Chapter 7
Cooking in someone else’s kitchen always feels a little like trespassing.
Mamá would disagree. She’d say feeding someone is how you tell them they matter when you don’t have the words yet.
She’s been saying that since I was sixteen and burning rice on her stove, trying to help after Papá‘s first surgery.
The coffee maker sputters its last drops into the pot, and I pour two mugs—one black for me, one with the honey I found in her cabinet. Small details. The kind you pay attention to when you’ve been in love with someone for years.
The eggs are almost done, scrambled, with a little shredded pepper jack cheese. The toast is toasting. The bacon and sausages wait on a plate. Her kitchen might be small, but she keeps it well-stocked.
I hear movement down the hall. Soft footsteps. A pause.
Then Sadie appears in the doorway wearing an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts. Her hair tangles into a messy knot on top of her head. She stops when she sees me, eyes widening slightly.
“You’re still here,” she says.
“I told you I was staying the night.” I gesture to the counter. “Coffee’s ready. Breakfast in a minute.”
She crosses to the counter slowly, like she’s not quite sure this is real. When I hand her the mug, our fingers brush. It’s such a brief moment, but I feel it—that spark of awareness that’s always there between us, whether she wants to acknowledge it or not.
“You’re still here and you made breakfast,“ she says softly, wrapping both hands around the mug.
“You need to eat something.”
“Mateo—“
I point to the table. She rolls her eyes lightheartedly and sits.
“I also called some people,” I say, plating the eggs before she can argue about me being here or taking care of her or whatever protest is forming on her lips. “Macy, Isabel, and Dean. They’re meeting us at the shop in an hour to help clean up the paint.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “What? No. I don’t want to bring others into this. It’s not their fight.”
I set two plates on the small table and sit down across from her. “My father had a saying—’Todos necesitamos que alguien nos cuide.’”
She smiles. “You know my Spanish isn’t very good. What does it mean?”
“‘Everyone needs someone to take care of them.’ You shouldn’t have to face this alone. And you shouldn’t have to clean it alone either. Let your friends help.”
For a moment, she just stares at me. Then her eyes start to shine with tears she’s too stubborn to let fall.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I nod. “Eat. Then we’ll go deal with the mess.”
We don’t talk much while we eat. She picks at her eggs, drinks her coffee, and I can see her mind working, most likely running through everything she needs to do and face, and everything that could go wrong.
When she stands to get ready, I clear the plates and rinse them in the sink.
Within a half hour, she’s back in the kitchen, now dressed in jeans and a Wildflower Books t-shirt. Her hair is damp from a quick shower, she’s put on minimal makeup, and she’s still holding her coffee mug like a lifeline.
“It’s now or never,” she says, taking a sip. “I don’t suppose you have a time machine. Or maybe one of those flashy pen things from that alien movie that erases memories. That would be amazing right now. If you could just forge one up out of thin air.”
“Fresh out of memory-erasing alien tech,” I say. “Best I can do is a really sturdy fireplace poker. Though I’m not sure how that helps.”
“Well, it’s a start.” She laughs, short and surprised, but real. “I’m sure Judith would smite me if I tried poking her with one, though.”
“Fuckin’ Judith,” I mutter, still watching her over the rim of my coffee mug, “But just remember, if I erased everyone’s memories, they’d forget how incredible you are, and we can’t have that.”
Her cheeks flush slightly. She takes another sip of coffee and doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Let’s go,” she says quietly, setting her mug down.
I rest my hand on her lower back as we move toward the door. When we step out onto the small landing, I reach for her hand. Her fingers curl around mine—hesitant at first, then holding on like she needs the anchor.
I don’t let go. Not as we walk down the stairs to the shop below. Not even when we’re standing on the sidewalk where Macy, Isabel, and Dean are already waiting.
“We’re ready to work,” Macy says the moment she sees Sadie. She holds up a bucket and cleaning supplies. “Just tell us what you need.”
Isabel opens her mouth to say something, but her gaze drops to our joined hands. A smile spreads across her face. It’s the kind that says she’s been waiting for this moment for a long time.
Sadie notices. Her cheeks flush pink, and she slips her hand from mine, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Good morning to you both,” Isabel says, her tone just a little too knowing. She’s still smiling as she waves a rag through the air.
“You all really don’t need to do this. This isn’t your fight,” Sadie says, voice tight.
“Yes, we do,” Isabel says firmly. She glances at me, then back to Sadie. “Mateo told us what happened. Que se jodan, pinches cobardes. This is bullshit, and we’re not letting you deal with it alone.”
We all turn to face the building. The red paint is still there—SLUT, WHORE, WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE, PERVERT—dried on the glass. Accusations that stain.
Dean, he’s like a brother to me, nods. “Besides, I’ve been looking for an excuse to use this ladder. Let’s get to work.”
I watch Sadie’s face as Macy attacks the door with determination, Isabel works on the window, and Dean reaches the higher sections. She’s not crying, but she’s close to tears.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “I just... I didn’t expect this.”
“People care about you, Sadie. More than you think.”
She looks up at me, and there’s something in her expression—gratitude mixed with disbelief—that makes my chest ache. Like she still can’t believe people showed up for her.
“Mateo, can you grab the other bucket?” Macy calls out.
The moment breaks. Sadie blinks, steps back, and I force myself to turn away from her and focus on the task at hand.
“Yeah,” I call back, grabbing the bucket and bringing it to Macy. When I turn back around, Sadie’s already scrubbing the door with Isabel.
“The community center commissioned it. A Southwest landscape with wildflowers and the Red Rock Cliffs. I can’t wait to see how it comes out.
I’ve been working on it every evening after work,” Isabel says.
“Well, as long as Ryan isn’t—“ She stops herself, shakes her head. “Anyway, it’s coming along.”
Sadie glances at her. “As long as Ryan isn’t what?”
“Nothing. He just likes it when I’m home to make dinner.” Isabel scrubs harder at the paint. “It’s fine. The mural will get done in time.”
There’s something in her voice that makes my hands still on the rag. But I don’t push. Not here. Not now.
“Oh, and you should see the new bottle opener designs Mateo’s been working on,” Isabel adds, redirecting her conversation. “Copper inlaid handles shaped like cactus flowers. They’re gorgeous.”
“Those sound amazing,” Sadie says, pausing to wipe sweat from her forehead. Even the morning sun can be surprisingly warm.
“They’d make gorgeous display hooks for the shop. You could hang tote bags, bookmarks, all those little extras readers love,” Isabel adds. “You should ask him to make you a set.”
“I couldn’t,” Sadie says quickly. “He’s already spent so much time helping me. I don’t want to take up even more of it.”
Isabel glances at me, then back to Sadie, a smile playing at her lips. “Trust me, Sadie. Mateo doesn’t mind spending time on the things or people he cares about.”
I grab a rag and start working on the window beside them, pretending I don’t notice Isabel’s tone or the way Sadie’s cheeks flush pink again.
As the morning sun rises higher in the sky, the paint slowly comes off. Some sections are easier to remove than others.
Macy keeps apologizing until Sadie tells her one more “I’m sorry” and she’s fired.
“You can’t fire me,” Macy says. “I’m too useful.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Sadie says, smiling.
I step back and head over to where Dean’s repositioning his ladder. “Hey, man, need any help?”
“Nah, I’ve got it. I just need to get this last section up here.” He climbs back up, methodically working through the higher patches of dried paint. He pauses, lowering his voice. “Isabel still with that Ryan guy?”
My grip tightens on the ladder rung. “Yeah.”
“He’s not good for her, man.” Dean shakes his head.
“Don’t get me started.” I glance over at my sister, watching her scrub paint with more force than necessary. “She won’t listen.”
“She will eventually.” Dean climbs back up the ladder. “It just might take her a while to see it.”
Dean’s always been like this—steady, reliable, the kind of friend who shows up when you need him and doesn’t ask too many questions.
The words come off in patches. The dried sections require more elbow grease and paint thinner.
Isabel and Sadie continue to work in tandem on the door, their rhythm synchronized.
Macy tackles the lower window sections with determination.
Dean handles anything high up, his ladder shifting every few minutes.
I take care of the remnants that need a little extra elbow grease and controlled fury. I watch Sadie while I work. She’s loosening up, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. She’s not fully okay, but she’s getting there.
By the time the sun is directly overhead, we’re nearly done. The door and windows are mostly clean. Not perfect, but close.
It’s the adobe wall beside the door that’s the problem. The red paint soaked into the porous stucco, leaving ghost letters even after we’ve scrubbed it raw. SLUT and WHORE are still faintly visible, shadows of the hatred that was here.
“We might need to repaint this section,” Dean says, climbing down from the ladder. “Paint thinner’s not cutting it on stucco.”
I look at Sadie. She’s staring at the faint words, her face unreadable.
“We can get it painted today, tesoro,“ I say.
“I’ll run out and grab some paint while you guys open the store,” Dean offers.
Sadie’s eyes widen, and her voice heightens with disbelief. “I’m supposed to open the shop while those words are still visible?”
“It’s about resilience, Sadie,” Isabel says. “We’ll have it painted over in an hour. But right now? You show them you’re not hiding.”
“Okay then.” Sadie nods. “Thank you. All of you. I don’t know what I would have done without—“
“You don’t have to thank us,” Isabel interrupts. “That’s what friends do.”
Macy and Dean nod in agreement.
Sadie takes in a visible breath, pulls the key for the shop out of her pocket, and unlocks the door. “Then let’s open.”
Not even a minute passes before the first customer walks in. Lin Mendoza takes one look at Sadie and pulls her into a hug.
“I’m so sorry all of this is happening,” Lin says. “That Facebook post. The vandalism. It’s terrible, Sadie. Just terrible. But I want you to know, you have my support. Completely.”
“Thank you,” Sadie manages.
Lin buys three romance novels and a cookbook before she leaves.
“For my daughter,” she says. “She loves your recommendations.”
As Lin walks out, Mrs. Lorelei Patterson, a woman I recognize from town council meetings, walks in, looks around with pursed lips, and walks right back out without saying a word.
Sadie watches her go, arms crossed tight against her chest.
“Ignore her,” I say quietly from where I’m standing near the counter.
“Kind of hard to ignore when she just looked at me like I’m contaminating her air supply.”
“She’s not worth your energy,” Macy adds.
More customers trickle in throughout the afternoon. Most are supportive. They buy books, offer kind words, and tell Sadie they’re proud of her. A few are cold. Judgmental. One woman actually mutters “disgraceful” under her breath loud enough for everyone to hear.
I watch Sadie handle it all with grace. She smiles. She rings up sales. She recommends books. She doesn’t let them see her flinch.
But I see it. Every time someone walks out without buying anything. Every time someone gives her the same look Mrs. Patterson gave. Every judgmental comment lands like a knife to the spine.
And I want to punch every fucking one of them.
By late afternoon, Macy takes over the register so Sadie can take a break. I follow her to the back room, where she sinks into a chair and drops her head into her hands.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispers.
I crouch in front of her. “You already are. And brilliantly, I should add.”
“They hate me.”
“Some of them do, but only in the sense that you’re just the next thing in a long line of things they want to hate. Most of them don’t.” I wait until she looks at me. “You’re still here, Sadie. You’re fighting. That’s what matters.”
She shakes her head. “What if it gets worse?”
“Then we deal with it. I promise I’m not letting you fight this alone.” I stand, offering her my hand. “Come on. You’ve got more people to prove wrong.”
She looks at my hand for a long moment. Then she takes it and lets me pull her to her feet and into a hug. Her arms wrap around my neck tightly. I pull her closer and don’t let go until she does.
We go back out to the shop floor together, and I don’t leave her side for the rest of the day. By the time we lock up at seven, Sadie looks exhausted, but she made it through the day.
“You did good,” I tell her as she finished counting the register. She places everything in a safe and locks it.
“I survived,” she corrects, turning off the lights as we move toward the door. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Surviving is good, tesoro.“ She locks the door behind us, and we climb the stairs to her apartment.
At her door, she pauses. “Mateo?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For staying. For calling Isabel and Dean and... just for everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do, though.” She meets my eyes. “I don’t know what I would have done without you today.”
There was never a scenario where you’d have to.
But I just nod. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She disappears inside, and I head down the stairs to my truck.
I’ll be back tomorrow. And the day after that. And every damn day she lets me show up.
Each night, it gets harder to walk away from her.
And every time I’m around her, the word friend fits a little less.