Page 16 of No More Love Songs

“Well, I think I’m done here.” I close up my empty suitcase and stand it up against the wall and out of the way. The garment bag I hang in the armoire along with my clothes. “Now that you know my big news about my looming adventure in the kitchen, anything new and exciting on your end since I’ve been gone?”

“New and exciting? No.” He clears his throat. “But I did talk to Janelle. She wasn’t thrilled about putting the album on hold, but I think I appeased her when I told her I sent you into the mountains with a hot single musician.”

“You think Kit is hot?”

“You don’t?”

“I mean.” Of course, I think he’s hot. But I made a vow to myself and the powers that be that hotness would no longer register as noteworthy on my radar, so I’ve made it a point not to dwell on that fact. “Sure. He’s a nice-looking man, I suppose.”

Grayson snorts. A not so hot feature on an otherwise sexy man. Who I can register as such since he’s gay and married to my brother and my observing his sexiness is simply that, an observation. “Alright, well go enjoy your cooking lesson and tell nice-looking Kit I said I’m sorry I didn’t mention your only skills in the kitchen involve fixing yourself the perfect plate from the takeout box buffet.”

“Yeah, I think we both know I’m not telling him that.” I sigh, rolling my eyes. Somehow this call didn’t give me near the satisfaction I thought it would. “Oh, but tell Kai I said hi and my shoestrings are named Bea and Arthur.”

“Huh?”

“Just do it. He’ll get it.” Then I hang up and stare at the door a minute while I let current events catch up with me. I’m in a beautiful but strange room. I’m here alone, something I haven’t been since my career took off and I spent every waking minute making music with people either on the road or in a studio. The occasional breaks were dedicated to a variety of failed relationships, and then, eventually, camping out at Gray and Brice’s under the guise of never wanting to miss an opportunity to jump in the sound booth in the basement whenever the muse struck us, though really, I think we all knew I just grew increasingly weary of going home to an empty house. Not that I haven’t spent plenty of hours with my own company along the way, it’s just that a familiar face was never hard to find the second my need for solitude expired. And I’m not sure I can count Kit as a familiar face after knowing him for less than a day. Nor do I know how pleased he’ll be if I decide to latch onto him the way I have Grayson. He didn’t sign up to be my interim person for the month. He’s just the lodge keeper. The rock-climbing guide. And, apparently, the occasional wisdom dispenser, and now, cooking instructor.

And sure, he’s been very attentive so far, but I’m the only person here with him at the moment. Eventually his daughter will come home. And come tomorrow more guests are likely to show up too.

So.

I’m here alone. With myself.

And I think I’m okay with that. Actually, now that I’m present to the reality, I’m excited about it. I’m here with myself. All of my attention can go directly to my needs and wants. All of the time. I’m not just here with me. I’m here for me.

I take a second to let the words sink in. They feel good, so good, I’m not at all prepared when my phone vibrates in my hand. It’s another message. This time, it doesn’t contain words. Just a picture. Of me on my wedding day. I’m gazing adoringly at someone outside of the shot. Him.

For a moment, my stomach begins to churn. My hand holding my phone starts to shake. After all this time, he still gets to me.

And that, pisses me off more than anything.

“Not today, Satan,” I grumble under my breath, tapping the screen until every effort he makes to contact me further is silenced for good. Just to be sure, I throw the phone onto my bed and turn my back on it. A gesture of sorts, to remind me of the power I have just in choosing to walk away.

And I do.

I march straight for the door and open it, mentally opening myself as well to what I’m about to find here for the next thirty days. For myself. For my sanity. And for what’s left of my stupid fucking heart.

Once downstairs I do as instructed and follow the sound of eighties rock being blasted down the halls.

When I find the kitchen, Kit is just walking in from outside, a basket full of leafy greens I can’t distinguish beyond that basic fact. I notice I instantly feel lighter at the sight of him.

“Perfect timing.” He grins setting down his basket before he reaches for the remote controlling the surround sound in here and lowers the volume to a conversation-friendly level. “How do you feel about butternut squash ravioli?”

“I feel pretty good about it.” I tend to think pasta in any of its forms is always a good idea. “Is that what we’re making?” I step closer to the large butcherblock island taking up the center of the kitchen, curiously peering into his basket.

“Sort of.” He starts to unload his fresh pickings, spreading them out on the counter. “I tend to make my pasta batches in bulk and freeze them, so the ravioli are already made and just need to be heated through. But, I collected some fresh arugula, bell peppers, tomatoes and basil from the garden and I thought we could sauté them up and toss the ravioli in them. Thoughts?”

“Yum?” I laugh. I don’t have any thoughts beyond ‘that sounds delicious’.

He seems to like my response. “Yum works. Alright.” He pulls open a drawer in front of him and pulls out two large knives before he takes all the freshly picked produce and places it in a drainer to take to the sink for a quick rinse. “How comfortable are you working with a knife?”

“Comfortable enough to cut my steak and the crust off my nephew’s grilled cheese sandwich, but that’s probably about where I top out.”

He chuckles, coming back with the washed veggies. “We’ll take it one small step at a time, not to worry. You’ll be chopping and dicing and slicing like a chef in no time.”

First step is learning how to hold the knife properly. That’s easy enough. A little harder to remember is how to keep my last knuckle out on the hand holding the thing I’m chopping, dicing and slicing steady. Apparently, this part is pretty vital in keeping your fingertips attached to your fingers.

Since I need plenty of practice, I wind up in charge of dicing up the onion he pulls from a basket tower near the fridge, along with fresh garlic which he opts to take charge of himself.

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