Page 19 of Lost With My Enemy

"What are you doing?"

The camera is heavier than expected. Professional grade, buttons and dials everywhere, a lens that probably costs more than my rent. My thumb finds what looks like the shutter button.

"Elise."

"Driving. Eyes. Road."

His mouth opens to protest, but I've already raised the camera. The viewfinder shows his profile against the Manitoba sky, jaw tight, one hand on the wheel, dream catcher swaying in the corner of the frame. I press the button. The shutter clicks.

"Did you just take my picture?"

"You're behind the camera in every shot. Somebody should fix that."

His eyes are shiny when he looks over, and he blinks fast, twice, before turning back to the road. We drive in silence for a full minute.

"Thank you," he says, rough and quiet.

"Don't thank me yet. I have no idea if the photo's any good."

"It's perfect."

"You haven't seen it."

"Doesn't matter."

The ache in my chest spreads. Lower, warmer, settling into a place I've kept walled off for years. The place where wanting things lives. The place I boarded up after the salad bowl broke and Dad moved away and I decided that if you don't need anyone, nobody can take anything from you.

Jaxon Mills is prying boards off that wall with his calloused hands, and he's not even trying. He's just driving through Manitoba being sad and grateful simultaneously, and it's the most dangerous thing anyone has done to me in a decade.

Winnipeg is flat, sprawling, and has better food than I anticipated. The rental is a second-floor apartment near the Forks, with a balcony overlooking the river and a kitchen stocked with actual cookware. Jaxon inspects the pots like a man who's been eating gas station sandwiches for a week and has finally found religion.

"I'm cooking tonight," he announces.

"You cook?"

"My mom was an incredible cook. I'm a passable one. You'll survive."

He disappears to a grocery store around the corner and returns with a bag containing chicken, peppers, onions, rice, and a bottle of hot sauce I'm fairly certain could strip paint.

"Stir-fry," he says, setting the bag on the counter. "Mom's recipe. She'd make it every Friday. Called it 'fridge cleaner' because she'd throw in whatever was left from the week. The hot sauce is non-negotiable."

"I can see that. The label has a skull on it."

"Decorative."

"That's not reassuring."

He cooks the way he does everything, without a plan, refusing to measure anything. The onions go into the pan by feel. The garlic gets chopped unevenly. Rice goes into a pot with water he eyeballs instead of measuring, and I physically restrain myself from pulling out a measuring cup.

"You're wincing," he says without turning around.

"You didn't measure the water."

"You don't measure water for rice."

"You absolutely measure water for rice. It's a two-to-one ratio."

"My mom never measured anything in her life, and her rice was perfect every single time."