Chapter 22 Kira
KIRA
The Burrow Bitches
Kira: *one attachment* Look, I alphabetized the spice cabinet!
Ariadne: Please just submit your application already.
Britney: i’m all for procrastinating but even i know this has gone too far
Macey: She’s already rearranged all the bathroom products and learned to juggle.
I sat cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced precariously on the fleece blanket covering my knees. My favorite flannel pajama pants—blue plaid and fraying at the seams—were keeping me cozy, as well as the sweatshirt that boldly proclaimed Hot girls make art.
“Okay, hold on,” I muttered, fingers hovering over the trackpad. Macey was perched on the arm of the couch, cradling a mug of coffee that smelled like hazelnut.
“Kira, you’ve been holding on for twenty minutes,” Macey teased, her grin wide enough to rival the sun that was struggling to peel through the gray sky. She nudged my shoulders. “Hit. The. Button.”
“I’m checking for typos,” I shot back, though my stomach was doing somersaults at the thought of sending my art residency application. The blinking cursor mocked me as it hovered over the Submit button.
“You’ve read it so many times, you probably know it better than your name. Your art pieces have already been dropped off at the studio. Just send the rest of the application in already!”
I inhaled sharply, the way I pictured an actor would before stepping on stage.
This was it—the culmination of months of sketching, painting crappy canvases, starting over, and late-night sessions where I wondered if my dreams were too big to obtain.
The Chicago Echo Studio program could change everything.
“What if they hate it?” I whispered, glancing at Macey. “What if they think my art is a joke?”
Macey set the mug down on the coffee table and placed her hands on my shoulders.
Her eyes softened, but her voice was firm.
“First of all, your work is incredible, and if they don’t see that, they’re idiots.
Second, how much time have you and I wasted by doing things because we felt like we had to, not because we wanted to?
This is your opportunity to do something you love.
At the very least, you put together an amazing application, and you should be proud. ”
I nodded, feeling like words wouldn’t escape my mouth even if I tried.
“Now hit the button so we can celebrate. Those cookies aren’t going to eat themselves.”
Cookies?
No. Focus, Kira.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a heartbeat longer, and then—click.
The Your Application Has Been Submitted! message popped up, and for a moment, everything was still.
“OH MY GOD!” Macey practically tackled me, sending the laptop onto the blanket and me into a fit of giggles.
“I did it,” I said, voice shaky. “I actually did it!”
The Kira of a year ago—hell, even a few months ago—could have never pictured this moment: pursuing a career path outside of what I majored in college. Celebrating the submittal of an application, instead of waiting to see if I won.
Because as much as I hoped that I was selected, I knew I had already overcome the most difficult hurdle: putting myself out there. Challenging myself.
Dare I say I was enjoying doing scary things?
“You freaking did it!” Macey whooped, jumping off the couch and doing a ridiculous victory dance that involved flailing arms and what looked like an attempt at the worm.
I clutched my sides, laughing so hard I could barely breathe. “What are you doing?”
“Celebrating! Obviously!” Macey huffed, collapsing dramatically on the armchair. “Now hand me a cookie before I pass out from exertion. I hid the box under the coffee table.”
Pulling out the white bakery box, I passed one of the chocolate chip cookies to Macey. I grabbed one for myself, savoring the gooey sweetness that felt like a reward.
I leaned back against the couch, letting the cookie crumble in my hand. “Thanks, Macey.”
“For what?” Macey asked through a mouth full of cookie.
“For always believing in me.”
Macey shrugged, but her grin was unstoppable. “That’s what roommates are for. Even if I thought your last piece was a little unusual.”
She was right. My third sample for my submission, a mixed-media piece, fit well within the theme of identity, though.
I called it “the threads between us.” It was a collage and embroidery piece, one that used a mix of notes, printed texts, and old photos, along with colorful threads to tell the story of how the Burrow Bitches came to be.
It was the quickest I had completed one of my submissions, done within the entirety of a night. Needless to say, I was sleep-deprived at work the next day.
“I’m just glad it’s done,” I said.
“Are you and Landon doing anything to celebrate?”
“He doesn’t know yet that I finished. He’s actually on the way to pick me up right now, so I’ll tell him then.”
“Ooh, maybe he’s picking you up and whisking you away on a romantic weekend getaway,” Macey said. “Because you two are so in loooove. Not like that man ever stopped. He looks at you like his heart would cease beating if you said the word.”
“Romantic getaways are Noah’s and your thing.” I paused. “I’m assuming fake dating in Aruba falls into that category.”
Macey rolled her eyes playfully. “It all sounds silly now, but it worked out. Just as you and Landon will.”
I gave a small smile and chewed the rest of the cookie. From a relationship perspective, I felt secure. Landon and I were doing better than we ever really had. Everything was going well. Which, of course, made me question when something would go wrong.
Landon picked me up a few minutes later, leaving me with just enough time to get dressed and ready for the day. I left on the Hot people make art sweatshirt, though, and I would not be judged for that decision.
“How was your morning?” Landon asked as he pulled the car out and onto the main road.
“Good.” Any attempt at building the suspense of the announcement was ruined because I blurted out, “I submitted my art residency application this morning.”
His surprise was so palpable he nearly swerved the car. “Holy shit! How did it feel?”
“Nerve-racking during the process but amazing after.”
At a red stoplight, Landon leaned over and kissed me, slow and solid. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured against my lips.
And just like that, the buzzing in my head—the stress, the what-ifs, the absolute certainty that I’d left something out—faded into something softer.
“Thank you,” I said, breathless in a way that had nothing to do with the cold air outside. “I kind of feel like I could sleep for twelve hours. Or eat a frozen pizza and cry.”
He chuckled and placed his right hand on my thigh. God, did men know the power they had over us when they did that? “We can do both of those things. But first, we have to buy vegetables.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Produce run. You’re coming with me to the farmer’s market. The diner needs a bunch of vegetables. It’s very high stakes.”
I laughed. “What better way to celebrate surviving an art residency application than elbowing grandmas over the last bunch of beets?”
“You’re underestimating how intense my mom gets about fresh ingredients. We need to bring back enough veggies to feed a small army. Or at least a soft opening crowd.”
I shook my head and tried not to smile too much. “Well. Lucky for you, I’m an expert in carrot selection.”
The market was quieter than usual, probably because the sky looked like it was thinking about snow. Still, the smell of cinnamon sugar and roasted peanuts gave everything a weirdly cozy vibe.
We walked side by side, my hands stuffed deep into my coat pockets, occasionally brushing shoulders.
Landon insisted on picking kale first. He grabbed a bundle of green, assessing it like it might explode.
I took it from him gently. “That’s spinach.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Definitely is.”
He glanced at the sign. “Okay, fine. But it looks like kale.”
“You’re hopeless,” I said, handing it back with a grin.
“Hopefully not, considering I’m officially a new cook at the diner.”
“What?” I turned to face him fully, my grin widening. “You are?”
He nodded, a little sheepish but clearly pleased with himself. “Mom and I talked about it the other day.”
“Landon, that’s amazing!” I threw my arms around him before I could think twice, squeezing him tight.
He chuckled, hugging me back. “You really think so?”
“Of course I do. You’ve been basically living in that kitchen anyway. This just makes it official.” I leaned back to look at him, still smiling. “I’m proud of you. And your mom must be over the moon.”
“She had a mix of happy and stress-induced tears,” he admitted. “Tried to hide it behind the dry goods order, but yeah, she’s excited.”
I laughed. “You made your mom cry with kale and commitment. That’s kind of beautiful.”
“Spinach,” he corrected dryly, and I laughed harder.
We made our way from stall to stall, gathering winter squash, potatoes, onions, and a few strange-looking root things I couldn’t identify.
“You doing okay?” Landon asked after a while.
I looked up. “Yeah. Why?”
He shrugged, adjusting the strap of the canvas bag over his shoulder. “You just accomplished something big, and now I’m making you hold a bag of celery.”
“I don’t need a giant celebration. I’m happy here just being with you.”
Landon nodded like he didn’t believe me. “Okay. Well, if we survive this soft opening, I’m taking you out on a fancy, celebratory date.”
I stopped walking. “What do you mean if?”
He slowed too, exhaling like someone had just deflated him a little. “We’re having some problems with the diner. My mom’s freaking out. She tried to cancel, but I convinced her to persevere through the soft opening.”
Uh-oh.
“What kind of issues?”
He told me about all their struggles, from produce to technology to staffing.
I winced. “Yikes. How are you feeling?”
Landon gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes fixed on the slush-slick pavement. “A little terrified, honestly.”
I waited, letting the silence settle for a beat before nudging gently. “Because of the customer chaos or…something else?”
He glanced at me with that look he got when he was trying to play it cool, but his guard slipped.
“It’s not just the chaos,” he admitted. “It’s stepping into Dad’s shoes.
I mean, the man was a legend in that kitchen.
He could eyeball a soup recipe and make it taste like home. I’m not him. I’ll never be him.”
My heart pulled at the edges. “Landon—”
“I know I’m not supposed to compare myself,” he cut in quickly, like he’d already had this argument with himself a hundred times.
“But I do. I keep thinking about the way he ran the place, how everyone respected him, how he made it all look easy. And I’m just me.
Barely keeping up. Messing up spinach and kale and second-guessing myself constantly. ”
I took a step closer until we were toe to toe in the quiet stretch of the market. “You don’t have to be your dad. You just have to be you. Your heart is in it, and that’s what people will remember.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say exactly what I need to hear. Like you can read my mind or something.”
“It’s not mind reading. It’s just knowing you.” I smiled. “Besides, I’ll help you.”
“Help me?”
“I want to be there for you like you’ve been for me. I can jump in for the soft opening. Run food, take orders, whatever you need.”
In college, I waitressed at this tiny Italian place that paid me in tips and unlimited breadsticks—basically living the dream if your dream involves marinara stains and smelling like garlic twenty-four seven.
Macey worked there with me too, which meant every shift was chaos.
We once accidentally served an entire table of ten the wrong order, but they were so charmed by her fake Italian accent they tipped us extra.
“Kira…” He looked torn between grateful and reluctant. “That’s sweet of you, but it’s not your problem.”
“I want to help. Really.” I bumped his arm with mine. “It’s not forever. Just a few days to keep the place from imploding.”
He gave a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’d seriously do that?”
“If it means you and your mom won’t have a nervous breakdown, absolutely.” I smiled. “Besides, it sounds kind of fun. And it’ll give me a new excuse to wear my black boots and pretend I’m still twenty-one.”
He leaned over and kissed my temple, lingering for a beat. “You’re a lifesaver. But I’m buying you the fanciest dinner after this. Like cloth napkins, real candles, maybe even dessert and wine.”
“Damn,” I said, mock-stunned. “Wine? You are serious.”
“I’ll even let you order the weirdest thing on the menu.”
“I’ll remember that.” I laced my fingers with his as we made our way back to the car, debating what the weirdest thing we could order in Chicago was.