Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Levi
Sherly skidded into the kitchen and squealed.
“Nope,” I said, flipping bacon in Mom’s saltapasta pan. “You’re vegetarian.”
After taking in Sherly, I felt guilty every time I ate pork and eventually cut it from my diet completely.
Beef bacon tasted fine, but it didn’t have quite the same salty, smoky flavor as guanciale.
Unfortunately, the thought of eating pig’s cheek now made me nauseous.
Sherly pranced beside me, her hooves clipping on the scratch-resistant linoleum I installed after she skidded into the cabinets on the tile and bumped her snout.
She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and snorted softly.
With her white coat and black spots, she looked like a miniature cow, though there was nothing mini about Sherly.
She’d been the size of a labradoodle when I adopted her, which I’d assumed was full size for a “teacup” pig.
Later, a vet told me Sherly was still growing and could easily hit two-hundred pounds.
Of course, by that point I was attached.
If she grew to the size of an elephant, I’d find a way to keep her.
“Nope,” I said, reaching down to scratch behind her ear to soften the refusal. She leaned into my hand and snuffled.
A year ago, I’d never have imagined I’d be spending my Saturday night trying not to give in to a begging pig.
And failing. “Here,” I said, tossing Sherly a pea from the bowl on the counter.
She raised her snout to catch it and wiggled her butt while she chomped loudly.
As soon as she swallowed, she let out a squeal.
I shook my head. “I’ll give you more with your dinner.”
She snorted and turned in a circle before plopping down in the middle of the kitchen. Sometimes she acted more like a dog than a pig, and I wondered if she’d been around them as a piglet. She certainly followed me everywhere like a golden retriever.
As soon as the bacon was crispy, I laid it on a paper-towel-lined plate, letting it cool before crumbing it.
The timer on the pasta beeped, and I snapped off the burner before pivoting to the sink to drain the spaghetti.
Since I was the only one eating it, I’d opted for pasta from a box.
Mom was probably rolling in her grave because I hadn’t made fresh.
I poured some of the pasta water into a measuring cup before draining the rest. The second I dumped the noodles into the saltapasta pan, Shirly clambered to her hooves and let out a squeal.
“Here,” I said, using a pair of tongs to remove a small portion of pasta. “This is it. You can’t have more after I add the meat.”
I dropped the noodles on the floor, and Sherly snuffled happily as I tempered the eggs and cheese mixture that I’d whisked together earlier into the rest of the spaghetti. It didn’t take long to add enough pasta water for the right consistency before tossing in the bacon and half the peas.
Beef bacon, peas, and store-bought pasta. I could only imagine what Mom would say. I sent up a silent apology as I ground pepper into the pan and gave everything a good stir.
“Let’s eat,” I said, swirling the portion I wanted onto my plate.
I frowned at the amount left in the pan.
My mother taught me how to make enough to feed a family, not a single man with a pig.
I’d be eating reheated pasta for days. It was a regular enough problem now that I should have thought to adjust the recipe.
Sherly ran to her feeding dish by the table. I dumped a serving of pig pellets into her bowl and topped it with peas. She went to town like she hadn’t just eaten.
“I should have given you more pasta before I added the bacon. It’s never as good reheated.”
Sherly ignored me, which was usually the case when she had food in front of her. I pulled my phone from my pocket and doom scrolled while I ate. Once Sherly finished everything in her bowl, she laid her snout on my leg and started begging.
“You know better,” I said.
She snorted, which might as well have been her saying bullshit. I was careful with what I fed her, but I found myself cooking meals that had some pig-friendly component more often than not.
“Not this time,” I said, shoving another forkful of Carbonaro in my mouth.
She let out a grunt and clicked out of the kitchen to the living room, no doubt to shred the most recent in a long line of dog beds. I really needed to build her a sleeping pen. It’d have to wait until after the Springboard event, and by then the garden beds would likely need attention.
When I moved to the area, I was shocked at the amount of land I could afford. After living in a condo, taking care of a farmhouse and the six acres surrounding it had been a monumental change. Of course, everything had changed with the move.
Instead of traffic sounds, I had quiet. Instead of five-course dinners with my parents, I had pasta with a pig.
Instead of an active social life, I had solitude.
It’s what I’d wanted after everything went down, though I hadn’t realized how withdrawn I’d become until the night at Church with Wyatt and his friends.
Even with the awkwardness and glitter bomb ending, it’d felt nice to actually be out on a Friday night. And spending time with Everly Hendricks, when we weren’t at odds over some degenerate, had been the most fun I’d had since Hayden died and everything went sideways at the station.
Losing Mom had been bad enough, but less than a year later, my entire life turned upside down.
I lost Hayden and every ounce of respect for my unit, and eventually my father.
Sherly had done her part changing things as well.
One reason I moved to Peace Falls was to give her outdoor space.
If I still spoke with my dad, he’d call me crazy for making such a significant life choice for a pig someone dropped off at the station as a prank.
Then again, Sherly had enriched my life more than my job ever had, and I’d stopped giving a fuck what my father thought.
Mom would have fought for me to stay in Richmond and work things out with him, but without her to tie me there, starting over somewhere new made the most sense.
I pushed my plate away, thoughts of my old life souring my stomach.
I needed to take Sherly outside to do her business and clean the kitchen, but the silence left too much room for memories, good and bad.
No telling how long I’d have sat there if my phone hadn’t buzzed on the table with a text from Everly.
Last minute, but do you think you could meet me tomorrow and visit some of the apartment complexes on Max’s list?
My fingers were typing before I even finished reading.
We texted back and forth until we settled on a time and place.
I put my phone on the table and pulled my hands away.
The entire exchange happened so fast, I didn’t have a chance to second guess myself.
I reread what I’d typed and decided I’d sounded friendly without being unprofessional.
It gave me confidence that I’d be able to get through another interaction with Everly Hendricks without crossing the line. Again.