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I padded down the hall in my bare feet, the worn hardwoods cool from the morning shadows, and the AC that had decided to work today. There was rustling when I passed the guest room, my old childhood room.
The springs of the bed creaked. Instead of turning around and giving him his privacy, I kneed the door ajar.
Gus lay sprawled facedown on the bed, sheets entangled around his waist.
His suitcase was on the floor with clothes spilling out onto the oval rag rug. Open books were stacked on the desk in the corner, the green swing arm lamp still on.
It would’ve been super weird if he’d moved into the main bedroom with me right away, right? We said we’d find the bones, but we both knew that wasn’t going to happen on night one.
My body shouldn’t have this visceral response, though, like I was going to be sick. Ifiguredhe’d slept in here last night. But seeing him tucked away from me so comfortably was something different.
I crossed the room to switch the light off and forgot about the creaky board. Gus stirred at the sound, lifting his head off the pillow. The poor man was way too tall for a double bed. He was forced to sleep diagonally and still, his head practically hung offthe edge of the mattress. He rubbed his eyes and did a double take when he saw me.
“Hey,” he said, like it was perfectly fine that I’d been creeping on him, watching him sleep. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know. Seven?” I hadn’t even looked yet. I was too determined to enjoy this rare morning with nothing to do.
“I missed church,” he said with a groan. He yawned, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Church is at nine-thirty.”
“Not for me it isn’t.” He sat up.
“I didn’t realize you were planning to go today. Shouldn’t they give you some kind of free pass the day after your wedding?”
“Father didn’t expect me, I don’t think. I just wanted... since I didn’t have anything else going on... I thought I should be there.”
Didn’t have anything else going on. Like… the first day of your marriage.
“Oh.” I wanted to say something more, but nothing was coming to me. I didn’t know exactly how I felt. Except for stupid. Stupid for waking up in such a state of hopefulness. Stupid for standing here wearing little more than a cobweb. Stupid that any part of me had expected him to share our bed.
Mybed. Not ours.
“So, is this like, a permanent solution, then? This is your room?”
He looked around. Shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah. I mean, unless you had other plans for this space. You have an office downstairs, right?”
“Right. Um… I’m going to start breakfast.”
I plodded down the steps. Now that the brightness of the morning had clouded over, my body ached from the lack of sleep I’d gotten last night. Not even my trusty Valerian root tincture couldstop me from tossing and turning, racking my brain over how I’d managed to drive him away so suddenly?
I put the kettle on for coffee, and instead of setting my intentions for the day, using each scoop of dark roast to visualize what I wanted to manifest, I added only grounds to the basket.
I needed to cook something. Weave the excess energy that made my insides buzz into food. That would make it better.
Food was how the women in my family rediscovered themselves when we felt lost and ungrounded. When money was tight, Granny never let on that she’d had to stretch the meat by cutting off only the tiniest chunk to flavor a pot of soup beans. Those beans were nothing less than a delicacy that I still craved whenever I needed comfort.
When I aced a test at school, she had molasses oatmeal cookies just out of the oven and waiting for me.
Then there were all the ordinary Saturdays, when Granny and I worked side-by-side in the kitchen, cooking up a mess of greens, or green beans, or okra after working side-by-side in the garden all day, all month, all season to cultivate that bounty.
When I was in the kitchen, I was my true self. That was exactly what I needed right now.
I ran my fingers over the spines of Granny’s cookbooks that lined the shelves in my cozy kitchen. Most were the staples from the 60s and 70s, ubiquitous to older homes. The red and white checkered binders and spiral-bound volumes published by churchladies auxiliaries. All holding classic recipes like Salisbury Steak, Watergate Salad, and an aspirationally namedAmbrosia—actually, that was one I might have to try. There may have been far too many “salads” that featured suspicious combinations of citrus-favored Jello and Miracle Whip, but we also had Julia Child’sMastering the Art of French Cooking, theJoy of Cooking, and boxes and tins overflowing with handwritten recipes that came from so far up my family tree, from the hollers of Appalachia, they were still known as receipts. That’s what I was looking for now.
Heritage. Ties. Cultural touchstones.
The foggy funk of unearned disappointment was already lifting. The magic of the kitchen releasing me from the anxiety I’d had over Gus. Just in time, too, because as I reached up to plunk Granny’s personal recipe binder down from the shelf, Gus’s still sleepy form stumbled in to catch it for me as it slipped from my fingers.
