Seth watches as Sal pulls a tray of charred-black cookies from the oven. Fanning smoke away from her face, she curses violently under her breath. As she transfers the tray to the counter, she moves too fast. The cookies slide off the slick tray to the floor.
Another curse.
Seth chuckles.
Tensing, Sal glances over her shoulder to see Seth lounging in the kitchen doorway, his eyes aglow with laughter. “Man, if that ain’t a culinary bummer I don’t know what is.”
She fixes him with a wry look. “If you’re gonna stare, smart-ass, come help me clean up.”
Together, they kneel.
Seth collects cookies, stacking them in his hand. He side-eyes Sal. “Don’t worry. You never could cook worth a damn.”
Sal bristles in frustration. Her face scrunches up as she searches her memory bank. “I thought you said we did Sunday suppers.”
“We did. Potluck. You brought wine.”
Sal busts out a gut-splitting laugh that has her holding her ribs. She plops on the floor beside Seth, resting her back against the cabinets. Seth watches her face, the crinkle of her eyes, the way her shoulders relax and fall.
God, that laugh could put him in a coffin.
That laugh also fills him with relief. For the last week, Sal’s been walking on eggshells. Though she’s put up a brave front, everyone can see it’s taken a toll on her. Worrying about Roy, worrying about her memory. Seth wants to tell her to relax but knows Sal’s never taken kindly to orders.
She puffs a lock of hair from her face, her eyes keeping watch on Seth. “Quick. Tell me something I could do. Something I was good at.” She sounds resigned, desperate for insight into herself.
“Swearin’.”
She swats his arm. “I’m serious, goddamnit.”
“So am I.”
She tilts her head back and rubs her brow. “I just ... I have to meet all these people today and I don’t even know who the hell I am.”
Seth thinks on it. Then he says, “You’re late for everything. You can make anyone laugh, even me. You try to fight anyone who crosses your family. You like margaritas. You love Elvis cover bands.” He raises an eyebrow. “There. Does that help you?”
“No.”
“That’s because all that shit ain’t you. It’s in you, Sal. Everything you’ve been doin’ since you’ve been back is you. It don’t matter if you like whiskey or wine.”
“That’s what my therapist says.” She kicks his boot with her bare foot, but she’s smiling. “Thanks, Freud.”
With a grunt, Seth stands and dumps the cookies into the sink. He reaches down to grip Sal’s hands and pull her to her feet.
“Look. You’re at a birthday party.” He gives her a pointed look. “Your birthday party. Try to have fun.”
At the clatter of the screen door, his eyes brush to Lacey, who’s carrying a stack of white pastry boxes. “Let your sister handle it.”
Sal laughs at the vision of Lacey struggling to balance the tower of boxes in her arms. “You’re going overboard, Lace,” Sal says, moving to help her set the boxes on the table.
Lacey scoffs. “Who doesn’t like sweets?” Her critical gaze sweeps over Sal. Her lips purse. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Sal glances down at her tank top and cut-off shorts and bare feet.
“What about a dress?” Lacey offers.
Seth hides a smirk. Sal wears her fuck-that face.
In the most exasperated voice, he says, “It ain’t some debutante ball, Lacey.”