Chapter 11 #2
I shift mid-movement, hurling myself at the bowl like I can tackle sound itself. I land as a wolf, right on top of the bowl. It dents loudly beneath me.
She gasps. “Jason? What’s going on? Is Jason okay? Dog-Jason.”
Wolf-me whines in the exact tone that says I’m regretting everything. She bends to see if Dog-Jason is okay.
“Jason? Human-Jason. I need to know if Dog-Jason is okay. Are you okay?”
I hear the panic in her voice. I shift back, breathing like I sprinted a marathon. “Yeah, he’s fine. We’re both fine.”
She pauses, tilting her head as she listens. Suspicious.
Fuck.
I change back. The heat from shifting back and forth is scorching my balls.
I pad over to her and lick her hand.
“Okay, he’s good.” She scratches the top of my head as she blows out a long breath. “You scared me there for a moment.” She heads to the sink again and I shift back, wiping the sweat from my brow. “Do you have any pets?”
“Nah, I spend too much time away from home. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Since I don’t have a home, this is the understatement of the year.
She nods. “Makes sense. Do you travel a lot to teach people like me to cook?”
“Something like that.”
Again, she looks suspicious.
I try to lean casually on the counter. If my mind thinks I’m casual, maybe I’ll stop acting like a tool. But my elbow slips and hits the cutting board. Garlic flies in all directions. A piece even hits her on the chin. Jesus, what is happening to me?
“Everything’s good!” I announce. “Normal kitchen noises! Nothing weird happening at all!”
She wipes her face. “Not for nothing, Jason, but you seem to be clumsier in the kitchen than I am.”
Think fast! “Uh… it’s all a test to see if you can handle yourself if the unexpected happens. Ten out of ten, by the way.”
“Isn’t there a way to do that without destroying my kitchen? You could use a water pistol or bang on pots or something.” She laughs.
I wasn’t wrong when I said she’s a ten out of ten. She handles herself beautifully. Unlike me. If I’m going to survive even five minutes of this charade, I’m going to need help.
Possibly divine intervention.
But for now, I clear my throat and pray she doesn’t notice the fact that I am sweating like a criminal.
“All right,” I say brightly. Too brightly. “Back to cooking.”
“Jason, you’re a good dog, but you’re being a little distracting today. Can you lie down and let me finish this? I’ll give you a huge treat when I’m done.” She reaches out to scratch Jason.
Fuck. I drop to all fours, shift, and let out the fakest little whine.
“Aww,” she coos, rubbing my wolf ears. “You really are tired today. I might be overworking you.”
I pad out the kitchen like I’m listening to her, then shift back instantly and sneak back beside her before she turns.
We get back to cooking, and now that I’m on two legs, I notice she has some things labeled in her kitchen but not everything.
I saw on one of the videos I watched that a braille labeling machine can be very helpful.
And I overheard the note on the phone to get one.
I’m worried about how she will take the advice.
I don’t want her to feel like I don’t think she’s capable of figuring this stuff out for herself, but I go ahead anyway.
“You know, it would make your life a bit easier if everything was labeled in your kitchen. That way you wouldn’t mistake a tin of dog food for a tin of tomatoes.”
She laughs, and the sound floats through the kitchen on the breeze from the open window. “Don’t think that hasn’t happened before.”
Laughing with her is so damn easy.
“I had a labeling machine, but I misplaced it in the move.”
“It’s amazing how easily that can happen.”
“Right?” She grins. Today has been a good day for her. Violet smiles a lot, but it feels like she’s smiling more today. Maybe it’s because she had such a tough night last night.
“Do you have any family nearby?”
I hate asking her questions I already know the answers to. It feels worse than playing the dog, more manipulative somehow. Like I’m choosing the lie instead of wearing it.
But I want to hear her say it. I want to know what she gives me that she never gives anyone else.
“Just Meemaw. She and my late papaw took me in after my father ran away with someone barely old enough to consent, and my mother chose her bad habits over being a good mother.”
She turns a deep, mortified red.
“Wow. I don’t know why I just told you that. Usually, I save my trauma-dumping for Dog-Jason.”
I chuckle and reach for her hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I honestly don’t mind. Every family’s got a story, you know?”
She nods, but I can feel her retreat just a little, like she’s worried she’s said too much. I file it away—not the story itself, but the instinct, that need to protect herself.
So I change course.
“Meemaw, huh? That sounds like a fun grandma name.”
“Oh, you have no idea.”
The smile that spreads across her face is easy, unguarded. It’s affection mixed with tolerance—the kind you only have for someone who raised you and drove you crazy in equal measure.
It makes something warm bloom low in my belly.
“Yeah?” I lean against the counter, watching her. “Tell me about her. Uh… if I’m not being too nosy.”
“I don’t mind,” she says, lips twitching. “But you might regret asking.”
“Well, now I definitely need to know. But first, sauté the vegetables while I throw in some seasoning.”
She moves without hesitation, confident now. The way she settles into the space, so relaxed and sure, does something to me. I’d helped give her that, and that made me feel a little better about the lie.
“So,” I say casually. “Spill the tea on Meemaw.”
She stirs, brow furrowing as she thinks. “Okay. If Meemaw is in the passenger seat, she always reclines it so far back she might as well be in the backseat.”
I snort. “Has she ever said why?”
“Oh yeah. She says it’s the safest way to travel.” Violet smiles to herself. “And she’s not wrong. When I had my accident, I was taking Meemaw to her checkup after her hip operation. She walked away without a scratch.”
My chest tightens at the word accident, but I don’t touch it. Not yet. Not ever, unless she opens that door.
“At least,” Violet continues, “when I picture her now, I still see her reclined in the seat with her floppy hat and sunglasses, like she was cruising Route 66 instead of going to a doctor’s appointment.”
I grin as I picture it. “Meemaw had a hip replacement, huh?”
She gasps. “Do not let her hear you say that. She’ll skin you alive.”
I hiss out a laugh. “Noted.”
“She insists it was just a minor hip operation because they only removed a small bone chip.”
“That still sounds pretty miserable,” I mutter, adding stock to the pan. “How the hell did she end up with a piece of bone floating around in her hip?”
“If you ask Meemaw, it happened on the ranch when she was a girl. She was trying to show up some boys, and her horse got spooked by a dog.”
“Poor dog.”
She snorts. “She never forgave it.”
“Seems like she’d be better off blaming the horse.”
“She was just salty she fell off in front of the boys she was trying to impress.”
I turn off the heat, and a comfortable silence settles over the kitchen. Violet leans back against the counter, loose and happy, like she’s forgotten to be careful for a minute.
I don’t want the moment to end.
“You haven’t really given me anything to regret yet,” I say.
Her eyes light up. “Oh! Hold on.”
She points somewhere just to the left of me, and I take a sip of water.
“One time, Meemaw drove past the sheriff’s office during a town festival—with her megaphone—just to tell him she thinks he’s a loser.”
I choke, spraying water everywhere. “Why?”
“Because he came by once to tell her she couldn’t keep the bobcat she found hurt on the side of the road.”
“Really? She tried to keep a bobcat?”
“Oh, that’s nothing. A few months later, she ran the same sheriff off her ranch with a meat cleaver.”
“Did he come to tell her she couldn’t have a black bear?”
“Worse. He told her she needed to turn her music down because it was after midnight.”
“Didn’t you say she lived on a ranch?”
“Exactly.”
“Was she projecting the music through the megaphone too?”
She pauses, thoughtful. “You know, she very well might have been.”
I laugh—really laugh—and the sound surprises me. I can’t remember the last time it came this easily. “Did he arrest her?”
“He wouldn’t dare. She actually accused him of trespassing.”
“The sheriff?”
“The one and the same.”
“Was he?”
“According to Meemaw? Absolutely.”
“She sure sounds like a character.”
“Do not tell her that,” Violet warns. “I’ll skin you alive.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Yes, ma’am.”
My wolf snorts. Like grandma, like granddaughter. I think he might be right.
When the dish simmers, she leans in to smell. “I can’t believe this. It smells amazing.”
“Taste.”
She does.
Her lips part. “Holy—this is good!”
“You did it,” I say softly.
Her whole face lights up, fractures the hardness in me. I need to see more of this.
“So,” I say, to distract myself and to make sure I do get more of seeing her this way, “lessons are weekly. Next week’s lesson is cashew chicken. Would you be interested in another lesson?”
“I’d love that,” she says instantly. “And I’ll get a braille labeler before then.”
I nod. “Good call. Also… your house could use a few ADA adjustments.”
She straightens fast. “Really?”
“Simple ones. Non-slip grips, tactile stove markers, pantry organization. Those kinds of things.” Thank you, YouTube.
“You’d… help with that?”
“I can invite someone from the adaptive living program,” I lie. “He’s good.”
Buff is great with this kind of thing.
“Yes, yes, please!”
She’s glowing.
I am dying.
“That would help so much,” she whispers. “Thank you, Jason.”
“No,” I say softly. “Thank you.”
She tilts her head. “For what?”
“For trusting me.”
Her cheeks warm. “Well… you seem trustworthy.”
The guilt sinks like a lead balloon.
If only she knew.