Page 12 of Never Enough
A murderer, for example. Gimmie.
Eden steps into the living room. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands framing the honest concern etched across her face. She pauses, takes in my tear-streaked cheeks, and her eyes soften.
“Hey,” she says gently, setting her bag down with a soft thud. “I was thinking how about we make some dinner? Could distract our minds from the day.”
Must be obvious why I’m crying alone on the couch.
I nod, the motion sluggish, as if I’m underwater. “Yeah, sure.” My voice is a hollow echo, distant and detached. It’s all I have right now, so I’ll take it.
We shuffle to the kitchen together. The clink of pots and pans is a welcome reprieve.
“Professor really laid into us today, huh?” Eden breaks the silence, reaching for a cutting board. “Guy’s got a stick up his ass so far it’s a wonder he can even conduct.”
Hmm. I honestly forgot all about our instructor calling me out during class with all the Alex drama that unfolded.
Truthfully, I feel a bit better having something else to talk about with Eden. Let’s rewind and go back to earlier today when my only embarrassment was a poor musical performance.
A ghost of a smile flits across my lips, dissipating as quickly as it came. “Yeah, he does.”
“Want to run through that piece again later?” Eden asks, slicing through a tomato with precision. “Could use the practice, and misery loves company.”
“Sounds good.” Eden has always been a lifesaver. “Thanks,” I add softly, catching her eye across the counter.
“Anytime. That’s what friends are for, right?”
Just like that, the weight in my chest lifts ever so slightly again. Solace found in shared struggles and the simple act of chopping vegetables side by side helps my nerves settle.
The sizzle of onions in the pan harmonizes with the dull thud of the kitchen door swinging open. What? Even when depressed, I manage to find music in everything.
Anyway, I don’t need to look up to know it’s Alex; his presence fills the room.
“Food before fun, Celeste,” he calls over his shoulder, an attempt at humor failing to mask the edge in his voice. Through the gap in the door, Celeste’s high-pitched whine fades as she complains about her, and I quote, “sopping-wet pussy”.
“Hey, Daphne. Eden,” Alex greets us, attempting nonchalance.
“Hi,” I murmur. I center my attention on stirring the vegetables, hoping to hide the tremor in my hands.
“Smells good. Need some help?” His eyes meet mine for a brief second, and I’m caught in their familiar warmth.
“Sure. You used to enjoy cooking, right?”
“Used to,” he mutters, tying the apron strings with deft fingers, a shadow crossing his face.
I don’t believe it. I still think he’s avoiding cooking, though he never stopped loving it.
Eden glances between us, her eyes knowing. She wipes her hands on a dish towel and smiles thinly. “I’ll just, ah, use the bathroom.”
Once she leaves, the door clicks shut behind her, leaving Alex and me alone amidst the aroma of garlic and basil. For a moment,we’re suspended in time, lost in the rhythm of chopping and stirring.
“Remember when you taught me that silly song about herbs?” I ask, hoping to lighten the mood and, okay, I’ll admit I want to remind him of happier times, with me in them. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards, and a soft chuckle escapes him.
“Ah, yes. ‘Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,’” he sings under his breath, off-key but endearing.
“Exactly.” My laughter feels like bubbles rising in my chest, popping gently against my ribs. I venture after a beat, “Why’d you stop cooking? You were so passionate about it.”
He pauses, his knife hovering above the cutting board. “It never made me any friends,” he admits, his shoulders slumping.
“That’s not true,” I counter softly, placing my hand over his, feeling the rough calluses against my palm. “You’ve always had me.”