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"You don't need your eyes for food," said Mei Ling. "Your nose and your mouth do most of the work. Come."

So this is where Gunnar got his bossiness from. I bit my tongue and did as I was told. My feet carried me towards Mei Ling's scent. I was about to showcase my particular brand of weaponized incompetence while I milked each of these women for information.

"Cooking is about smell. Taste. Texture. You know an onion is done because it stops smelling sharp and starts smelling sweet. You know dough has enough flour because it stops sticking to your fingers. You know meat is seasoned properly because you taste the seasoning before the meat goes in. You listen to oil. You smell spices. Your eyes are probably the least interesting thing happening in a kitchen."

Thus began my audition for the Food Network's next hit; Blind Chef.

Mei Ling put a bowl beneath my hands and had me knead dough until it stopped clinging to my fingers, then moved me to the stove and told me to stir the onions until their sharp bite mellowed into sweetness. She took me through the herbs and spices, placing each jar beneath my fingers, letting me learn the shape of the container and its position before opening it and holding it beneath my nose. Rosemary. Thyme. Cumin. Ginger. Five-spice. Pepper. Salt.

The sauce bubbled in the pot, wet little pops gradually sharpening into thicker snaps as it reduced. When the rhythm slowed, Mei Ling pressed a spoon into my hand.

"What does it need?"

I tasted.

"Salt."

"Then add salt."

I reached past the pepper, found the jar two places to its left, and twisted off the lid. By the time she told me to taste the sauce again, I'd completely forgotten to be incompetent.

"Rosalind, you should put on an apron over that designer… pink." That was Addie's voice. I could hear the sneer over my choice of Barbie pink.

"What's that?" said Astrid. "We can't hear you over your skinny jeans and ankle socks."

"Why do I even try with you?" Addie scoffed. "You know what, Astrid⁠—"

"Listen, Rosalind, she's Millenial pausing so I can get a word in," Astrid went on, glee in her voice. "Are you Googling Millenial pause, Nell?"

Across the way, came the sound of nails clacking on a cellphone screen. "No, I'm searching TikTok like a normal person."

"Is that where the new Beyonce will drop? I love the oldies."

Addie gasped.

Nell choked.

I stood there with the salt in my hand, fascinated.

They were fighting. At least I thought they were fighting. Astrid had insulted Addie's clothes; Addie had insulted Astrid's entire generation, and Nell appeared to be actively gathering additional ammunition. Yet no one's voice had gone cold. No footsteps stormed away. No one reached for the soft spot exposed by the other and drove a blade into it.

There wasn't any malice in the room. Only laughter.

I knew how to listen for weaknesses, catalogue them, and save them until they could do the most damage. I didn't know how to do this. How to strike without wounding. How to bare your teeth without biting. How to trust that someone could know exactly where you were vulnerable and choose, deliberately, not to hurt you.

"Don't worry," Mei Ling said beside me. Her jasmine drifted closer as she reached past me for something on the counter. "You'll learn."

"Learn what?"

"That the women in this family come with sharp minds and sharper tongues. Every woman in this family knows how to hold her own. I suspect you'll fit right in."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

GUNNAR

My fist slammed into the heavy bag. Once, twice, a third time. It wasn't helping.

I reset my stance and drove another cross into the bag. Fist connected first, then wrist, elbow, shoulder, all of it aligned behind the strike. My hips turned. Weight transferred. Every muscle from my planted foot to my knuckles worked together to put as much force as possible into one point.