“I’m not at the house.”
“Good. Did you sleep?”
I look down into the coffee that tastes worse with every sip. “Define sleep.”
“Kara.”
“I closed my eyes a couple of times.”
“That is not sleeping.”
“It felt ambitious at the time.”
Her sigh crackles through the speaker, full of worry and familiarity. Vanessa can make a sigh feel like an entire lecturewhen she wants to. She has been doing it since culinary school, back when we both thought the worst disaster possible was a broken hollandaise during practical exams.
“Did you look at the rental?” she asks.
I glance at my laptop, still open on the desk with the Sunbreak Harbor listing. Seems I left it on the webpage, hoping it might be the hidden answer I need to this mess.
“I looked.”
“And?”
“And it’s beautiful.”
“That sounded like a complaint.”
“No, not a complaint. It’s just … I don’t know. It feels dramatic to run away to a beach house because somebody broke in.”
The silence on her end is brief but pointed.
“Somebody broke into your home, disabled your security system, stole one of your chef knives, and dug through your private photographs,” she says carefully. “Leaving for two weeks while your house is repaired is not dramatic. It is sane.”
I close my eyes because she’s right.
“I have meetings,” I say, though the protest feels weaker than it did last night. “I have brand calls, the cookbook review, and filming notes to approve.”
“You have a laptop, Wi-Fi, and an entire team that can survive without seeing your face in person for a few days.”
“They’ll panic.”
“They will adjust.”
“My publicist won’t love it.”
“Your publicist can spin anything. That’s why you pay her.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. “You are bossy before seven in the morning.”
“I become bossier when people I love are being stubborn and sleep-deprived.”
People I love. The words make my throat tighten, which is ridiculous because Vanessa says things like that all the time. She is warm in ways I have never learned how to be. She loves loudly, feeds aggressively, and worries without apology, as if taking care of people is the only way she knows how to keep them close.
I stare out at the pale light gathering over the city.
“I don’t want to be afraid of my own house,” I admit.
Her voice softens immediately. “I know.”
