Page 103 of The Wild Card

We don’t look at each other.

The focaccia goes into a bowl to rise. The filets are seared and resting, the mashed potatoes keeping warm on the back burner. I start separating eggs for the soufflé, hyper-aware of Crew moving around the kitchen behind me, cleaning up, putting things away, being helpful in a way that makes my heart hurt.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“Sure.”

“Why cooking?”

I pause, chocolate in hand. “What do you mean?”

“Why is this your thing? The cookbooks, the recipes, all of it. Why cooking specifically?”

It’s a real question. Not small talk, not surface level. He actually wants to know.

“My grandmother,” I say, resuming my stirring. “She taught me. Every Sunday, I’d go to her house and we’d cook together—whatever she felt like making that day. Could be anything. Tamales, pot roast, homemade pasta. She said cooking was how you showed people you loved them.”

“That’s where the cookbook idea comes from. Cooking for your person.”

“Yeah.” I smile, remembering. “She used to say anyone can say ‘I love you,’ but not everyone can make you a meal that tastes like home. Food is love you can hold in your hands.”

Crew is quiet for a moment. “She sounds wonderful.”

“She was. She passed a few years ago. Cancer.” I blink back the unexpected sting of tears. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m—”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I just miss her sometimes. Especially when I’m cooking. It feels like she’s still here, you know? Like I’m carrying on something that matters.”

He moves closer. Not touching, but near. Present.

“What about you?” I ask, desperate to shift the focus. “What’s your thing? What do you love?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. “I don’t… I’m not sure I have a thing.”

“Everyone has a thing.”

“I have routines. Procedures. That’s not the same as loving something.”

“What about before? When you were a kid, what did you want to be?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I didn’t really get to think about that,” he finally says. “When you’re bouncing between homes, you don’t dream about the future. You just try to survive the present.”

My heart cracks a little. “Crew…”

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.” He picks up a dish towel and folds it with unnecessary precision. “I think that’s why I like structure so much. When everything around you is chaos, you create your own order. Your own safety.”

“That makes sense.”

“It also makes me—” He stops and shakes his head.

“Makes you what?”

“Difficult. To be around. To be with.” He sets down the towel. “I know I’m not easy, Emmie. I know the way I am is… a lot. The checking, the counting, the needing everything to be just so. Most people can’t handle it.”

“You’re not that hard to be around. You’re just… particular. There’s nothing wrong with knowing what you need.”