Page 55 of Time for Change

My shower is quick, but when I’m clean from head to toe, I hurry out and dry off. After wrapping my towel around my waist, I brush my hair and teeth and add a layer of deodorant. Finally, I move to my dresser and grab a pair of boxer briefs, socks, and my favorite well-worn, comfortable jeans.

When I’m dressed, I head for the closet, trying to decide what to wear there. I opt for comfort over style once more and pull a T-shirt and crewneck sweatshirt with my company logo off hangers. I quickly dress, checking the time on my watch and noticing it’s almost five.

Almost Stevie time.

Heading to the kitchen, I start to pull items from the fridge. I’m making parmesan-crusted chicken breasts with cheesy potatoes and a side salad. It sounds harder than it is, thanks to my mom. It was one of my favorite dishes as a kid, so itwas the first one I had her teach me to make as an adult. My kids love it too, so it’s a meal I make often enough.

I get to work prepping the chicken, using the mallet to tenderize and flatten each breast. Once they’re ready, I gather what I need for the crust. I start mixing the Italian breadcrumbs, mayonnaise, and grated parmesan cheese. Just as I’m about to coat the chicken, there’s a knock at the door. A smile spreads across my lips as I quickly wash my hands and go to let her in.

“Hi,” I say as soon as the door is open.

“Hello,” she replies with a grin. It must have started snowing again, because I can see little snowflakes melting in her hair and eyelashes. I could look over her shoulder and confirm, but my eyes are drawn and glued to her.

“Come on in,” I tell her, stepping back and allowing her to enter my home. “I’ll give you a tour, but first, what do you think about parking your car in my garage?”

Her eyebrows draw together as a look of confusion spreads across her face. “Okay,” she says, clearly looking for more information.

“You don’t have to, but I know how meddlesome my neighbors are. If you’re okay with them all talking and wondering who’s at my house all night, then I am too. I just thought I’d save you the grief at being the center of your first official Stewart Grove Gossip Ring,” I tell her, flashing a quirky grin.

Stevie chuckles. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m no doubt going to be talked about when it gets out I’m Jameson and BJ’s long-lost sister. I suppose keeping this between us and away from the neighbors isn’t such a bad idea.”

I nod, holding out my hand. “If you want, I’ll move your car for you.” When she places her keys in my hand, I add, “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

After slipping on a pair of shoes, I move quickly outside to her car and pull it into my garage, noting the falling snow. We’re not supposed to get any substantial accumulation, but it would be nice to see everything blanketed with a fresh, white dusting. As soon as I press the button to lower the door, I step inside the house and kick off my shoes.

I find Stevie in the kitchen, sitting at one of the barstools. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure, what do you have?”

“Water, juice, sweet tea, Sprite, and milk. Sorry I don’t have more soda options since I try not to keep too much in the house. Otherwise, the kids think they need to drink it all the time.”

She nods. “I’ll just have water.”

I retrieve two glasses and pull the gallon jug from the fridge. “I hope you’re okay with chicken tonight,” I tell her, pouring us each something to drink.

“I’m not too picky,” she informs me, taking the glass. Our fingers brush, and that familiar electrical charge zings through my veins.

“Well, it’s not too fancy, but I’m making parmesan-crusted chicken breasts, some cheesy potatoes, and a salad.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s not too fancy?” she quips.

“My mom used to make it for me, so it was something I learned to make for myself.”

“I can’t wait to try it,” she replies. “Can I help? I’m not the best cook, but with a little direction, I should be able to manage.” Her giggle is the sweetest sound.

“Well, I was getting ready to mix the breading together and coat the chicken. Would you like to make the salad?”

“Sounds easy enough,” she states, hopping off the barstool and joining me at the island counter.

I pull the salad ingredients out of the fridge and place them in front of her, as well as the cutting board and knife. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like in a salad, so only put in what you’ll eat.”

“What about you?” she asks, glancing down at the different options.

Shrugging, I tell her, “I like all of it, so I’ll be fine with whatever.”

“Okay,” she says, reaching for the tomato first.

We work side by side, me preparing the chicken and her the salad, and it feels like the most normal, natural thing in the world. Besides my mom, I haven’t had anyone to help me in the kitchen since my divorce, and while this room has sort of become my domain, it’s definitely comfortable to have her here.

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