Page 85 of How To Not Need You

“I don’t.” The admission comes easier than I expected. I continue to stir. The wooden spoon makes a soft sound against the pot. “She died when I was sixteen. Cancer. The slow kind. We had plenty of warning, which everyone seems to think makes it easier. It doesn’t.”

Jake is quiet in a way that says he’s listening and doesn’t feel the need to fill the space with reassurance.

“She was loud.” I keep stirring, choosing to focus my gaze on the pot instead of Jake’s perceptive gaze. “And funny. A terrible singer who sang anyway, all the time, usually whatever was on the radio whether she knew the words or not. This was her winter recipe. Every time the temperature dropped below whatever arbitrary number she decided was too cold, out came the goulash pot.” I smile despite myself. “I used to sit on the counter stealing pieces of capsicum while she cooked. She’d swat at my hand and then give me another piece two minutes later.”

The memory is clear. My mother at the stove, her dark hair falling into her eyes, laughing at something she’d just burned. Singing along to a Fleetwood Mac song she only knew half the lyrics to, making up the rest with complete confidence. The kitchen windows would fog up, and she would just carry on singing.

I used to tell her she was ruining the song. She told me that I would survive.

“There was always too much paprika because she refused to measure anything. Said recipes were suggestions and her hands knew better.” I glance at the jar. “Turns out I inherited that particular instinct.”

“Can confirm,” Jake says mildly. “You just added more without tasting it.”

“It needed more.”

“You sure about that?”

“Look who’s talking. Mister burnt garlic.” I tease.

Tilly, who has been tearing bread looks up. “My dad also can’t measure things. He made pancakes last week and they were very flat.”

Jake doesn’t deny this. “They were meant to be.”

“They were sad,” Tilly corrects.

The goulash simmers and I keep stirring. Jake sets the table. Tilly arranges the torn bread into a pattern that resembles, according to her, “a bread flower.” I see no flower but I choose to nod in agreement anyway.

Jake catches my wrist as I’m carrying the pot to the table. “Why tonight?”

I could deflect. I could make a joke about the weather or the fact that my apartment felt too quiet or any of the easy half-truths that have gotten me through the last six months of dating Jake Reid without fully admitting what’s happening. Six months of showing him how I feel while doing an absolutely stellar job of never actually saying it.

Instead, I shrug. And look down to the pot in my arms.

“You’re gone tomorrow. And Tilly’s going to Megan’s.” I keep my eyes on the stew. “I don’t know. I just wanted to do something before I didn’t see you both for a few days.”

Jake doesn’t tease me. Doesn’t make a joke about sentimentality or the fact that I showed up unannounced with a family recipe. He just crosses to my side of the kitchen, presses his lips to my temple, and says, “I’m glad you did.”

The kiss is warm and so sweet that I can almost feel the emotion behind it. Somehow, he manages to understand what this means without making me explain it.

Which is both considerate and deeply annoying.

Tilly ends up eating two bowls and asks, somewhere between the last spoonful and reaching for another piece of bread, “Can we have this again?”

Something catches in my chest. Again. Such a small word. Tilly says it without thinking, already reaching for the bread like there’s nothing remotely complicated about assuming I’ll be here to make it for her another time.

I go still. Just for a second. Jake notices this but wait for me to answer instead of saving me. Stupid man.

“Sure,” I say.

Tilly beams. “Next week?” Jesus. Apparently we’re scheduling it now.

“Maybe not next week.”

“The week after?”

I laugh. “We’ll negotiate later.”

She seems satisfied with that and goes back to her bread. Beneath the table, Jake’s hand finds mine. He doesn’t say anything. Just threads his fingers through mine and gives them a gentle squeeze.