14. Conrad #2
Amethyst looked at me then. Behind the concern, I saw recognition.
She understood this too well. Work swallowing your life.
Trying desperately to make scraps of time meaningful afterward.
And I knew, she’d come here because she missed her sister, and she desperately wanted to spend time with children.
She mouthed thank you while the kids debated logistics.
I inclined my head.
Winnie put her cool fingers against my temple. In front of everyone, the gesture felt overtly intimate.
“You need darkness, electrolytes, and silence,” she diagnosed.
CJ pointed toward her. “You should listen to the queen.”
Amethyst laughed so suddenly she snorted.
After the children left with Amethyst, the house became so quiet it almost felt wrong.
There was no Billie narrating her own movements from room to room.
No CJ loudly workshopping story ideas to unwilling audiences.
No Bianca correcting everybody’s grammar.
Only the faint ticking of the kitchen clock, and the soft rustle of Winnie moving around downstairs.
I slept for nearly three hours.
The migraine didn’t fully disappear, but when I woke sometime after noon, the violent edge had dulled into something manageable. The blackout curtains muted the sunlight enough that opening my eyes no longer felt like a medical emergency.
I lay there, enjoying the quiet house and cool sheets. I had no responsibilities actively screaming at me. I inhaled deeply, and the scent of garlic filled my nostrils. And butter. Oh, and was that bread?
My stomach growled.
Rolling slowly out of bed, I padded downstairs in gray sweatpants and a faded college T-shirt that should’ve been retired sometime during the Obama administration.
Warmth enveloped the kitchen when I stepped into it.
Late-afternoon light filtered through the windows in gold bands.
Winnie was chopping herbs, the knife moving over the wooden board with a speed I’d only ever seen from the chefs on TV.
I never understood how they didn’t chop their damn fingers off.
Something about seeing her bare hands moving so deftly made my brain temporarily short-circuit.
“There’s the patient. You slept hard.”
“I think I briefly astral projected.”
Winnie giggled, and the sound sent a jolt through me. “That means the medicine worked.”
I leaned against the doorway. The kitchen smelled incredible. Something rich simmered on the stove, and fresh bread cooled under the window. Vegetables waited in neat little bowls, ready to be tossed into a pan.
Everything around Winnie always felt intentional and deeply cared for.
“You’re staring,” she said lightly.
“I’m trying to figure out how you made the house smell like an Italian grandmother lives here.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Oh, you most definitely should.” I wandered farther into the kitchen and opened one of the pots. “Can I eat this with a spoon directly over the sink?”
“No.”
“What if I’m super careful?”
She wagged a finger in my direction. “You’re still not allowed.”
Grumbling, I closed the lid.
Winnie smiled without looking up from her herbs. “How’s your head?”
“Better.” I paused. “Still vaguely painful, but it’s more of a dull ache instead of stabbing pain.”
“Good. I think you’re going to survive.”
“I appreciate your faith in me.”
A quick, amused grin tugged at her lips. “I’ve seen you survive Billie with glitter glue.”
“Yeah, nothing compares to that.”
The silence that settled afterward felt easy.
Comfortable. I couldn’t remember the last time being alone with another adult had been comfortable instead of effortful.
After Jade died, most conversations had turned careful around me.
People either treated me too delicately or overcompensated by pretending grief wasn’t a thing at all.
Winnie never did either. She just… stayed normal. Even when things weren’t.
I watched her stir something in the pan.
“You know,” I said slowly, “I’ve decided I want to learn how to cook.”
She turned toward me fully this time, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Now?”
“Why not?”
She stared at me for a moment. “Well, no offense, but you look like you’re a few minutes away from collapsing on a fainting couch.”
“Harsh.” I crossed my arms. “I’m serious, though. About the cooking.”
That softened her expression immediately. “You really want to learn?”
“Absolutely. I know how to survive with the kids, but I want to know how to actually cook.”
Her smile started slowly then spread wider. God help me. That smile could probably destabilize governments.
“All right,” she said. “Wash your hands.”
“Yes, chef.”
Twenty minutes later, I’d discovered three important things. First, Winnie was an incredible teacher. Second, she became quite bossy in the kitchen. And third, watching her cook at close range was deeply distracting.
“Your knife grip is wrong,” she informed me while stepping beside me at the cutting board.
Before I could respond, she moved behind me and reached around to adjust my hand placement. My entire nervous system forgot how to function. I lost all track of Winnie’s instructions. Hell, I even lost my grip on the knife.
Her fingers wrapped lightly around mine. Cool skin. Soft touch. The faint scent of rosemary and citrus wafted from her.
“See,” she said. “All you need is more control.”
I swallowed hard. “Right.”
She stepped back. I missed the proximity of her body instantly.
This was becoming a problem.
A serious one.
Winnie worked for me. She spent more waking hours with my children than anyone else.
If I crossed that line and everything fell apart, I wouldn’t just lose whatever this strange thing was between us, the kids would lose her too.
I’d spent months trying to rebuild some sense of stability for them.
The last thing they needed was another adult disappearing from their lives because I couldn’t get my feelings under control.
“You’re chopping emotionally again,” Winnie said after I’d been lost in my thoughts for God knew how long.
I cleared my throat, trying to save face. “What does that even mean?”
“It means these potatoes look like you had a personal vendetta against them. You’ve made potato mush.”
“I prefer aggressive food preparation.”
“I can tell.”