Page 68 of Grumpy on the Mountain
And suddenly every piece of equipment in this kitchen needs to earn its keep.
I dig through my freezer, pushing past containers of forgotten leftovers and that three-month-old rabbit stew until my fingers find a package of bacon wedged in the back corner.
The wrapper crinkles as I pull it out, ice crystals clinging to the plastic.
I must've bought this on a good day. When the voices in my head weren't cursing at me and the phantom explosions weren't drowning out everything else.
The good days have been rare.
Days when I can drive into town without my hands shaking on the steering wheel. When I can stand in line at the grocery store without scanning every exit and calculating the fastest route out. When the world doesn't feel like it's constantly on the verge of falling apart.
But apparently, even on my worst days, some part of me was still planning for this moment.
For her.
I unwrap the bacon, laying each strip in the cast iron skillet I actually do use regularly. The sizzle when it hits the hot metal is satisfying and I get to work on the rest.
Eggs. I definitely have eggs.
I crack six of them into a bowl, whisking them with the kind of focus I used to reserve for disarming explosive devices.
Because this matters.Shematters.
And I'll be damned if I'm going to serve my girl some half-assed breakfast like she's just another person passing through.
She's not passing through.
She'sstaying.In my bed, in my life, in this space I built to keep everyone else out. And the terrifying thing is how much I want her here. How natural it feels to glance through the kitchen doorway and see her curled up on my couch, sunlight catching in her hair as she shows Sienna the phone I bought her just so I had a way of keeping in touch with her.
I watch her for a moment, snapping pictures of something in the living room.
The view first. Then the fireplace.
But then she turns the camera toward herself, making a face at the screen, and my heart does something acrobatic in my chest. She's documenting this. This morning, this moment,us. Like it's something worth remembering.
LikeI'msomething worth remembering.
"Where the hell did I put the good plates?" I mutter, opening cabinet after cabinet until I find the set Betty insisted I buy years ago.
"You can't eat everything off paper plates, Beau. What if you have company?"
"I don't do company, Betty."
"You will someday. Trust me."
The woman was right, as usual. The plates are white ceramic with a simple blue rim—nothing fancy, but they're real dishes instead of the chipped mismatched collection I usually use.
I set them on the dining table with actual care, adding the cloth napkins that have been sitting unused in a drawer for God knows how long.
The bacon's filling the cabin with its rich, smoky scent, and I can hear Molly's delighted laugh carrying from the living room.
"Coffee," I say out loud, because apparently I talk to myself now. "I need coffee."
I do have good coffee, at least. The expensive stuff I order online because if I'm going to drink something every morning, it might as well not taste like motor oil.
I grind the beans fresh, then start the brewing process on my professional-standard machine.
The timer on my phone buzzes, and I flip the bacon, watching the strips curl and crisp to golden perfection.
