Here we go,” she announced, sliding the onions into sizzling oil.
“That smells like heaven,” Gunner murmured, stepping closer to inhale the aroma.
“Just wait until you smell the garlic,” she teased, tossing in the minced cloves. The aroma deepened—rich and earthy, bold yet somber.
His eyes followed her graceful hands as she added the bright carrots, beef and crisp celery, the vibrant hues clashing with the dark of the pan.
“Do you ever miss it?” he asked, watching her as she worked. “The chaos, the hustle of running a restaurant?”
Aubrey paused, the knife hovering midair for a breathless moment. She didn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t miss the pace,” she finally replied, her voice brittle. “I miss what happens when all the pieces snap together. When a dish becomes more than the sum of its parts. That creation—” A low, wry laugh escaped her lips. “It’s like magic, you know? I miss being the magician.”
He shifted his weight against the doorframe, a slow smile creeping onto his face at her words. “You’re still a magician, darlin’. Just a different kind of spell now.”
Her snort surprised him and made him grin wider as she turned to face him fully, her eyes blazing with an unguarded intensity that caught him off guard. “You have no idea,” she shot back, though he could sense that edge had softened just slightly between them. He noticed her hands tremble just enough as she tossed the last of the beef into the pot and felt an ache in his chest at how her lips hovered on an almost-smile.
“It’s not just the food,” she blurted suddenly before catching herself, embarrassment flickering across her features. “It’s the people. In Atlanta, everyone was always hungry for something—sometimes actual food, sometimes… I dunno. A taste of something bigger. Life was so bright there, so loud. Moving here felt like going deaf.”
Gunner cocked his head. “Seems to me you still got plenty to say,” he murmured softly.
“Maybe I do,” she said finally; there was newfound steadiness in her voice now as if some invisible weight had lifted slightly from her shoulders. “Maybe I just needed someone to remember who I used to be and to feel like that person again.”
His response came out almost reverently: “I remember, Aubrey. Even if you try to forget.”
He shouldn’t have been surprised by how those words made her freeze—but they did nonetheless. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Thanks. I’ll get there again, finding that path in my career that truly fulfills me. It just takes time.”
Gunner absorbed her confession in silence, the tension in the kitchen mingling with unspoken questions. Soon, the gentle hum of the sizzling stew was interrupted by his careful query: “Mind if I ask something more personal?”
“Of course,” she replied, though her tone wavered slightly.
“Tell me, what about your dad?” he inquired, setting his knife aside.
