Chapter 30
Stevie moves out on a Monday, exactly two weeks before my contract ends.
I helped her load her things into her truck, but she assured me she didn’t need help once she got to the Airstream.
That was this morning, my day off, and I’ve spent the day mostly trying to fill the time.
I grocery shopped and visited a pottery store in the town square, where I blacked out and bought another coffee cup.
This one has the mountains etched into the ceramic, and it looks so much like the view from the cabin that I couldn’t walk out of the store without it.
At the store, I got ingredients for a pasta recipe I found online.
It’s so unlike me to make anything other than gym rat basics, not because I live that way, but because it’s fast and easy and nutritious.
But as I sat on the couch after Stevie drove away, none of my usual meals sounded good to me.
Now, it’s time to actually make dinner, and it seems much more daunting. On the kitchen counter is a spread of fresh produce, bulbs of garlic, expensive parmesan, and the fancy olive oil that the recipe swore was essential.
I stare at the ingredients for approximately sixty full seconds before making up my mind.
Stevie opens the Airstream door before I even knock, her brows knitted together in confusion at the paper bags full of groceries in my arms.
“I brought dinner.”
Hazel eyes flick up to mine. “Doesn’t look like dinner.”
“I tried to cook it, but I swear I heard the tomatoes laughing at me.”
A grin unfurls across her lips, and I feel it right in the center of my chest, how stupid it was to come here.
She told me she missed the alone time when I was here last, but I think we both knew it was bullshit.
She was trying to put some much needed space between us, and here I am, erasing it because I was too lonely to think about the consequences.
“Come on, I’ll make dinner.”
I shake my head. “I want to make it with you. I want you to teach me how.” Her brows lift, and I shrug. “I’ve spoiled you on good coffee, and you’ve spoiled me on good food.”
“We’ve ruined each other.” She says it lightly, but I think we both feel the impact of the words. She backs away before we can let it sink in any further and motions me to come inside.
I haven’t seen the Airstream since last week, when she still had some finishing touches to put on it, but it looks good now, more homey and less like a construction site.
I follow her to the kitchen and set the bags on the small counter, just now noticing how small the kitchen is.
It’s decently sized for a mobile home, and I can tell she’s worked hard to make it functional and to maximize storage, but compared to the kitchen at the cabin, it’s tiny.
Stevie seems to be realizing the same. She’s standing about as far as she can get from me in the small area, but we’re still only inches apart.
“It’s going to be a little cramped,” she says.
I can smell the earthy, masculine scent of her perfume. Woodsy, and a little like the fig bars my mom used to pack in my school lunches. Decadent.
“That’s okay.”
Her eyes fix on me, but mine dip to her lips, the way she’s tucking the bottom between her teeth, before flitting back to her eyes. The moment stretches like taffy. One second, two, three.
It snaps when she clears her throat and pushes up the sleeves of her shirt. “We better wash up.”
I pour two glasses of red wine as Stevie reads over the recipe I sent to her phone and get to work unloading the rest of the ingredients.
“Looks easy enough,” Stevie says, and I look at her wide-eyed. “What?”
“I literally got so overwhelmed reading that I almost made a tomato sandwich and called it a day.”
Her laugh is warm as sunshine, and I am a flower turning toward it, seeking her light.
“It’s not even a hard recipe. It’s a simple bolognese.”
I lean a hip on her counter, crossing my arms over my chest as I watch her. “There’s nothing simple about it.”
“I don’t even need the recipe. I make this all the time.”
My lips quirk. “Now you’re just showing off.”
She takes the wine I extend in her direction and sips from the glass. The color stains her lips a deep red. Her tongue darts out, licking away a droplet from her upper lip, and I’m unable to look away. Transfixed.
“Let’s get cooking, Jim,” she says, and sets her wine glass down on the counter.
She stands on tiptoe, reaching behind me, her body barely grazing mine as she pulls a wooden cutting board down from one of the shelves.
Just that brush of her against me is enough to send a frisson of want barrelling down my spine.
“Jack,” I say.
She pulls back, holding the cutting board against her chest between us.
I don’t know what my eyes look like, but they must be transparent enough for her to see the thoughts written in my head, because her breath stutters, and I watch as her throat bobs in a swallow. The air around us is thick, syrupy.
We both wait, time suspended, to see what will happen, who will break the spell first, put an end to the moment.
It’s Stevie.
She swallows again, backing up. “Let’s cook, Jack.”
While I begin to dice the carrots, onions, and celery per Stevie’s instructions, she hooks her phone up to a bluetooth speaker and turns on an indie-folk playlist. The music diffuses the tension, making it bearable again, as I assume was her intention.
She sidles back up to me, sorting through the rest of the ingredients before beginning to peel and finely chop the garlic.
“I talked to my mom and Wren,” she says a few minutes later.
I look over at her, watch the way she deftly chops the garlic, scooping it up with the edge of the knife before putting it into an oiled cast iron Dutch oven.
There are scars on her hands, small knicks I’m assuming are from all the time she spends in the woods, and freckles on her forearms that are barely darker than her skin, only visible up close.
“How did it go?”
She leans a hip against the counter, letting the garlic brown. “Good.”
I wait for her to say more, but she only reaches for the vegetables I’ve been chopping, cupping them with her palms and dumping them into the pot with the garlic.
She finally looks at me, hazel eyes searching mine. Her hair is down today, hanging loose around her shoulder, a canopy of rich brown, and she tucks a strand of it behind her ear. “Are you happy with your life?”
For a moment, I’m unsure how to respond, but then I say, “Yeah, I’m happy. Are you?”
Her chin dips, and I watch as she picks at something stuck to her countertop. “I’m happy. Wren just said something, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”
“What did she say?”
She shakes her head, and reaches for a wooden spoon, using it to stir the vegetables in the pot.
“She was just talking about her life. And the way she made it sound…it felt like magic. And I just don’t know if that’s what we all get, you know?
It feels, I don’t know, selfish? To wish for something like that, to expect it. ”
Her words prick at me, and I stare at her for long seconds, taking in the curve of her jaw, the fringe of her lashes. She’s so beautiful, but she’s so much more than that. She’s kind and good and giving and selfless and loyal.
“You deserve magic, Stevie.”
Her eyes lift to mine, snagging on my gaze. “I’m happy with my life now,” she says. “I have it so good—my family, my friends, my hometown. I don’t need more than this.”
She says it with conviction, but it comes out almost as a question, like she’s asking for my reassurance.
So I nod, and we go back to cooking.
She asks about my work week, and I ask about what she’s been reading. We don’t talk about happiness anymore, but I can’t shake the question. The way she looked when she said magic, because while I may be happy in the broadest sense of the word, I don’t think my life feels like magic either.