Page 87 of All Her Broken Pieces

“No one else will be bringing that,” he replies, his voice so low I almost don’t hear him.

“What’s wrong?” The despondent look on his face gives me pause.

“Nothing, I just haven’t made that one in a long time.”

“Aren’t up to the challenge?” I try to shake him out of his sudden melancholy as he chews on his lips, a small furrow returning to his brow.

He straightens and blows out a long breath before turning to the oven to preset. Before I can say anything else, he’s returning from the small pantry, his arms full of ingredients as he sets them down on the counter. The fact that he won’t look at me and hasn’t said anything has anxiety bubbling up in my chest, causing me to worry I’ve said the wrong thing. He just said he liked my teasing, but he’s not bantering back now.

“Ethan, it’s okay. We can make something else.”

His movements still as he looks over at me. “Sorry, I…” His words trail off as his head drops, his arms leaning against the island for support. A smaller shudder racks his body before he straightens up and wipes his cheeks.

“Really, I can pick another one,” I insist.

“I told you I would do anything you asked of me, and I want to do this with you, I promise. That one holds extra memories, and I just—fuck, I just need a minute. I promise you, I’m okay.”

I grab his cheek and pull his head down to mine, gently kissing his forehead.

The warmth I felt against him fades as I move to the other end of the island, giving him space as I examine the card. It’s card number five, one of the first, so it must be important to him if they’ve been making it that long. Based on the number of tick marks on the back, twenty-two, it must be a favorite. There’s no star on this card, so it doesn’t hold any secrets, but it’s obvious it’s well-loved by the way the ink is smeared and the edges of the card are bent. Flipping the card over, I examine the ingredients and start matching them up with what Ethan’s piled onto the counter, but he interrupts me before I can finish.

“If you’re looking for marshmallows, you aren’t going to find them. Nonna didn’t think marshmallows were fancy enough for the type of gourmet dishes she preferred. ‘Marshmallows only belong in hot chocolate, s’mores, and Rice Krispie treats, and heaven help you if you need a recipe for any of those things,’ she’d say.”

I can’t help but chuckle every time he does an impression of his Nonna. “You realize that you hunch your shoulders when you quote her? It’s kind of adorable.”

His cheeks turn pink, and he shakes his head, smiling to himself as if recalling a favorite memory.

“What can I do?” I ask, placing the card back in the box so it won’t get dirty.

“First, we need to wash, peel, and cut the sweet potatoes,” he says as he fills a pot with water and places it on the stove.

I move to the sink, bag in hand, and pull out a sweet potato to begin scrubbing. Ethan comes up behind me, setting a bowl to my left before he covers my hands with his, helping me wash the potato.

“This reminds me of that scene inGhostwhen they make the pottery,” I tell him. “Except we’re washing potatoes, not making art.”

“Some would argue that a good meal is art,” he murmurs against my ear, nipping on the lobe before he turns away and melts butter in a pan on the stove.

“Your cooking is art, and I’ll happily indulge in every creation,” I promise as I continue scrubbing.

We finish our parts, me scrubbing, peeling, and chopping as Ethan completes the topping for the dish. It’s a streusel-like concoction, and I lean over to smell it. “What’s in this?”

“Butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and flour. Then I add chopped pecans,” he explains as he turns to check the boiling potatoes. “Want to stir that for me?”

“Did you add bourbon to this? It has a little bit of a smoky flavor,” I ask as my finger swipes the side of the bowl.

“I added a little in when melting the butter. Nonna swore it was for flavoring, but I’m convinced she liked to drink while we cooked. She would always sample the booze we added.” He smiles to himself, reliving the memory in his head.

After draining the water, he dumps the potatoes into a bowl and mashes them with a fork. I’m mesmerized by his movements, his biceps and forearms flexing with each stroke of his hand.

“Eyes up here, hellcat,” he teases as he mixes the butter, brown sugar, nutmeg, and salt until they are fully incorporated before he folds in two eggs. “I also like to sprinkle a little cinnamon in to intensify the nutmeg. And then I add a little maple syrup to give it a warm, caramel flavor,” he explains before turning to the counter and grabbing an orange. “But the real trick is a little orange zest to brighten up the flavor profile. The citrus flavor complements the sweetness of the potatoes.” He shaves off the outer rind of the orange and stirs it in before scraping it into the pan and adding the topping.

“I feel like I was privy to some trade secrets here. Is that it?”

“Now it bakes for forty minutes.”

“I don’t have the card memorized like you, but I can check to see if you forgot any steps.”

“No need, it’s all up here.” He taps the side of his head, flashing his dimple at me in a big grin as he gathers all the bowls and spoons to wash in the sink.

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