Page 173 of When the Storm Breaks
I scratch behind her ears once more before heading to the bathroom.
The shower is too hot, steam curling around me, but I stay under it anyway—letting the heat work out the stiffness in my muscles.
Chase switched me to mornings after we talked.
I know he’s easing me back into it, and I’m grateful.
The first few weeks were brutal—dragging myself out of bed before sunrise, stepping out into a world that felt indifferent to whether I existed at all.
But now, it’s easier.
Or at least, it’s not as hard.
Work is uneventful—the best kind of shift I could hope for. I spend the morning keeping busy, letting the monotony ground me.
When it’s time to swap, Chase claps me lightly on the shoulder and steps behind the bar. No questions. No expectations. Just understanding.
Back home, I take Margot for another walk. The air is thick with humidity and damp summer earth.
My body and brain ache for sleep, but instead of giving in, I absently flip through channels on the TV. The images blur together,barely registering.
I’m better than I’ve been, but exhaustion has settled deep in me.
Not the kind that once felt unsolvable.
This time, it just feels like healing.
Cooking has become a part of my routine. My therapist suggested it—something tactile, something productive. Something that connected me to Willow.
I figured it was worth a shot.
And it was.
I started small. Simple meals. But tonight, I pulled out the big guns—a braised short rib recipe I saw on some late-night cooking show. The kind that takes hours to get right.
I lay the ingredients out in neat rows. Fresh herbs, garlic, onion, a thick cut of meat that takes time and patience to tenderize.
My hands move on autopilot, chopping rosemary and thyme with practiced precision, the beat of the knife quieting my brain for the first time today.
I sear the meat, the scent of sizzling fat wafting through the air.
There’s a pattern to it now. A steady flow as I dance between the stove and the counter, reaching for the wine to deglaze the pan, only to pause—
My eyes land on a bottle at the far-end of the counter, half-hidden in shadow.
Calla’s wine. Her favorite.
Just in case one day I can pour her a glass. Offer it with some semblance of normalcy. A quiet understanding that I still love her in all the small, invisible ways.
I blow out a breath as the memory takes over, gripping the counterbefore I even realize I need the support.
It had been one of those drives.
The kind we loved.
No destination.
Just the two of us.
