Page 7

She's right about all of it.

"You've got a good nose," I say.

"I've got a good palate." She sits back. "Feed me and I can probably name every ingredient."

"Is that a challenge?"

"It's a trade. Chili for a complete ingredient breakdown. You'll find out if your recipe has any gaps."

"My recipe doesn't have gaps."

"Prove it."

Nobody talks to me like this. Not Maggie at the diner, who's got opinions about everything. Not Hilda at the general store, who once told me my social skills were a public health concern. Nobody walks into my kitchen and challenges my mother's chili recipe with a smile and bare legs and enough confidence to fuel a small aircraft.

I get two bowls down from the cabinet.

The chili goes in thick and dark. Cornbread from a pan I made this morning, sliced and set beside each bowl. Butter on the table. Two spoons. No napkins, because I don't own napkins. Paper towels from the roll.

She takes the first bite, closes her eyes, and makes a sound that doesn't belong at a kitchen table. Low and soft, almost a moan, and my grip on the spoon tightens.

"Oh my God."

"It's chili."

"Deck, this is not just chili." Eyes open, blazing. "This is art. There's a slow sweetness underneath the heat. You caramelize the onions first, don't you? Before anything else goes in."

"Forty-five minutes on low."

"And the beer is definitely a stout. Oatmeal stout? Something with body." She takes another bite. Chews. Thinks. "Cumin. Smoked paprika. Brown sugar, just a touch. And there's something I can't place. Something warm."

"Cinnamon."

Her spoon stops midair. "Get out."

"Quarter teaspoon. My mom's addition. Makes the whole thing round out."

She looks at me across the table. Really looks. Not at my arms or my chest or the scar on my chin, the way she was cataloguing me in the pumpkin patch. At me. At the man who puts cinnamon in his chili because his mother told him to.

"Your mom sounds like she knew what she was doing," she says.

My throat goes tight. "She did."

"Is she..."

"Arizona. Retired. She's fine. Dad too."

Relief crosses her face. Genuine, not performed. "Good. That's good."

We eat. The kitchen gets darker as the sun drops behind the ridge. Shadows stretch across the table, cutting between us. She eats two full bowls, three pieces of cornbread, and doesn't slow down once. Doesn't pick at it, doesn't perform dainty bites, doesn't leave a polite amount in the bowl. She eats like food matters to her on a level most people don't understand.

I watch her. Can't help it. The way her rings catch light when she lifts the spoon. The way she pushes her curls behind her ear and they fall right back. The silver at her wrist. My flannel on her shoulders. My food in her mouth.

Every part of this is a problem.

"I should go," she says, pushing the bowl back.

"Okay."