Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Lennon
The Brie!
I’m halfway down the street when the realization hits me.
“And the butter,” I whisper, horrified.
My perfect Brie, and my dreamy, fat-haloed, soft-as-sin butter are sitting abandoned in the walk-in at the inn.
“Unbelievable.”
My tote bag slaps my hip with every angry step as I turn around and march straight back toward the little grocery store. The cold wind whips my hair into my lipstick, and I’m convinced the universe is laughing at me.
Inside the shop, the bell jingles, and the cashier greets me with a smile I begrudgingly return. She’s not the problem. The problem is six-foot-something and emotionally unstable.
God, what even was that?
I only wanted to help. But sure, let him burn that kitchen down for all I care.
After grabbing a new Brie, another wedge of butter, and paying, I walk straight back to the apartment. Every bone in my body feels as though it’s filled with wet sand, and my brain is doing that warm static thing that means I’m thirty seconds away from face-planting into the pavement.
When I finally reach my hallway, I look automatically toward the door on the left—the wrong left—and my stomach dips. I should knock again and apologize. He didn’t deserve my midnight panic attack at his door, but he also scared the living soul out of me when he opened it.
I unlock my door, push inside, and let the silence swallow me whole. It still smells empty in here, fresh paint and possibilities, and absolutely zero furniture.
My arms feel like cooked noodles as I haul my groceries to the kitchen counter.
One by one, I unload everything, and by the time the slice of sourdough is on the new cutting board, I’m practically vibrating with anticipation.
I smear on Brie so thick it’s almost indecent, sprinkle a little salt, and take a bite.
My eyes close in unadulterated pleasure.
Holy mother of Moses.
This is what my mom meant when she said food is love made edible.
She used to press it into my hands like proof. Cookies. A bowl of soup. Whatever she had.
I thought I understood it then.
I didn’t.
She would have loved this Brie. She would have eaten half of it before I could protest, saying, “I told you, Lenny, the expensive ones are worth it,” and I would have agreed, annoyed at agreeing.
Good food hits differently when your soul is cracked.
It’s as if I can taste the care that went into kneading that dough, the warmth, and the intention. That someone, somewhere, decided that people deserve soft bread in a cruel world. I eat the whole slice standing there like a woman having a religious experience.
“Better.” I sigh when I’m done, then start assembling the muffin ingredients.
I deserve a distraction after that fuckup of an unprompted kitchen job I just pulled, and Derek definitely still deserves a thank-you.
While I’m working, the crystal amulet resting against my chest sends a spike of discomfort and guilt straight through me.
Why the hell do I feel guilty about it?
Nevan was the asshole here.
I should make extra for the guy next door.
He probably likes muffins too, right? And they work just as well as an apology as they do a thank-you.
Sorry tastes better with sugar.
When I slide the muffins into the oven after careful measuring and mixing, the warm air sighs across my face.
The apartment slowly fills with the scent of lemon and sugar, and it should comfort me, but instead it presses that already tender spot behind my ribs.
I’m left feeling small, raw, and homesick.
These were the smells of my mother’s kitchen, Tessa’s late-night baking sprees, and every version of home I’ve ever claimed.
My mom made lemon muffins when things were hard.
Not bars or tarts. Nothing fancy. Just muffins.
Dad taught me to cook. Mom taught me how to make things people come back for.
But for hard days—and, honestly, on good ones too—it was always simple lemon muffins drizzled with glaze over the top.
She made them when I came home crying from school, when my dad died, and the first night after her diagnosis, while I stood in the kitchen doorway trying not to watch her in a way that looked like watching.
I make lemon muffins when I’m scared.
Apparently, I’m terrified.
I ache for a place I can never go back to, knowing there’s no universe where I get either of them back how they were.
Fuck.
I take a shuddering breath.
Pull yourself together, Lenny.
Fatigue stays lodged inside—physical exhaustion layered over emotional exhaustion layered over whatever the hell existential exhaustion counts as.
With twenty minutes to kill before the muffins are ready, I’d prefer to do it without spiraling.
While the muffins finish baking into golden tops, I turn toward the other half of the apartment, the bedroom that’s not really a bedroom yet.
A mattress, and my overflowing open suitcase right next to it on the floor.
My plushie, Mister Muffin, which is in fact a fluffy, brown, adorable muffin with a cute little face, sits proudly in the middle of the mattress. I set him there like a guardian earlier, next to the folded lounge wear and the oversized fuzzy sweater I used as a pseudo pillow last night.
I meant to buy real bedding today. Pillows, sheets, literally anything that would make this feel less like a sleepover in a storage unit, maybe even a lamp, but then Jasper happened, and the chaos kitchen happened, and Nevan happened…
That asshole.
To distract myself and make the space feel at least marginally more mine, I hurry outside to grab my second suitcase from the Beetle. This time, I manage not to spill its entire soul onto the pavement, but I do dump it all over the bedroom floor instead.
Now it looks like I exploded.
There’s makeup and nail stuff scattered around, because I don’t actually have anywhere to put any of it, but at least my e-reader makes it onto the mattress.
Progress.
The oven dings from the kitchen, snapping me out of it, and I drag my feet back into the kitchen and pull the muffins out of the oven. The heat rolls over me again before I set the tray on the counter to cool.
Cool, in the loosest and most impatient definition of the word.
I give them… what?
Three minutes?
Maybe four?
Just long enough that I won’t scorch the entire surface of my tongue off, but not a second longer because patience is for people whose lives aren’t dumpster fires.
I pick the prettiest one and press my thumbs into the center to tear it in half, steam curling from the crumb. The first bite hits me with lemon, sugar, and that soft blueberry pop, and every muscle in my body goes loose once more.
“Okay,” I breathe out. “We can work with today again.”
I set the half-eaten muffin down and grab two plastic takeout bags I stuffed in my purse from Boston—the one good thing corporate kitchens always have—and portion everything out.
Four muffins for Derek, tucked neatly with a little paper towel between them so they don’t steam themselves soggy.
Two more for the neighbor, which feels borderline insane given how last night went, but manners are manners.
With both bags in hand, I slip out of my apartment and step into the hallway. I turn toward my neighbor’s door only to see two silhouettes already standing there.
Derek is talking softly to a little girl with dark curls bouncing at her shoulders, tiny sneakers glowing unicorn-pink under the hallway light.
Here goes nothing.
“Hey, Lennon,” Derek greets when he notices me walking toward them.
“Hi. Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding.” He nods toward the girl. “Melanie, honey, this is Lennon. She’s our new neighbor.”
Melanie waves at me with a little hand. “Hi.”
“Hi, Melanie.” I wave back.
Children are cute but… a lot.
Spencer always said I’d make a great mom. I always thought that said more about what he wanted than what I do.
I never wanted kids.
I like them fine in short, sparkling doses. Hand them snacks, make them laugh, send them back. Spencer heard ‘nurturing’ and translated it into ‘motherhood,’ as if those were automatically the same thing.
“These are for you.” I offer Derek the first bag of muffins.
He takes it and peeks inside, inhaling deeply, then his face lights up with genuine delight. “Wow. They smell incredible.”
Heat blooms over my cheeks. “Lemon blueberry. As a thank-you. For, you know… everything.”
“That’s really thoughtful.” He nudges Melanie lightly. “Honey, say thank you.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, but her attention is already laser-focused on knocking at the neighbor’s door again.
“I made some for him too,” I add quickly, lifting the second bag. “I woke him up last night because I don’t know my left from my right, and he seemed grumpy about it. I mean, who wouldn’t, so… peace offering.”
Derek actually laughs. “Oh, I’m sure Ridge loved that.”
“Ridge?”
That’s his name?
“He’s… well.” Derek clears his throat, reaching out to take the second bag. “I’ll give them to him. He wouldn’t open for you anyway, and yeah, he is a grumpy motherf—” He cuts himself off mid-swear, glancing down at Melanie. “Uncle Ridge is a grump, right?”
“Uncle Ridge?” I echo, because apparently my brain has defaulted to repeating things like a confused parrot.
“Technically, he’s my cousin,” Derek explains, amused. “But that’s easier for Melanie. We’re here to bring him his groceries.”
He gestures to the bags beside him on the floor I haven’t noticed yet, and Melanie knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, Uncle Ridge! Open the door!”
Derek strokes the girl’s hair. “You know he takes his time getting to the door.”
“Well,” I clutch my empty hands awkwardly, “… I’ll leave you to it, then. Please tell him I’m sorry, okay? And thank you again.”
How many times do you want to thank him, Lennon?
“No, thank you.” Derek smiles, holding up the bags with the muffins. “And don’t hesitate to call or come knocking if you need anything. You know where I live.”
“If I find the right door,” I murmur mostly to myself.
I’m almost back to my apartment when Ridge’s door clicks loudly and swings open.