I busy myself with setting the espresso for the next order. “Nothing.”
She leans her elbows on the counter. “That is not a nothing face.”
“It’s not a face,” I mumble, cheeks heating.
She squints at me. “Mmhmm. Does this nothing have to do with your fake boyfriend—”
“Shhh.” I look around to see if no one heard that. “You can't just say that out loud.”
“Sorry, you're right.”
I go back to pouring the espresso and steaming up the milk, but I feel her eyes still on me. “Stop.”
She grins. “I didn’t say anything.”
“There is nothing weird going on,” I say quickly, finishing my latte art. “Everything is normal.”
“Interesting,” Dawn says lightly, looking down at my coffee’s. “Then why didn’t you make the order for table five to-go?”
I look down at my two cappuccino’s, which are indeed not in a to-go cup but in a regular one. I hear her snort behind me as she sees me staring at them.
I throw a napkin at her. She laughs and steps away, grabbing a tray of clean mugs.
“You’re lucky I love you,” I call after her and I go back to making theto-gocappuccino’s.
The rest of the shift passes in a haze. I ring up orders, pour lattes, hand out pastries with my best customer-service smile, laugh when I’m supposed to.
I finally get home and step inside to immediately notice the lights are off and the house is quiet. Too quiet.
Noah’s still at the other café with Dad, which normally would be a gift sent from above. Because I can just make a sandwich and a bag of chips and call it a dinner without them silently judging me. But today, it’s the worst possible thing. Because quiet means thinking.
After a quick shower, I head for the kitchen and open the fridge. I see leftovers, half a container of pasta, something questionable in foil. I sigh, my hand resting on the handle, leaning my hips against the fridge door, while I try to decide what to grab.
No, you know what?
I’m gonnacook.
Never thought I would say those words—like ever.
I pull out my phone and search for a recipe. After a minute of scrolling through impossible recipes (like, who do they think I am? Gordon Ramsey?), I find one that looks doable.
I set my phone on the counter, tie my hair back, strap an apron around my waist and start pulling ingredients out of the fridge. I just need to chop this, heat that, follow the instructions. Easy.
I smile to myself, already reaching for a pan.
What could possibly go wrong?
32
MADDY
I amnotmade for the kitchen
Apparently,everything.
The kitchen looks like a crime scene. There are dishes everywhere. On the counter. In the sink. Somehow on the living room table. My apron is streaked with sauce, the stove is making an alarming noise, and something is very clearly overcooking.
How did I even manage this?
