I gave up my name. My hair. My apartment with the kitchen that smelled like butter.
And he walked anyway.
Because someone fucked up the evidence chain and his lawyers were expensive enough to notice.
Oh, fuck no.
He’s out there. Living his life. Eating pasta. Existing in the world like a normal person.
And I’m here entering medical billing codes in blonde hair. A witness protection Barbie who’s lost her dream house and her will to live.
Absolutely not.
Nope.
This is unacceptable.
I’m on my feet before I consciously decide to stand. In the kitchen before I remember walking there. Flour in my hands, butter on the counter, eggs already cracked into the bowl.
My body knows what it’s doing even if my brain is having a full systems failure.
I’m making his cookies.
Peanut butter chocolate chip. The ones I made him before. The ones Enzo delivered with that look on his face like he knew I was insane but respected the hustle.
My hands move on autopilot. The rhythm is familiar, soothing, the only thing keeping me from climbing out of my skin.
He’s free.
And I haven’t seen him in almost a month and his face is already getting fuzzy in my memory and that’s bullshit. I can’t remember the shade of his eyes anymore and that’s…
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
I’m not losing him.
I fold in chocolate chips with more aggression than the recipe requires. The dough looks right. Feels right. Tastes right when I lick the spoon.
He walks free and I’m making him cookies.
This is fine. This is normal. This is exactly what stable people do when they find out their testimony was worthless.
Scoop. Bake. Timer set.
While they’re in the oven, I make the crockpot candy. Peanut butter and chocolate melted together, the kind that takes hours and tastes like obsession.
The kind you make when you want someone to know you were thinking about them at 3 AM while your entire life unraveled.
By the time the cookies are cooling and the candy is setting, it’s 5 AM and I’m staring at two containers of baked goods like they’re going to tell me what the fuck I’m doing.
Does he still go to the restaurant?
He must. It’s Tuesday. Well, it will be Tuesday in two hours. No wait, Wednesday. Shit. What day is it?
I pull out my phone. Check the calendar.
Thursday.
