Page 10 of Jetmir

I waited until the pastry had cooled enough, then brushed melted butter which contained finely crushed walnuts all over the top. My hands moved automatically, spreading it across the top, smoothing it.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

My husband was deathly allergic to nuts. He learned about it as a child, devouring a baklava. He mentioned that his guardian had a world-renowned cook develop a nut-free baklava recipe just for him and he often used it.

Anyways, back to my baklava with nuts.

My husband had an EpiPen around. He never went anywhere without it. Therefore, he’d be fine, my mind kept chanting. It was my heart that was the problem. It worried for him. Damn that stupid, useless and very unhelpful organ. It loved him and wanted him, refusing to let go.

I was beginning to realize neither my husband nor I nurtured a healthy obsession here.

That frightened me most.

All that man had to do was touch me or kiss me, and I was ready to forgive him for burning down the world, killing the human race… Heck, I would forgive him anything while he kissed me.

The sound of the kitchen door opening nearly stopped my heart.

I looked up and he stood there, tall and dark. My body instantly shuddered, and I fought the urge to run into his arms. But I didn’t.

“You made baklava?” he asked, a surprise flashing in his eyes. I wasn’t exactly known for cooking or baking, so I couldn’t blame him.

Smiling, I reached for the knife. He stiffened, probably expecting I’d throw it at him. Instead, I cut a piece of cake and placed it on a plate.

He walked into the kitchen as I extended both hands, holding the plate.

“Peace offering,” I said.

His expression softened and he took another step closer to me. “I thought you hated me.”

“I do.”

The words came out quieter than I expected.

His jaw tightened. “But you made me a desert.”

I looked away as I answered, “I hate when we fight.”

“Me too, angel,” he murmured, bringing his forehead to rest against mine.

For several heartbeats, neither one of us spoke. We stood like that, the peace offering between us a reminder that everything was about to change.

“Eat,” I finally urged, taking his hand and seating him at the little table. “I followed a recipe online, but I couldn’t tell if it’s good or not.”

I sat next to him as he took the first bite, watching him with bated breath. I waited for his allergy to kick in, terrified as I counted every second in my head.

He swallowed the first bite. Nothing.

“Hmm, it’s good,” he said, then took another bite.

My fingers curled into my palms, watching him chew, then bring another spoonful up. But then his hand froze right as he was about to take another bite.

His face changed colors.

He coughed. Once. Twice. Then he pushed himself up, using the table for support.

“Anya?”

I stood frozen, watching his breathing become ragged.