Page 18 of Unmoored: How to Fail at Hating the Boss

I reach for him, but he pulls away.

“Let’s go bake that cake.”

“But…”

In the dark, I hear the sound of his zipper.

“Nah. Later. Cake time.”

There’s no convincing him otherwise.

I don’t know how we make it in one piece to my grandmother’s house without wrecking the car.

Eight

Reef

“Reef, are you okay?”

Quincy stands behind me as I bask in this absolute paradise of a kitchen.

“I…love…your grandmother.”

I have stepped inside a time capsule. If someone asked me to tear apart every updated white kitchen on Zillow and redo it, it would be this.

It’s like an avalanche of nostalgia and happiness, and I have to take it in little by little.

The gold laminate countertops. The double oven with shiny chrome dials. The black and white cat clock, with its tail swinging back and forth.

“You’ve never met her,” Quincy says, sidling up next to me, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Oh my god, do you see ghosts?”

I go over to the table and unpack the groceries, my head bumping into the hanging stained glass lamp with its pictures of fruit. The pattern matches the woven basket on the tablethat holds plastic grapes and pears, which, in turn, matches the 1970s fringed placemats.

“No, I don’t see ghosts. I fucking love this kitchen.”

Quincy sighs and helps me unpack. “Mmkay. Hopefully, the oven still works. I’ve never tried it.”

I stare at her. “You don’t use it?”

She shakes her head. “I’m a little scared of it, to be honest.”

“How do you eat?”

“The microwave works fine.”

The behemoth countertop microwave that’s more than thirty years old is about the only thing in this kitchen that should be chucked out, but I’m not about to scold Quincy and explain how much radiation is probably leaking out of that old thing. I scrub my face and say, “I assure you, it doesn’t.”

“I can’t just go buy a new microwave, I mean…”

“Don’t need to. I’ll come over and cook for you every day if I have to.”

That came out more intense than intended. I meant it to be jokey, didn’t I?

I glance over at her and breathe a sigh of relief that she’s smiling. Good. She thinks it’s a joke. But then the still small voice inside reminds me that wasn’t a joke. You want that.

When we’re finished unpacking, I stare down at the brown basket-weave patterned linoleum. How is it so perfect? No grimy corners. Not a single seam coming loose.

“I wish my grandmother knew yours before she died. She had to put her house down for collateral before she moved into the memory care unit. I ended up having to update everything so I could rent it out, so I could afford to pay for all of that.” It all comes out like a stream of consciousness.