Page 45 of When the Smoke Clears

“Isla?”

Luke’s voice crashes over me like an icy splash, extinguishing the spark I never meant to kindle.

I quickly make my way down the hallway and meet him in the living room, where he’s looking out the large windows.

“The view is spectacular.”

He nods with a proud tilt of his chin. “It’s the entire reason I bought this place. Well, that and the distance from my parents’ house.”

“Looks like you’ve put some work into it.”

“When I find time. I’m not in a rush. Pleasure in the process and all that.”

My eyes sweep over the dense canopy, and the scattered sunbeams peeking through the leaves one final time before Luke clears his throat, breaking the tranquility. “All right. Let’s grab your stuff and get you settled.”

Luke carries my bags into the guest bedroom and sets them on the chair beside the queen bed. We stand there for a moment, enveloped by the silence, each of us hesitant, our eyes meeting but unsure of what to say or do next.

Luke finally breaks the tension. “Are you hungry?”

My mind drifts back to the meager meals I’ve had since that life-changing phone call, my stomach growling in agreement. “I am.”

“Let me see what I have in the kitchen.”

“Can I cook?” I blurt out.

Luke’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Sure, if you’re up to it.”

I can barely contain my enthusiasm, feeling a burst of energy as I nod eagerly. “I love to cook, especially when I’m anxious. And cooking for one just isn’t as much fun.”

Luke’s head tilts as a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Great, Isla. Real smooth. I just inadvertently told him that I’m single as the day is long. But clearly he is too. There are no traces of a woman’s touch in this cabin.

I pad into the kitchen and crack open the fridge. A lonely six-pack of craft beer stares back at me, next to a half-empty bottle of Sriracha, a jar of orange marmalade, a limp bag of spring mix, some shredded cheese, and a bucket of pre-made chocolate-chip cookie dough. I hold up a bottle of beer. “This kitchen is even more depressing than Gabe’s.”

“That was mean,” he calls from the dining room. “Make me a shopping list. I’ll swing by the store later.”

“Knowing your father, I’m surprised he doesn’t have a private chef dropping by.”

“Oh, he hired one for the family right after I moved out. But Chase had sex with her. My mother has had the final say in household matters ever since.”

My hand flies to my mouth, and I double over, laughter bursting from me like a bubbling brook. It’s the first hearty laugh I’ve had since this whole fiasco began, and though it feels good, it also accentuates the empty ache in my stomach.

“There’s got to be something I can throw together in this house.”

“I have some ground beef and chicken in the freezer,” he says, sinking into his chair. “Some frozen vegetables, too.”

I slip behind the kitchen counter and begin rummaging through the cabinets. Luke’s shelves are sparse, but I manage to unearth a half-empty container of breadcrumbs, assorted seasonings, a small can of tomato paste, and a box of pasta with a slightly crumpled edge. Chicken parmigiana it is.

I quickly defrost the chicken under a stream of warm water and dip each piece into a bowl of beaten eggs, followed by a coating of flour that puffs up in little clouds, then into the breadcrumbs, patting them down gently to adhere.

The rhythmic, repetitive task lets my thoughts drift back to the whirlwind of events of the past few days. I was just in the hospital, taking care of Connor and planning a girls’ night out in Chinatown with Erin before my world completely flipped upside down.

Now, here I am in Wildhaven, facing down someone who will stop at nothing to destroy me. The irony is that even after all of this time, I still can’t figure out why.

I’m in awe that I chose to do this, leaving behind the comfort of my routine in San Francisco. Life was easy. I was happy.

I slip the seasoned chicken into the oven. But was I happy? If I’m honest with myself, the answer is no. I was merely existing. And with the amount of paid time I’m using now, the only place I’ll be existing when I return is at work.