“But—”
“Your aunt took time off. You deserve a fun day.” I squinted in Amethyst’s direction. “That is, of course, if you’re up to the challenge of being a single parent for a day.”
“Oh, hush. You do this every day. I can handle one day with my favorite kids on the planet.”
Billie climbed halfway into my lap despite being far too tall to fit comfortably anymore. “We don’t wanna leave you when you’re sick.”
I kissed the top of her head. “I’ll survive.”
Amethyst looked at me then. Behind the concern, I saw recognition. She understood this too well. Work swallowing your life. Trying desperately to make scraps of time meaningful afterward. And I knew, she’d come here because she missed her sister, and she desperately wanted to spend time with children.
She mouthedthank youwhile the kids debated logistics.
I inclined my head.
Winnie put her cool fingers against my temple. In front of everyone, the gesture felt overtly intimate.
“You need darkness, electrolytes, and silence,” she diagnosed.
CJ pointed toward her. “You should listen to the queen.”
Amethyst laughed so suddenly she snorted.
After the children left with Amethyst, the house became so quiet it almost felt wrong. There was no Billie narrating her own movements from room to room. No CJ loudly workshoppingstory ideas to unwilling audiences. No Bianca correcting everybody’s grammar. Only the faint ticking of the kitchen clock, and the soft rustle of Winnie moving around downstairs.
I slept for nearly three hours.
The migraine didn’t fully disappear, but when I woke sometime after noon, the violent edge had dulled into something manageable. The blackout curtains muted the sunlight enough that opening my eyes no longer felt like a medical emergency.
I lay there, enjoying the quiet house and cool sheets. I had no responsibilities actively screaming at me. I inhaled deeply, and the scent of garlic filled my nostrils. And butter. Oh, and was that bread?
My stomach growled.
Rolling slowly out of bed, I padded downstairs in gray sweatpants and a faded college T-shirt that should’ve been retired sometime during the Obama administration.
Warmth enveloped the kitchen when I stepped into it. Late-afternoon light filtered through the windows in gold bands. Winnie was chopping herbs, the knife moving over the wooden board with a speed I’d only ever seen from the chefs on TV. I never understood how they didn’t chop their damn fingers off.
Something about seeing her bare hands moving so deftly made my brain temporarily short-circuit.
“There’s the patient. You slept hard.”
“I think I briefly astral projected.”
Winnie giggled, and the sound sent a jolt through me. “That means the medicine worked.”
I leaned against the doorway. The kitchen smelled incredible. Something rich simmered on the stove, and fresh bread cooled under the window. Vegetables waited in neat little bowls, ready to be tossed into a pan.
Everything around Winnie always felt intentional and deeply cared for.
“You’re staring,” she said lightly.
“I’m trying to figure out how you made the house smell like an Italian grandmother lives here.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Oh, you most definitely should.” I wandered farther into the kitchen and opened one of the pots. “Can I eat this with a spoon directly over the sink?”
“No.”
