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“I say if you were going to end up in jail you’d be there already. From what you’ve told me, that young lady has a good head on her shoulders and can string a couple sentences together. If she’d wanted to go to the cops, she would’ve by now. I’m not saying she shouldn’t, I’m just saying you’d know. What you’re doing is using that remote possibility as an energy suck and letting it dominate your thinking because you’re scared to death of how you feel about her.”
Buck took a long draw from his juice.
“If you were any other numb-nuts than my own son, I’d tell you to sleep on it. But I’ve been watching you for the past two weeks, and you’re a train wreck. It’s not the guilt. Don’t waste your time wondering if it’s that. You’re over the moon for this woman. You’ve split every chunk of wood not holding up this house, and I’m afraid to leave you alone with Mom’s rocking chair.”
Two weeks and two days.Grant thought it best to keep his mouth shut.
“You’re in love with her,” Buck continued. “The question you should be asking is what to do about it. How to repair this shitty situation you find yourself in. And I’m going to tell you the answer that’s going to work every time, in every situation, no matter what, so listen up.”
Buck punctuated this wisdom with more juice.
“You call her. You ask her if she wants to talk about it. You tell her you want to hear what she has to say, and then you shut the hell up and listen.” Sip. “You listen until she’s done. You pay attention, so that when she’s done, you can ask her pertinent questions about her experience. You don’t tell her how to get over it, not unless you never want to see her again. After you two have talked about her experience, then—and only then—do you bring up your experience.” Sip. “You apologize for where you messed up, you tell her you’ve learned from those mistakes, and you fess up to how you feel.” Buck drained his glass. “That’s the formula. You make it through that equation enough times over the next fifty years, you might achieve partial enlightenment. But don’t count on it. You’re still a numb-nuts.”
~
“This man of yours,” her mother had said. But was he really hers? Did he really want her? And did Melinda really want him? He’d sent her a freaking love letter. What did she want, a sky-writer?
What’s wrong with modern men?she grumbled into her cabbage. She was in her kitchen again, pounding the beginnings of sauerkraut with a sturdy wooden pestle in an earthenware crock. Inspiration was rising like bread dough and her professional life continued to blossom. That morning she had kneaded and punched down real dough and left it to rise in a slightly warm oven. She’d rubbed two frying chickens with a mixture of minced garlic, ginger, coriander, salt, pepper, and paprika and set them in the fridge to marinate. Then she’d drafted and scheduled a blog for each one.
What was wrong was that he couldn’t read her mind and she’d given him absolutely no reason to contact her again. Melinda shook her head. Couldn’t she just focus? It took a surprising amount of elbow grease to crush the salted cabbage well enough for it to produce brine. But it felt good to strain physically. It felt good to keep herself occupied, to be free of the couch-aholic blues.
For all her productivity, she hadn’t actually ventured into the world, outside of meeting Melisa for lunch over a week ago. Once or twice she’d gotten as far as grabbing her purse but hadn’t made it out the door, despite Paul and Melisa having had her car towed home the week before. Something was trapping her inside. Christmastime and agoraphobia were not good bedfellows, she conceded, but it was more than that.
Her world was crumbling and she knew it.
The conference had splintered her identity so that she didn’t know what was real and what was false. The madness in the mountains had cracked her sense of safety, but more so her sense of self. The phone call with her mother had shone hope on her future, but also illuminated that she was in the driver’s seat of her own collision course. And maybe it was time to steer clear. It all added up to the fact that Melinda could no longer pretend that her persona was good enough for her readers, her relationships, or herself. She could no longer pretend that operating solo was fulfilling, or that her facsimile of a life left her anything but empty.
But fake it ’til you make it, right?
Faking it is what got you here, her mind retaliated. And here was alone and afraid.
Melinda set aside the pestle and dug into the wilted gallon of shredded cabbage, combing through it to expose pieces that had avoided the salt storm. A blunt instrument worked well for the majority, but nothing beat a hands-on search for the missing pieces.
Apparently the food parallel for realizing you’ve got to change your entire life was sauerkraut.
Melinda swirled her hands through the strands, grateful that she had something to do so as to not go plumb crazy in her isolated convalescence. Cooking had been where she’d turned in the past when she’d needed to keep busy. Cooking had been what her father had done when her mother had miscarried. Cooking was what made up the majority of her happy childhood memories. How many other families’ love language was slaving away in the kitchen? She laughed quietly.
Melinda had set Bengal gram, a chickpea relative, to soak after the call with her mother, and the next day drained them of their water to let them germinate. Now they had sprouted and were ready to be cooked. She’d let her parents decide the recipe. Melinda’s job was to create the bones of the meal, and Kat and Aarjav would arrange, accent, and adorn it—a power couple of presentation.
Melinda’s chest warmed at the thought of cooking with her parents again. Don’t get ahead of yourself. They weren’t there yet. There was plenty of time for Mr.Sen to emotionally evacuate. Melinda paused mid-maceration. Why did she loathe her father so? She stared at the kitchen cabinets. It was a morning for revelations, might as well dig deep. Because he left me. He had been right there with her but he was gone the whole time. He had let her mother chew them up and spit them out, and did nothing to help.
She pounded harder. Was that fair? Was that accurate?
Not entirely, but that was how it felt. The cabbage was turning to slippery rubber and releasing its liquid. Could she allow her father to have experienced his own pain and to have made his own mistakes without believing him a demon? Or worse, a weakling? Could she forgive her father for doing the best that he could, which hadn’t been enough for her, but was better than many would have done? Melinda twisted the cabbage. It was a disarming thought.
Too disarming. She wiped her hands on her apron. Time to evaluate the decor. I’m not avoiding, you’re avoiding.
In lieu of braving the swarm of humanity teeming outside her door, Melinda had been shopping online for everything, including fresh food. Turned out it was disturbingly easy to accomplish; people would deliver anything these days. As such, a bright red poinsettia adorned the stoop and her new fake tree hosted approximately a thousand twinkly lights. Two more lush poinsettias dressed up her dining and coffee tables. Fresh garlands lined her countertops and festooned her picture windows. More greenery, in the form of a wreath, warmed her front door. Over-the-top gold-trimmed stockings dangled from brass hooks on the west wall. It wasn’t quite a fireplace, but she wasn’t quite expecting Santa Claus, so it would have to do.
The food was in the works. The spare bed was made. The decor was adequate, as was the sauerkraut project. It was time to call Grant.
Melinda’s stomach knotted. She picked up her phone and scrolled past Grant’s name to her brother’s, then scrolled further.
Chicken, she thought. She called Melisa instead.
“I’m glad you called; I was cleaning on top of my refrigerator. Guess who’s escaping bookkeeping duty?” Melisa laughed.
Melinda’s laugh was forced.
