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“I should let you go…”
“Probably,” he says, never questioning why I called in the first place. “But know this, Theo—I’m not spending all my Sundays like this. We’re getting out of the shit. You and me, together.”
Now that heat in my chest is like a head-to-toe blanket, fresh out of the dryer. I’m wrapped in the warmth of his words.
Sullivan is better than a friend.
He’s a partner.
And I haven’t had one of those…pretty much ever.
When I hang up the phone, I look around the kitchen. I haven’t cleaned up the dirty dishes from lunch, so I can still see the greasy bacon pan and scattered toothpicks—remnants of the offensive BLT.
But instead of viewing it as evidence of my failure, another example of how I always manage to fuck things up, I hear Sullivan’s voice in my head:
We’re getting out of the shit…You and me, together…
I shove my mistake to the back of my mind, replacing it with images of exactly what that future might look like.
I imagine retro vinyl booths, an old-fashioned jukebox, maybe some pin-up posters on the walls…
The ingredients spread across the countertops become vibrant and alive once more, like they’re calling to me, like they’re begging me to take them in my hands and shape them into something new…
Instead of failure, I see opportunity.
And I retie my apron and get to work.
13
SULLY
It takes several more hours to close out one of the most obnoxious deals of my life. The way this guy’s going back and forth on every last tedious detail makes me want to take him up to the top floor of the building to show him the view then give him a good, hard shove.
When he finally puts pen to paper to sign the lease, I text Theo to let her know I’ll be home soon, but it’s 8:00 p.m. before I actually pull into the driveway.
Since it’s Sunday night, I expect to find her kicking back in sweatpants with a glass of wine, watching TV or enjoying a good book, if she’s even home at all.
Instead, I walk into what looks like an epic ten-course dinner in progress. Theo has dozens of pots and pans and bowls spread across the stove and countertops, several still boiling and bubbling away, the air full of the mingled scents of sweet and savory.
Theo herself is whirling like a windstorm. She’s got an apron cinched around her waist and her hair twisted up in a knot on her head, with a streak of something dark across her cheek. Her face is flushed and dewy, her eyes bright and manic.
“Oh, good, you’re here!” she cries. “Try this!”
She pops a spoon in my mouth.
Usually, I’m opposed to being fed, stemming back to the time when Reese offered me a spoonful of peanut butter that turned out to be Vegemite. However, whatever Theo just put in my mouth is a revelation.
“What isthat?” I ask when I can speak again.
“My country brunch skillet,” Theo says proudly. “What do you think?”
“I think pour it into a bowl and then pour that bowl into my mouth.”
Theo laughs delightedly. “Oh, I’ve got way more than that for you to try!”
She takes me on a tour of my own kitchen, showing off the fruits of her labors.
“So here we’ve got a brisket grilled cheese, and those are quail egg sliders…try this, they’re jalapeño poppers with Mexican chorizo…and that’s smoked caramel apple pie with homemade ice cream…”
