It's stupid, probably. Childish. But it's what my mom used to make me when I was sick as a kid. Thick slices of bread, butter melted into every corner, cinnamon and sugar mixed just right so it caramelizes under the broiler.
I pull out the bread. It’s locally made, picked it up at the market earlier this week. The butter sizzles as it melts into the bread. The smell of cinnamon fills the cabin. For a moment, I'm eight years old again, sitting at the kitchen table while Mom fusses over me.
I hear movement behind me and turn to see Piper emerging from the bathroom, wrapped in one of my flannels, her hair damp and curling. She looks better. Color back in her cheeks. Eyes clearer.
She looks at me, then at the stove, and something soft crosses her face.
“What are you making?”
“Cinnamon toast.” I turn back to flip the bread. “My mom's recipe. Used to make it whenever I didn't feel good.”
“That's sweet.”
I shrug, playing it off. “It's just toast.”
“It's not just toast.”
She settles at the kitchen table, and I feel her eyes on me as I work. It feels... right. Natural. Like this is something we've done a thousand times before.
I'm plating the toast when I hear the scratch of pencil on paper.
I turn, and there she is. The sketchbook open in front of her. Pencil moving across the page in quick, confident strokes. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth in concentration.
She's drawing.
I want to move closer, to see, but I don't want to break whatever spell has taken hold of her. So I just stand there, toast forgotten, watching her work.
The pencil flies across the page. She's completely absorbed, lost in it. This is what she looks like when she's doing what she loves. This is who she's supposed to be.
Not some marketing robot in a job that's “fine.”
This. Creating. Alive.
Finally, she sets down the pencil and sits back, studying her work. Her eyes find mine across the kitchen.
“Done?” I ask.
“For now.”
I cross to her, setting the plate of toast on the table. “Can I see?”
She hesitates, then turns the sketchbook around.
And I stop breathing.
It's me. From behind, shirtless, standing at the stove. She caught the curve of my spine, the tension in my shoulders, the way the light from the stove catches on my skin.
“Holy shit,” I say. “This is…”
“It's just a quick sketch.”
“It's incredible.” I look up at her, shaking my head. “And you clearly don't have a concussion if you can draw like that.”
She laughs, and the sound wraps around my heart and squeezes.
“Eat,” I say, pushing the plate toward her.
She takes a bite, and I watch her eyes close in pleasure. “Oh my God.”
