Page 37 of Sparrow

(Amelia)

I miss being in the kitchen in a professional capacity. Do I want to run a kitchen in a restaurant? No. I want to cook privately. I want to experiment with food and learn new skills. I want to share my skills and recipes with the world. I want to make people smile.

I want to start a cooking blog.

It may seem silly, but this is the digital age. This is how you reach people now. This is how you share your craft.

I have everything set up in my kitchen to try a new recipe I’ve been playing with. Teriyaki glazed beef tenderloin with wild rice pilaf and sautéed green beans.

I take photos of every step, careful to be thorough and exact, and by the time I’m finished, the scent is wafting through the house. It smells divine and it tastes even better.

“Mmmmm,” I moan as I chew.

Jaxon would have never understood my desire to do this. He would have called it useless and demanded I get back to work on his nonprofit. He never liked anything that gave me a sense of freedom.

Taking my plate of food to the dining table, I sit in front of my laptop and begin forming my blog post. I list the ingredients and steps in a detailed, easy to read way, and I smile the whole time.

I’ve been doing a lot of that since I came back to Savannah.

Since I started seeing Gray again.

I was hurt on Sunday when he stopped us from sleeping together, but once I heard his reasons, it was hard not to understand. He did that thing where he was an absolute gentleman, but then he added that sexy as sin twist at the end. He will be the death of me.

I finish my blog post and share to all forms of social media before finally finishing my dinner then setting out to clean the kitchen.

I open a music streaming app on my phone, then place it on the counter so I can dance, sing, and twirl like a fool while I clean for one simple reason: because I can.

***

Right after my father died, I told Nora it felt like the universe could never let me be happy for an extended period of time. That in order for the stars to align correctly, I needed to be at least a sliver of miserable. Just a sliver.

That never felt truer than it does right now. As I’m standing in my kitchen, after having just spent two full hours in here, cooking, cleaning, and dancing, I stare at my phone as a number with a California area code calls.

I know who it is. There’s no question about that. He’s called four times in a row and clearly isn’t going to stop until I answer.

“Be strong, Mills,” I tell myself. “You can do this. You are in control. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

I lift my phone carefully, like it’s going to burn me or explode when I touch it. I slide my thumb across the bottom of the screen, answering.

“How did you get this number?” I try to sound strong and unafraid.

“Is that how you greet your husband, baby?” His voice is like razors over my skin.

“Don’t call me that. How did you get this number?” I close my eyes.

“You’ve made a mistake, Amelia. We both know that. It can be easily fixed, however. Come home, drop to your knees, beg for my forgiveness for this charade, then we’ll move on.”

“Fuck you,” I growl.

“Ouch! There’s the firecracker who rode me like bucking bronco the night we met.” He laughs and it makes me physically sick.

“Anything you need to say to me, you can say to my attorney, Jaxon. Do not contact me anymore. This is over.”

“We’ll never be over, Amelia. You’re mine. I’m part of you. Seared into your mind. I’ve had every part of you. Every hole. Every crease and crevice. You belong to me, I think you know that, baby.” He is speaking in a near whisper. It’s raspy. He’s drunk. Or high.

“We. Are. Over!” I shout.

“We’ll see about that. I love you, dear wife.”

He kills the call before I can respond. I squeeze the phone until I’m sure it’ll crack down the middle. I sink to the floor, leaning against the cabinets, and begin to cry.

I hate him.

I want this to end.

I want him out of my life.

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