Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
What do the kids call it these days?
Those fuckers were gaslighting me.
Now I’m doing something similar to them, or at least I’m letting them torture themselves. Whatever’s going on in Malachy’s head, it’s brutal and twisting him out of shape, and I hope it only gets worse before they tear each other apart.
I come home in a remarkably good mood only to stop short on the threshold.
Something smells… really fucking good.
I take a second to acclimate. My place is usually sterile. I didn’t buy this apartment because it felt like a home. I moved in here because it had good views, was reasonably defensible, and it was available at the time I needed a place.
The cooking smells are incredible. I can’t put my finger on what exactly it is—something tomatoey, like a sauce, and doughy too, like fresh bread. I drift toward it and the sound of soft music hits me in the face. I almost laugh at the idea of how calm… and simple… and domestic this is. I come home to cooking dinner.
And there she is, standing near the oven, a big frown on her face as she peers through the glass. I stare at her, heart racing suddenly. She’s stained with splotches of flour on the cuffs of her shirt and on the thigh of her jeans. Her hair’s up but starting to come undone. I’m dimly aware of pots and pans on the stove and a few of those enormous pizza things with the wide, flat ends stacked haphazardly beside jars, shredded cheese, and more flour.
“What’s going on?” I ask softly.
Caroline looks over at me wildly. “You’re home early! I thought I had more time!”
“Are you baking?”
“Sort of. Cooking too.” Her face brightens, and I swear, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. “I’m making a pizza!”
I laugh. I can’t help myself. Pizza, in my kitchen? Homemade fucking pizza? I’ve survived on takeout and microwave meals for years and years, and now here’s this gorgeous woman, my own damn wife, listening to jazz and making pizza.
She frowns and glances at the oven. “Do you like pizza? I guess I should’ve asked, but I mean, I just assume everyone loves it. Oh, shit, if you’re not into it, I just wasted hours making the dough, days letting it ferment in the refrigerator, and now more hours making the vodka sauce and getting it all stretched and—”
I stride over to her, pull her into my arms, and kiss her. I kiss her hard so she knows what I’m feeling right now. I hold that kiss because if I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll lose my mind. I need her, I’m pulsing for her, and I feel like I might crumble to ash if I don’t hold on tighter.
But she eventually pulls back, grinning madly, her eyes bright with happiness. “So… you like pizza then?”
“I’m a fan.”
“You got a little—” She brushes at my cheek. “A little flour.”
“You too.” It’s all over her hair and streaking her face. “What happened in here?”
“Pure madness. But look at it.” I follow her gaze. There in the oven is a pizza. A real, honest-to-god pizza, the crust fluffing up, the cheese bubbling, everything. “I got this steel thing that cooks the bottom and I followed this dough recipe I found on Instagram, and I think it’s gonna be really good!”
“Caroline.”
“Look, if you hate it, that’s fine. You probably consume like ten calories of cheese and dough in a calendar year based on the way you look, but come on, it’s a cheat day, right?”
“Caroline.” I kiss her again, lightly biting her lower lip. “No matter what happens, I swear on my life, I’m never going to leave you again.”
She blinks in surprise. She’s breathing quickly and her grip on me tightens. “All because I cooked? It’s probably not even that good.”
“This place would be empty without you in it.”
“Even my mess?”
“Even your mess. Especially your stupid mess.”
She laughs and pulls away. “Hold that thought. I think it’s done.” She retrieves one of the big pizza spatulas. “What do you think of my pizza shovel?”
“Pretty sure nobody calls it a shovel.”
“The real word is dumb. Peel.” Her nose wrinkles. “I prefer pizza shovel.”
With surprising deftness, she opens the oven and retrieves the pie. It sits on a wire rack cooling as she claps her hands happily and checks to make sure the base is done to her satisfaction.
“This is going to be amazing.” She does a little dance, wiggling her hips and shoving her hands up in the air. “Pizza time, baby!”
I watch her, completely fucking bemused. All the bad shit I’ve done. All the horrible shit we’ve done together. And I end up here, with her, like this, in a bizarre moment of domesticity.
I love it more than I ever thought I could.