“I was going to barbecue burgers tonight, but the storm changes that. We can fry them on the gas stove. Plus the pantry is always stocked with staples. Canned soup, canned veggies, crackers.”
“Burgers are fine. Maybe with some soup.”
I nod and open the pantry, pull out two cans of tomato, and find a pot. I find the can opener, open the cans, pour them into the pot, and add water. Gas flame again, the only steady light besides the lantern. We move around each other without bumping.
“Tomato soup is best with grilled cheese,” Tabitha says.
“There might be some sliced cheese in the freezer. I can look.”
She shakes her head. “Burgers are fine. Are there buns?”
I nod. “In the freezer.”
She scans the kitchen. “You know what? Just the soup is fine for me. For now. I don’t need a burger.”
I nod. Because even though I could eat a burger, I just want whatever Tabitha wants in this moment.
When the soup is warm, we sit at the counter with our mugs of tea. She takes a spoon of soup, blows on it, brings it to her lips.
And I’m jealous of a damned spoon.
The soup is decent, though nothing like my mom’s homemade tomato bisque. I crush a few saltines into mine and take another bite.
“So…how’s the seminar?” I ask.
She blinks a moment. “It’s good. I have good days and bad days. Some days the TA says how great I am, and others he looks at me like I’ve got two heads. It’s weird. Like one day this past week, I couldn’t seem to make my hands remember what they know. Sometimes I feel like my body doesn’t belong to me.”
God, do I understand that sentiment. “It does,” is all I say.
I want to say you’re worth it and I’d burn the world for you and all the other unhelpful truths.
I say nothing.
Rain hits the windows harder. A branch scrapes the siding. It sounds similar to fingernails on a chalkboard, and I cringe. In the pause after, the house lets out a settling groan.
“Then why does it betray me?”
“Bodies do that.” I look at my hands. A scar I earned as a kid. Another from last year. Not to mention the one on my head. “They’re human. They break. They heal. They remind us.”
God, I sound like Aunt Melanie.
“Of what?” Tabitha asks.
“That we can’t think our way out of being alive.”
Again, Aunt Melanie seems to be channeling herself through me.
Silence again, but softer this time. But it also makes me wonder. Why isn’t Tabitha asking about the accident? About my recovery?
Does she truly not care?
But then?—
Her gaze cuts to mine. Heat ripples between us, real as the blue flame from the stove. But she looks away quickly.
The wind chooses that moment to haul off and hit the house sideways. Somewhere outside a tree cracks. We both jerk. A second later, the sound lands. The heavy thud of something big giving up and going down.
Which reminds me, of course, of Ralph Normandy going down.
