Page 84 of How To Not Need You

“They’re functional.”

“Of course they are, honey,” I say in my sweetest, most patronising voice.

Jake narrows his eyes at me. “I don't like your tone.”

“Then improve your knife skills.”

Hades, apparently sensing that the kitchen isn't crowded enough, decides the space directly between my feet and the stove is the ideal location for his afternoon nap.

I step over him. He gets up and moves directly back into my path. I step around him again. So does he. I look down. Hades slow-blinks at me with serene confidence.

“Are you serious?” He sits down.

“Buddy.” Jake crouches beside him and scratches beneath his chin. “Liv's cooking. How about the couch? The very comfortable couch? With the blanket?” Hades immediately leans into his hand.

“Don't negotiate with him,” I say.

Jake looks up at me. “I'm trying diplomacy.”

“He's a terrorist.”

“He's just sensitive.”

Hades chooses that moment to bite Jake's sleeve. I point the knife at them.

“Sensitive, really?” Jake looks down at the cat hanging off his arm.

“We’re working on it.” Jake redirects his attention to his new feline arm bracelet.

Hades remains firmly attached.

“I’ll get the treats,” he says, defeated.

“Excellent parenting.”

“I’m choosing my battles.” With that he disappears towards the pantry with Hades trotting after him, apparently cured of his desperate need to lie directly beneath my feet now that food has been mentioned.

I turn back to dinner.

The onions go into the pot first, followed by the beef, browned in small batches because Mum’s recipe is weirdly specific about that part. The capsicum goes in next, minus the piece Tilly sneaks from the cutting board when she thinks I’m not looking.

I see her but I pretend I don’t. I used to do exactly the same thing. Some traditions are worth continuing.

The paprika comes next. I measure it twice, which is twice more than Mum ever did, stare at the colour for a second, then add another half-spoon anyway.

Better. Apparently questionable paprika restraint is hereditary.

The smell starts filling the kitchen. Onion, beef, paprika. And suddenly I’m sixteen again, sitting on Mum’s counter stealing capsicum.

Fucking food memories. Ambush you when you least expect it.

Jake leans against the counter, watching. “Where’d the recipe come from?”

My hand pauses over the spice jar. Just for a second. Long enough that he notices.

“My mum.”

He doesn’t make a production of it. Just nods, his eyes on my face rather than the pot. “You don’t talk about her much.”