Page 59 of Ghostlighted
“Crap!”
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d be used to me by now.”
“No worries.” I caught the onion before it rolled off the countertop. “I was kind of lost in thought.” I gestured to the vegetables, the jar of olive oil, the lemons waiting to be squeezed. “This was one of my dad’s signature dishes. It’s bringing back memories.”
“Ah. Memories.” He tucked his thumbs in his cardigan’s pockets. “I can understand that. I’ve encountered my share this afternoon, too.”
I halved the onion and started to dice it, trying to keep my fingers curled under for safety the way Dad had taught me—and mostly failing, just as I always had. The onion’s fumes were muted since I’d chucked it in the freezer for a few minutes first, so I couldn’t blame them for the tear that trickled down my nose. I wiped it away with the back of my wrist. “Did you spend much time at Sofia’s back when… when…”
He lifted a brow. “When I was alive?”
“Well. Yeah.”
“I did. She’s lived in that house as long as I can remember, although I never knew her first husband. When I was a kid, she was still taking an active role at the restaurant, so she wasn’t around during the days so much. My parents and I often spent evenings there with her and Ramon.”
“Ricky’s uncle?”
“Yes. Lorenzo, Liam’s father, was already an adult by that time, though. I attended his wedding, in fact.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Remember, I’m more than ten years older than Liam. I was there the first time Lorenzo and Susanne brought the baby to visit Sofia. She was ecstatic, even though he screamed the whole time.”
“Well, neither of those things has changed,” I murmured. Sofia still doted unconditionally and Liam still expected the stars to align for his own convenience. When it came to family, some lessons could never be unlearned.
While others never stuck, no matter how hard you tried.
I paused with my hand on a lemon, my fingers tightening as I stared at the unevenly chopped peppers and onions, themangled parsley.Other lessons never stuck, no matter how hard you tried.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Avi peered at me, his forehead knotted in concern. “What?”
“My dad could cut vegetables so precisely they were like clockwork gears. Ricky’s family makes food like music.” I pushed the lemon away. “He’ll hate this.”
I picked up the bench knife, but before I could start scraping my pathetic vegetables into the compost bucket, Avi was there in front of me. I could have barged through him, but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t, any more than I’d knock over anybody else who stood in my path.
“Stop it, Maz.”
“Why? It’s nothing but a salad, Avi.”
“So? He’ll like it. I promise.”
I tossed the bench knife onto the counter with a clatter. “It’s not evenhot.”
“He’ll like it because you made it.”
“I don’t want him to eat it out ofpityor… orobligation.”
“If I know one thing about the Vargas clan, it’s that for them, eating the food isn’t the point. The taste, the presentation. Those have value, sure, but they’re secondary.Sharing the mealis what’s important.” Avi’s gaze was intense, but so kind I had to swallow twice. “He’llloveit because you made itfor him.”
I turned away from him and braced my hands on the countertop. “Then I guess I need to get over myself, huh?”
“No.” Avi moved to the other side of the counter and sat by folding himself onto the barstool. “You told me once that everybody is entitled to process grief in their own way, and that you never know when it can hit you again. I think that over the past few days, it’s hit you again.”
I rubbed the center of my chest, the same way I’d seen Avi do. “You think?”
“I do. You confronted Greg, and no matter how toxic that relationship was when it ended, you still invested your emotional capital in it.”
