Page 94 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
How my mom can’t stand more than ten minutes in front of the stove to cook like she loved—and how much of a toll that’s taken on her mental health.
Never mind Dad’s dementia, the way he mixes up people and places at an alarming rate. Last week, he confused their fortieth anniversary cruise in the Bahamas with their honeymoon. Mom looked devastated.
I also don’t mention how her joint issues are probably hereditary. That’s my problem, and no one else’s.
My knee creaks again, reminding me I can’t outrun age and genetics, no matter how hard I try with diet and exercise.
“I’m sure she’s proud of you.” Cleo grabs a fork and steals a scallop as I’m stirring the potatoes and plating up. “If nothing else, you’re one hell of a cook. She taught you well and it shows.”
“Woman, just because my idea of good food isn’t instant ramen slathered in a whole bottle of sriracha—”
“Incollege,” she protests, jabbing me in the side again.
I dodge her, swatting her back with the spatula.
“Yeah, what do you cook now? Don’t think I’ve seen you in the kitchen.”
“I can make a mean omelet. And my French toast is legendary, or so my old roommate said.” She tries and fails not to smile.
“French toast? Heavy-ass meal to start the day.”
“Delicious start, you mean. The one thing Dad ever bothered making consistently. Usually because he was so hungover it was the only thing he could handle without throwing up. Get me a skillet and the right ingredients, and I will cook that bread to perfection.”
“Not the brag you think it is, Nile. Keep talking and you’ll be making it for dinner tomorrow.”
“Oh, it’s on. Prepare to be blown away,” she promises.
I stare at her for a second, something in my chest softening. She fetches silverware and sets the table like it’s normal routine.
The ritual I wish I’d had with Charli, half a lifetime ago.
Cursed thoughts.
“I like how you aren’t as scowly when it’s dinnertime.” She brings out a bottle of wine and pours two glasses.
“Huh?”
“You’re usually scowling. Or glowering. Or glaring. Or—”
“I get it, brat. So what?”
She laughs, showing off her elegant throat.
Goddamn, I want to sink my teeth in and fucking mark her.
“So, you should learn to lighten up without a plate of food in front of you. You’d be more approachable.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
When she looks at me again, I know it’s not something premeditated and intentional. She’s not trying to stir me up on purpose, it just comes naturally.
“Mealtimes are sacred in our house,” I say, carrying the plates to the table. “That’s when I get a little peace and quiet. Until Kit goes off about her latest book.”
“I heard her talking about the Russian Revolution. She was really into the egg. I wish you’d let me tell her more.” She smiles.
I roll my eyes fondly. “The girl likes the bloodiest parts of history. Not sure what that means for her later on.”
“They’re the most interesting.” She raises her glass and takes a long sip.
