Page 40 of When Lemons Give You Life

“Why on earth would we make them?” Nishan asks.

“Because we care.”

He rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but does as he’s told.

Scotty shuffles his feet. “I’d love to learn how.”

Behind him, Nishan catches my eye and gives a firm shake of the head—a quiet warning not to encourage him.

“No, we’ve got this,” I say. “You’ll only get in the way.” The words land with a jolt of familiarity. I’ve said them many times before, mainly to Lisa.

The flash of hurt in Scotty’s eyes is unmistakable: it’s the look of someone who’s been told they don’t matter, someone desperate to be seen but repeatedly put back in their place.

A weight presses against my chest. I shove it down.

Soon, the kitchen is abuzz with activity. Nishan peels and grates the potatoes using the food processor, then squeezes out the excess liquid. I reach for an onion, peel it in a few quick flicks. The knife fits into my hand like it was made for me; the blade barely touches the chopping board, gliding through the onion in a blur of motion. My rhythm’s automatic, a low, steady staccato that fills the room. Thin slices fall like paper, each one identical, vanishing under my fingertips.

By the time I reach for the second onion, Scotty’s gaping at me, frozen with a sponge in one hand.

Even Nishan’s stopped moving, his previous guarded expression replaced with something close to disbelief. “Where on earth did you learn to chop like that?”

I don’t look up. “It’s easy if you practice.” I whisk in eggs, grated potatoes and seasoning, and form the mixture into patties.

We work in near silence. I drop the hash browns into the deep fryer one by one, timing each turn by instinct. The oil sizzles, the scent lifts. For a moment, I forget the world outside the kitchen. The first batch turns out golden, crisp, piping hot. I drain and plate them, then start again.

We move efficiently. Bacon sizzling, eggs poaching. Nishan’s got enough rhythm not to be a total liability. Scotty lingers in the background, scrubbing trays like his life depends on it.

It isn’t joy I feel, not quite. But something close. Something like purpose. I even have time to whip up a quick hollandaise.

As the last trolley is loaded, I stumble toward the office, close the door behind me, and collapse into the chair. My pork crackling has lost a bit of her crunch, but I don’t care. She’s still mine. I unwrap, break off a piece, and take a long, glorious bite. Gelatinous, fatty, salty perfection. It coats my palate like nothing else on earth.

I close my eyes and murmur, “Mmm! Oh how I’ve missed you, my darling! Oh god, I’m never going this long without you again!”

When I open my eyes, Scotty is in the doorway.

Bugger. “How long have you been standing there?”

He grimaces. “Uh . . . long enough to see you devour the pork crackling you told us was a bad batch . . . ?” He rubs the back of his neck. “And, um . . . to hear you speaking to it?”

My cheeks flush, and I clear the frog—nay, toad—in my throat. “Well, um, turns out it wasn’t so bad after all.”

We lock eyes, but we both know I’m not fooling anyone and erupt into snorts of laughter.

“Don’t worry, my nan was a crack-ling addict too.” A grin flashes across his face.

“She’s got good taste then.”

His voice quietens. “Yeah, she used to anyway.”

“She didn’t go to the dark side and become a vegan, did she?” I say with mock horror.

He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t take. “Nah, she died last year. Cancer. She was just sixty-five.”

My heart flushes with sympathy as I picture Beau—also lost too soon. “I’m sorry. It’s a bloody horrible disease.”

He shrugs it off. “You know, when I was six, I wanted to be a famous chef . . . But now? I’d probably just make a mess of it . . .” He stares out the window.

A faint memory floats to the surface: Mum’s kitchen, Lisa’s sad young face, another pork roast. Another closed door.