Chapter 10
Violet
If joy had a soundtrack, it would contain, among many sounds, the pop of a champagne bottle, Meemaw’s laugh, Jason’s soft grumbling whenever I say something ridiculous, and now the sound of bacon sizzling in a pan.
The champagne pop because it tells my brain, instantly and automatically, it’s time to celebrate. Before the accident, it meant birthdays, promotions, tiny victories. After the accident, it meant I’d survived something brutal and unfair and was still allowed to have good things.
Meemaw’s laugh because it’s the sound that held me together when everything else fell apart. It’s home and comfort and the kind of love that doesn’t flinch when life gets ugly.
Jason’s soft grumbles because for reasons I refuse to unpack just yet, he makes me feel seen. He reacts to me, not my blindness, and my nonsense delights him instead of exhausting him.
And bacon sizzling?
It’s warmth in sound form, a tiny reminder that good things can still sneak up on me, even after everything.
This is the first time since the accident that I’ve cooked bacon.
The popping fat and unpredictable splatter used to intimidate me. I didn’t want to risk another burn, another lesson in how fragile my body is now.
But today, I’m putting on my big-girl panties and cooking a fancy meal from a recipe I’ve never tried before.
Beef bourguignon.
I sway my hips to Ed Sheeran playing from my TV and let myself give in to the pure, undiluted optimism rising in my chest. I’m going to smash this challenge I’ve set for myself. I am.
“Step one, Jason,” I announce, doing a little twirl because why not? “Crispy bacon equals crispy confidence.”
I sing the lyrics into the spatula while the bacon pops in the pot, humming off-key like I’m auditioning for Nailed It: Singing Version. Jason sits somewhere behind me, silent but here, the way only a dog can be.
I drag the spoon through the pot and smile at the sound of the fat talking back. I can feel the heat brush my wrist when I hover close enough.
Top tip: if you’re scared of bacon-splatter burns, fry the bacon in a pot, not a pan.
Thank you, @IcanSeeClearlyNow. Listening to her helpful tips has been a game changer for me.
The bacon is starting to feel crispier beneath my spatula, and I grin. “See? Already a success. Suck it, Gordon Ramsay.”
Jason lets out a low huff. He probably has no idea who Gordon Ramsay is.
Honestly? That makes him equally unlucky and lucky.
I find the bowl of cubed beef by memory—three steps to the left, hand to the counter, slide until my fingers brush cool ceramic.
“Slow and steady wins the race, isn’t that right, Jason?
We do not want a repeat of last time. I think Hattie would have a full-blown conniption if she had to come give me more stitches. ”
I pause, then add, “Asking for a friend… but is it wrong that I didn’t tell Meemaw I fell off the horse? Actually, no. Don’t answer that. I’m still not telling her.”
I trade the spatula for tongs like a boss bitch. “Look out, world, I’m here for action today.” I tap the pot’s rim so I know where I am, then lower the beef piece by piece.
The sear sings.
“Yes! That’s the sound of flavor, my dude.” Grinning, I do a little shimmy. I feel ridiculous, but who’s judging? Jason? He saw me trip over a laundry basket this morning. We’re way past judgment.
The steam brushes my face, and I tilt back a little.
“Don’t judge me if I burn my eyebrows off, okay?”
A soft sigh.
“Not helpful, Jason.”
When the beef is done, I scoop it out.
Plop.
The wet splat on the floor tells me I missed the bowl completely.
“Shit and damn it,” I groan. “Missed that. You can have it later, boy, but not now. It’s probably hot enough to sear your tongue off.”
With the next few scoops, I’m more deliberate, my wrist brushing the rim of the bowl each time until I’m sure the food is in the bowl, not on the floor.
“Whew.”
I add the carrots and onions to the pot, and the sound shifts from an aggressive sizzle to a softer, gentler one.
“Didn’t miss this time,” I say, though a thin edge of doubt sneaks in, threading under my words despite the cheer.
I stir until the onions sound softer and feel more slippery.
Jason’s toenails click against the tile as he gets closer. He laps up the meat that fell on the floor, but still stays close to me.
“What? You don’t trust me? I’ve listened to like, like, eight tutorials. That basically makes me French.”
I bump into the drawer I neglected to close properly and wince.
“Okay, maybe not French French. But optimistic French.”
The garlic goes in next. Yeah, that’s the stuff. The house already smells like victory, rich wine, garlic, sizzling beef, and for a delicious, fleeting moment, I let myself believe I’ve got this.
Maybe I’m not the girl who burns toast and bumps into her own coffee table twice a week.
Maybe I can be the version of me I used to be. The girl who cooked because she loved it… not because she was trying to prove she still could.
“Okay, flour,” I mutter, patting the counter. “One tablespoon, right. Siri? Siri—”
Nothing.
Perfect. Abandoned by technology at a critical moment. “Well, one tablespoon it is. I’m sure it’s just for thickening the sauce.”
My hand sweeps wider and bumps against a bottle. The sharp scent of wine hits my nose an instant before the cool liquid spreads under my fingers.
“Crap, crap, crap.” I grab a towel and blot wildly, following the spill by instinct, locating the edges through texture and temperature.
It’s fine. It’s salvageable. My heart shouldn’t be pounding over spilled wine, but it’s jittery, jittery, too aware of how quickly a small mistake can snowball.
Okay, Violet, no need to get into a tizzy.
No use crying over a little spilled wine. Ha, see what I did there?
“That was intentional,” I decide. “For aroma.”
Jason snorts.
“Quiet, you,” I laugh. “I’m romanticizing my mistakes.”
I follow the heat to the pot, then reach for the spoon. My elbow taps something, and there’s a clatter of metal hitting metal.
Then white-hot pain lances across the heel of my hand as my skin brushes the oven’s rim. “Shit and fucking damn it!”
I jerk back, shaking the sting out. My pulse flares in my wrists, in my throat, but I breathe. I regroup. I always regroup.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Then I smell the smoke.
Just a whisper of it at first, that acrid tickle curling into my nose, the barely-there warmth gathering high in the room.
“Don’t,” I whisper, as if smoke follows verbal instructions. Then the whisper thickens and grows until it becomes something real. My stomach drops.
And the universe, always dramatic, decides to punctuate the moment.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
The smoke alarm shrieks so loud, my bones vibrate. I flinch, jerking back, and my shoulder slams into the cupboard behind me.
“No, no—shh!” I shout up at the ceiling, waving the towel like a deranged bird.
I can’t see the smoke, but I can feel it: the warmth rising, the heaviness of the air, the metallic taste settling on my tongue.
I cough, eyes watering, fanning blindly until my arm aches.
The pot lid rattles. Somewhere Jason’s claws click nervously on the tile.
I’m moving too fast, grabbing too high, too low, searching for knobs and lids and switches like they’re all strangers.
Finally, mercifully, the heat cuts off. A draft from the window chases some of the smell away. I rush over and throw the window open wider.
The alarm chokes out one last offended beep and dies. Merciful silence. And everything inside me collapses.
I slide down the cabinet until my ass hits the cold tile. My legs fold in. My breath shudders out, small and broken.
“I try so hard,” I whisper.
The words taste like defeat.
Jason moves. I feel him before I hear him, a warm weight settling beside me, pressing close. Like he’s bracing me from tipping over.
“I just want to do normal things,” I breathe. My throat burns. “Just cook dinner. Just follow a recipe. Just… function. And I hate that it’s so hard now. I hate that I have to think about every inch of this kitchen. Every step. Every sound.”
My voice shakes. I can’t stop it.
“I hate that I can’t just look and know what went wrong. I hate that I have to pretend I’m fine because if I don’t pretend, I’ll fall apart and never stop.”
My fingers find his fur. I grip it, trying to keep myself tethered. Jason presses his forehead against my shoulder, and the warmth of it nearly undoes me completely.
“I know I’ll get there,” I whisper. “I know I will. I know it takes time. And adapting. And customizing everything. And building the systems that make life livable. But, God—”
A sob slips through.
“I am so tired of acting like I’m not drowning some days.”
I allow myself five minutes. Five minutes to let the racking sobs free from the cage I’ve locked tighter than the gates of hell. Then I dry my tears. “Maybe it’s salvageable. If I just…”
Jason shifts. Then…
A sniff. A dramatic, offended exhale.
He pads closer to me, sniffs again, and whines. I let out a wet, choking laugh.
“Jason! It can’t be that bad.” The pot scrapes on the stove and I can only assume he needed to make his point by nudging it.
Then his steps retreat. A small breathy laugh punches out of me, shaky but real. “Okay. Fine. It is that bad.”
I wipe my face with the inside of my wrist. The tears feel hot and sticky, like disappointment clinging to my skin.
I sniff. “Well, I guess we’re having takeout.”
I reach for my phone as Jason plops down beside me so heavily the floor vibrates.
“One burger for my opinionated sous-chef,” I mutter, “and mac and cheese for me. Comfort food.”
Dinner arrives. I sit cross-legged on the couch while Jason leans against me with his giant, reassuring weight. Every stroke of his fur calms some frayed wire inside my chest. We watch TV. Or rather, I listen. He watches. His tail swishes every time there’s a dramatic music cue.
At some point, the exhaustion wins. My head gets heavy. My limbs go warm.
I feel a furred shoulder under my cheek and then… Nothing.
I wake to Hattie’s cheerful voice declaring she brought cookies.
“And don’t fight me on it. Those horse riding lessons will burn off any calories. Where are you?”
I rub my eyes. Hang on a minute. Warm sheets. Warm blankets. Warm air. My fingers graze the duvet. My cane is beside the bed. My shoes are off. I’m tucked in. Comfortably. Carefully.
I don’t remember getting here.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Hattie’s disapproving tone cuts through the room. “You are getting back on the horse. I’m not letting you hide in bed all day.”
Her footsteps clomp up the stairs, then the warm duvet is ripped off me. “Out of bed, missy.”
Out of bed? The last thing I remember is falling asleep on the couch.
“I need to change the locks.”
“Wouldn’t help. I’d find a way in. We’re bonded now. I saved your life.”
I snort, and so does Jason. “You stitched me up.”
“Yeah, and if I hadn’t, you would’ve bled out.”
“And you say I’m dramatic.”
“Why are you still in bed, anyway? You’re always up when the sparrows fart.”
“I must’ve been really tired,” I mumble, stretching. “I don’t even remember getting into bed.”
“Probably the wine you drank. This place smells like a brewery.”
I flush, then laugh as I recount what happened.
“Oh my god, I had the same thing happen to me last week. I knocked over a vase and went to grab it with the arm I no longer have. I felt like a real tit.” She pauses. “Oh, Jason. I didn’t see you there. I probably shouldn’t say tit in front of the dog.”
I swing my legs off the bed and slide them into my slippers. I don’t even remember putting them next to the bed. I think I’m developing new habits, and it makes me smile.
“Come here, boy. Come on, Jason, buddy. Let me get a cuddle before you go on duty,” Hattie cajoles Jason, but he doesn’t move. She’s really respectful of the no-touching-the-service-dog-when-he’s-working rule.
There’s a whine that Jason always gives off when someone cuddles him. It’s like he’s tolerating it for my sake. He never does it when I cuddle him but it’s like he tolerates it from everyone else.
“Fine, you old grump. I thought guide dogs were supposed to be friendly.”
“He is friendly. He just doesn’t like to be treated like a dog.”
“But he is a dog. A dog that looks scarily like a wolf, but maybe that’s his problem. He’s having an identity crisis.”
A low growl comes from Jason. But I’ve learned already his growl is worse than his bite, and we both laugh.
“See? It’s true. I struck a nerve.”
“I think he’s disagreeing with you, to be honest.”
“We can argue about that on the way to Meemaw’s,” Hattie decides.
We’re picking Meemaw up on the way to the sanctuary, since she and Hattie want to see how I’m getting on there. Even though I’m nervous about getting back on the horse, I’m excited that they’re coming. I love that they are so supportive of me.
“Hey, Hattie. Don’t tell Meemaw about the fall.”
I can practically feel her eyebrows raising. “My lips are sealed… By the way, I was miming zipping my lips.”
I laugh. Hattie always tells me which actions she’s using. It’s equally heartwarming and ridiculous.
“Make coffee while I get dressed, will you? The travel mugs—”
“I know, I know,” she says. “Third cupboard from the door.”
Hattie makes her way to the kitchen while I get dressed. I feel Jason walk out the room. He always does that when I’m getting changed. Even though he’s a dog, I like to think he’s giving me my privacy.
A mix of emotions swirl through me while I brush my teeth. I’m bummed about last night, but ready to tackle today. I’m going to get back on the horse, literally and figuratively. I’m also excited about having Meemaw and Hattie there to witness it. Even if Meemaw doesn’t know what happened.
It’s symbolic of a new start. Today is a new day. And there will be times I fall off the horse, but the only person stopping me from getting back on is me.
P.S. Universe. I’m only being figurative. If I could stay on the horse, that would be great.