“There you are, sweetling,” Astrid says as I enter the living room. “Would you mind going into the kitchen and helping Callie fix dinner?”
Gladly. I wander in there, still unnerved, to find Callie making sandwiches. I marvel at how she can be here, helping out so easily when her heart is still recovering from what happened between her and Jonah, too. I pull aluminum foil off a bowl to find potato salad. “I’ve been sent in to help. This looks delicious, by the way.”
She chuckles under her breath as she screws the lid onto a pesto-mayo jar. “Mom got this maggot in her brain back around Christmastime that we all needed to learn to cook. Or at least feed ourselves outside of take-out. It turns out I make a damn fine potato salad.”
I pass over a chunk of white, smelly cheese. “Jonah mentioned something about this. I guess Astrid taught him to cook, too?”
“More like, she dragged our sorry asses to some culinary classes. Kellan came for the first couple but conveniently found work excuses to get himself out of the rest.” She extracts a mandolin from a nearby drawer and proceeds to slice the cheese. “Mom totally wised up on this, though. Jonah and I weren’t allowed any outs, no matter how hard we begged.”
I wonder how that was for her—and for him—to be working in such close proximity to one another. I unzip a plastic bag filled with roasted turkey and lay pieces across the artisan bread she has already laid out. “Will likes to cook, you know.”
Her hands pause mid-slice, a sliver of cheese dangling off of the mandolin. The look she gives me is almost comical.
“I’m just saying, if you want some more pointers, I’m sure he can give you some.” I waggle my eyebrows meaningfully.
A hand falls to her hip as her eyes narrow.
It’s so hard not to giggle. “He was considering culinary school before coming here. You might want to let him know where you guys went. Maybe they have a program he can look into.”
Her mouth snaps shut; words come out from between gritted teeth. “Isn’t he busy with the new Métis Council?”
“I’ve been asleep for five days,” I say cheerfully. “You would know this better than I. Wouldn’t you?”
The mandolin slaps against the granite counter. “Just put the damn meat on the bread, will you?” And then, more gently, “This is a shitty idea, right?”
She’s not talking about Will, though. And I don’t take offense at what she says. It absolutely is.
She glances toward the door between the kitchen and the dining room. “I tried talking to Kellan about this last night. He’s so pigheaded, it’s ridiculous. He legitimately thinks this is the best solution. Why J is going along with this is beyond me.”
I add the freshly sliced cheese to the partially assembled sandwiches, unsure of what to say. Anything will sound weak: they told me it was for the best; they told me it was temporary; they assured me they were okay with this madness. She’s right, though. I should have said something, fought harder for them to be reasonable despite the circumstances.
Callie sets the mandolin in the sink and picks up a head of lettuce. “I’m just asking ... be gentle.”
Ouch.
She must see just how much that stings, because she says much more soothingly, “Gods, that came out wrong. All I meant was ... Kellan isn’t thinking clearly right now. Neither is J. They’re in their über-defense mode where they become very focused on whatever it is they think is best. I’ve seen them do this time and time again, Chloe. It’s one of their best qualities, and yet also one of their worst, because sometimes they lose focus on what’s best for themselves.” Her fingers touch my arm. “I guess I’m just saying ... a lot of hard decisions were made recently, but good ones, too.” She softens. “The right ones. It’s just, I don’t want Kellan to backtrack on whatever progress he’s started to make in accepting this new reality. And I don’t want J to fall back into his pattern of feeling guilty because he thinks he doesn’t deserve happiness. And I also don’t want to see you twist yourself in knots and get sick again over matters beyond your control. So, be gentle—with them, and with yourself.”
It’s a promise I hope to the gods I can keep.
I’m in my new kitchen, making myself some dishes when there’s a knock on the door. As Jonah is in what we’ve designated our joint office in the back half of the apartment on a conference call with the Elders Subcommittee, I go to answer. It’s my mother, holding a potted plant.
Something in me twists in an odd sense of pleasure and regret.
She shifts the fern-like, flowering plant to a hip. “Hello, Chloe. May I come in?”
I immediately widen the doorway and step to the side. “Oh. Right. Please—I, uh, didn’t know you were coming. I’m sor—”