crackled in the hot grease and, as if on cue, Rye rubbed a grease splatter on his arm. Her throat began to tighten.
This was ridiculous. How many times had she cooked bacon and eggs in her life? Hundreds? This shouldn’t make her nervous. But the memories were hard to push away.
She took a deep breath and rushed, blindly almost, to Rye’s side. She grabbed the cutting board and knife and whirled back to the island.
“Careful there,” Rye said, reaching out his arm to steady her.
She slid the onion, pepper and tomato to the far side of the island, putting three feet of granite between her and the range. Keeping her head down, she tried to ignore her brother setting another skillet onto a burner. She chopped more vigorously, allowing the knife to thwack against the wooden board, so she wouldn’t hear the click and poof of the gas igniting. Rye poured egg into the skillet, then turned to her for the vegetables. She pushed the cutting board across the island.
She had to get over this fear. But how? Her mind knew it was irrational. An omelette wasn’t going to blow up in her face. But her body seemed unable to accept that reality. Just looking at a gas burner made her skin crawl, her muscles quiver, her lungs gasp for air.
She couldn’t let her brother see her fear, though, so she busied herself with gathering plates and flatware, napkins and butter. If she couldn’t get over this, everyone would pressure her to sell the Connecticut house. She didn’t want that.
“Toast?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She dropped two slices of whole wheat into the toaster, then stood there and waited. She jumped a little when the toaster popped the bread back up.
“Let’s eat outside,” she suggested after Rye flipped the second omelette onto a plate, garnishing it with two slices of crisp bacon.
On the porch the morning air was still cool. The skin on her legs immediately tightened into gooseflesh. Rye handed her a plate.
“Are you sure you want to eat out here?” he asked.
“It’ll warm up soon.”
The look on Rye’s face said he doubted it would warm up before they finished breakfast, but he let it go. “Anything you need me to convey to Zee on Monday?”
“Nah. She’s being a hard ass about this phone call thing.”
“If anything requires your attention, she’ll call you. Or I will. You need this time up here, Phlox. You need to get your head back on straight.”
“I know I do. I’m working on it.”
“I think that foundation product is a good idea.” Rye took a long swig of coffee. “It probably won’t make much money unless we priced it at a premium, which I’m guessing you don’t want to do, but I do think it will help you. Personally.”
“I don’t want to be—” She caught the words just in time. “I don’t want it to be a drag on the company.”
“It won’t be.” He looked at her sharply. “Nor will you.”
----
A fter Rye left , laden with pistachio muffins, Phlox settled into one of the Adirondack chairs on the back veranda and opened the photo album. The first page was filled with pictures of her before the accident. She and Rye as children on Christmas morning, their hair messy from sleep and their pajamas twisted and wrinkled. There was her senior portrait from high school, and a prom photo of her and her date, a boy she could barely remember now. Their one date had been the prom. There were photos of her and Zee in the early stages of the business. At the first factory they’d used. The day where they had literally put every single one of the company’s products on their faces—they looked like drag queens. Phlox holding up a copy of their first mention in the Wall Street Journal. Zee and Phlox mock-fighting over a dollar bill, their “first” dollar made.
Absently, she reached up and touched her cheek. She no longer looked like any of those photographs, and it made her unspeakably sad. She hadn’t expected to miss the way she used to look. After all, she’d been no
This was ridiculous. How many times had she cooked bacon and eggs in her life? Hundreds? This shouldn’t make her nervous. But the memories were hard to push away.
She took a deep breath and rushed, blindly almost, to Rye’s side. She grabbed the cutting board and knife and whirled back to the island.
“Careful there,” Rye said, reaching out his arm to steady her.
She slid the onion, pepper and tomato to the far side of the island, putting three feet of granite between her and the range. Keeping her head down, she tried to ignore her brother setting another skillet onto a burner. She chopped more vigorously, allowing the knife to thwack against the wooden board, so she wouldn’t hear the click and poof of the gas igniting. Rye poured egg into the skillet, then turned to her for the vegetables. She pushed the cutting board across the island.
She had to get over this fear. But how? Her mind knew it was irrational. An omelette wasn’t going to blow up in her face. But her body seemed unable to accept that reality. Just looking at a gas burner made her skin crawl, her muscles quiver, her lungs gasp for air.
She couldn’t let her brother see her fear, though, so she busied herself with gathering plates and flatware, napkins and butter. If she couldn’t get over this, everyone would pressure her to sell the Connecticut house. She didn’t want that.
“Toast?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She dropped two slices of whole wheat into the toaster, then stood there and waited. She jumped a little when the toaster popped the bread back up.
“Let’s eat outside,” she suggested after Rye flipped the second omelette onto a plate, garnishing it with two slices of crisp bacon.
On the porch the morning air was still cool. The skin on her legs immediately tightened into gooseflesh. Rye handed her a plate.
“Are you sure you want to eat out here?” he asked.
“It’ll warm up soon.”
The look on Rye’s face said he doubted it would warm up before they finished breakfast, but he let it go. “Anything you need me to convey to Zee on Monday?”
“Nah. She’s being a hard ass about this phone call thing.”
“If anything requires your attention, she’ll call you. Or I will. You need this time up here, Phlox. You need to get your head back on straight.”
“I know I do. I’m working on it.”
“I think that foundation product is a good idea.” Rye took a long swig of coffee. “It probably won’t make much money unless we priced it at a premium, which I’m guessing you don’t want to do, but I do think it will help you. Personally.”
“I don’t want to be—” She caught the words just in time. “I don’t want it to be a drag on the company.”
“It won’t be.” He looked at her sharply. “Nor will you.”
----
A fter Rye left , laden with pistachio muffins, Phlox settled into one of the Adirondack chairs on the back veranda and opened the photo album. The first page was filled with pictures of her before the accident. She and Rye as children on Christmas morning, their hair messy from sleep and their pajamas twisted and wrinkled. There was her senior portrait from high school, and a prom photo of her and her date, a boy she could barely remember now. Their one date had been the prom. There were photos of her and Zee in the early stages of the business. At the first factory they’d used. The day where they had literally put every single one of the company’s products on their faces—they looked like drag queens. Phlox holding up a copy of their first mention in the Wall Street Journal. Zee and Phlox mock-fighting over a dollar bill, their “first” dollar made.
Absently, she reached up and touched her cheek. She no longer looked like any of those photographs, and it made her unspeakably sad. She hadn’t expected to miss the way she used to look. After all, she’d been no
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