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She looked ready to cry.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She ran toward me.
Then past me.
“You used her favorite pan,” she whispered. “What the fuck, Atlas?”
“What did I do now?” I asked.
“This pan,” she said. She pointed. “This was Gram’s favorite pan. She made everything in this pan. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Snacks. She made the best grilled cheese in the world. Nobody touched this pan but her.”
Hazel looked at me, ready to cry.
I moved closer to her. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t know.”
“She…”
Hazel closed her eyes.
I reached for her and pulled her toward me.
I hugged her.
“I sound like a psycho right now.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.” She backed away from me, wiped the corners of her eyes, then smiled. “And you’re putting up with it.”
“Hazel, you mentioned your grandmother the night we went out. You lost someone you loved. You’re living in her house. That’s a lot.”
“And I’m crying over a frying pan.”
“Yeah. You kind of are.”
I smiled back at her.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fuck.”
“If it means anything, she took good care of the pan. There’s a certain way to clean those and I bet everything is going to taste amazing.”
“Atlas, just stop. It’s okay. Let’s just eat, okay?”
We ended up at the dining room table.
I wasn’t too sure where to sit.
I feared picking the wrong seat would have Hazel wanting to throw me through a window.
We ended up sitting next to each other.
“Oh, this is unfair,” she whispered. “This is so good. How can you be you and have surprises like this?”
“What? That I can cook a good breakfast? Maybe it’s because I’m used to cooking breakfasts. Maybe that’s my parting gift after a fun night.”
“That’s disgusting,” Hazel said. “I’m over here thinking this is maybe romantic. But this is just what you do for women you fuck.”
