Page 1 of The Kitchen Contract

1

ALEX

I’m strongly considering getting a dog.

Or maybe a cat, since they don’t need to go outside in the middle of the night and I like my sleep. But am I a cat person? That could take some soul-searching. Either way, it would be nice to have someone to come home to in the evening. Someone to talk to, even if they can’t talk back.

I drop my keys on the counter in the kitchen, the clatter echoing loudly in the empty house, and set my takeout beside them. My stomach rumbles at the smell of the Kung Pao chicken as I slip the container from the bag. Grabbing a fork and a bottle of water, I schlep it all into the living room to settle in my favorite recliner.

Most of the time I actually eat at the kitchen island like a civilized person, perched on one of the fancy barstools my interior designer sister picked out for me. But tonight, I’m feeling sorry for myself and that calls for kicking it bachelor-style. What’s the point of living alone if you don’t take advantage of the few perks?

I grab the remote and turn the TV on, flipping through channels as I start to eat. I’m in the mood for something light and upbeat, so I stop on an episode of I Love Lucy and let myself become absorbed in the slapstick humor of Lucy trying to hold down a job wrapping chocolates on an assembly line.

When the episode ends, I bring my empty takeout box to the kitchen and throw it away with my empty water bottle, rinsing my fork and putting it back in the drawer. I survey the empty kitchen, and I’m suddenly annoyed by how clean it is. There are no half-empty water glasses, over-full trash can, or pots in the sink from dinner that indicate a house with people in it, going about their lives and relationships together. I’m tempted to throw a handful of silverware in the sink, maybe squirt some ketchup on the counter, just to simulate the experience, but I know it wouldn’t matter. It’ll still just be me, rattling around in this house by myself.

I puff out a breath. Normally, I’m a pretty happy guy. I’ve been called “the life of the party” and “class clown” on more than one occasion. My positivity levels are through the roof on the average day. But lately, I’ve become aware of a gradually increasing sense of loneliness. Hence why I’m considering getting a pet. A pet would definitely solve all my problems, right?

I shuffle across the kitchen in my sock feet to pick up my phone. Since I obviously can’t obtain whatever pet I might decide on tonight, I need to make other arrangements for some company. I send out a text to my brother Grant and our mutual friend Trevor to see if anyone is up for a workout tonight. Not exactly a thrilling night on the town, but it would be better than hanging out here by myself.

Grant replies that he’s working late on quarterly reports since his wife Annie is at book club tonight. It turns out Trevor’s wife Kayla is hosting the book club, and he agrees to meet me at the gym in thirty minutes.

I try not to pay too much attention to the pang in my chest at all the wife talk. I almost had a wife once, and while I truly believe I dodged a bullet by not marrying her, it doesn’t lessen the desire I’ve always had for a family. And as always happens when I think about my almost-marriage and the circumstances around it, I have to push away the feeling that maybe the reason I’m alone is because I deserve to be. My therapist and family have told me differently, but it’s still something I struggle with.

It only takes me a few minutes to change clothes and head out. I arrive before Trevor and choose a treadmill facing the doors to warm up with an easy jog as I wait for my friend, careful not to go hard enough to make that Kung Pao chicken think I’d like to see it again. When Trevor walks in, I hop off and meet him at the row of weight benches in the corner. I’ve thought about turning one of my spare bedrooms or a corner of my garage into a home gym a few times, but I like the feeling of having other people around while I’m working out, even if we aren’t interacting. Extrovert that I am, it gives me energy to be amongst the sweaty crowds.

“What’s up, man?” I reach out for a fist bump.

“Not much. Glad to get out of there and let the girls do their thing.” Trevor’s very much the consummate introvert, so it doesn’t surprise me that he accepted my invitation as an excuse to flee.

Never one to waste time, he sets his water bottle to the side and drops down to do a few pushups as a warm-up before we hit the weights. I follow suit, and we go through our typical workout routine, spotting each other and trading the occasional comment. When we’re finished, Trevor takes a sip of water and shoots me a look.

“Everything okay? You seem quiet tonight.”

“I thought you liked quiet,” I joke.

“I would, if I didn’t think it meant something was wrong. I can’t remember a time I was around you when you didn’t have plenty to say.”

He’s not wrong. I can be pretty talkative. I was always the first kid to lose the quiet game growing up. But I’m not sure I really want to talk about this, so I keep my answer vague.

“Just in a funky mood, I guess. Maybe I’m tired.”

He stares at me appraisingly for a moment but doesn’t pry any further. “You want to come back to my house and see what snacks the girls have left? They usually have some pretty good stuff.”

Snacks are a safe topic and always welcome. “I’d love to.”

2

NORA

Asigh of relief escapes me as I pull my dirty apron off and sling it into the bin beside the back door of the restaurant. Normally, my job as a line cook at a popular Nashville chain restaurant isn’t too bad. I like the fast pace, the challenge of preparing each dish to the best of my ability, and the sense of satisfaction that comes from doing my job well. I rarely get a dish sent back, and when I do, it’s usually because the wait staff messed up the order.

But lately, I’ve been feeling a sense of restlessness. It really hit me today as I worked the lunch rush. Between flipping half a dozen burgers and pouring marinara sauce over a dish of nondescript pasta, I felt a moment of existential dread as I thought about how many more cookie-cutter dishes I’ll crank out today and this week and this year and over the course of my life.

The feeling of cold water down my back snapped me right out of it.

“Sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” Tasha said, a look of horror on her face and an empty water pitcher in her hand. “I tripped.”

Truthfully, our newest and most clumsy—but good-natured, bless her heart—waitress did me a favor. There are worse things than making standardized meals for a living. At least I didn’t have to entirely give up my dream of cooking for a living, and I like it infinitely better than waiting tables, which I did for several years before stepping into a kitchen role. So, I disciplined myself to be grateful and stay focused for the rest of my shift. I also kept an eye out for Tasha, but there were no more incidents, thank goodness.

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