Asked her what she does for fun, why she became a social worker, and what her favorite food is. And when she was sleepy, and passing out on my chest, I kept going, desperate for everything I could find out about this damn woman. I’m fuckin’ greed for it.
Even after all we talked about, I still want more.
It’s a sickness and I… don’t really give a fuck.
Sighing, I drop her shirt on my pillow and get dressed quickly. Her keys are gone from the entry table, so she probably left forwork like she said she would. Thank fuck I brought her Jeep here after the bar.
Still stings that she didn’t wake me.
The smell of coffee pulls me toward the kitchen, and I stop short when I spot a plate covered in foil next to the stove and a folded note tucked just beneath it.
My heart stutters, skips a beat, and picks back up at a dangerous pace. Don’t know if it’s the product of seeing a note written in feminine scrawl with my name etched across the top or the clear heart drawn at the bottom, but the room blurs out of focus for a beat.
Shaking my head with a huff, I snatch the note up and my lips lift in a grin that quickly falls.
Kade,
I didn’t want to wake you. You looked too peaceful. And when you still didn’t wake up, despite the banging around in your kitchen ten feet away, I figured you needed the rest. Thank you for taking care of me this weekend. It means more than you know. Also, your stomach was growling while you slept, so I made you breakfast. All I could find were supplies for pancakes, but I couldn’t try them, so, sorry if they suck and super sorry if you get food poisoning.
Talk soon, Georgia
My stomach sours, heart clenching, as I slip the note into an empty kitchen drawer and unwrap the plate. A stack of thick, fluffy pancakes sits on a dish I didn’t buy—one that showed up during that wild day the town came together for me.
Who shows up for Georgia like that?
They all donated, bought, and celebrated me doing the bare minimum for a little girl who deserves the world. And Georgia…
Does anyone see her? See how much she struggles just to find a fuckin’ meal every day? Does anyone see how hard she works—at her job, at life—all by herself?
That same painful pit that opened up the other night at my mom’s shows up again, sharp and nauseating.
She deserves a community to rally around her—everyone fuckin’ does—but Georgia? I think she might need it more than most.
And I wanna be the one to give it to her.
That thought in mind, I roll up one of the pancakes and shove it in my mouth, food poisoning be damned. It’s sweet, and perfectly cooked, making my decision all the more easier.
During our long talk, Georgia said she loves to bake. Said baking looked different after her diagnosis, but she never stopped trying. Fact that she can’t even try a fuckin’ pancake in my house means baking here will be hard for her… and it doesn’t have to be.
Pouring a cup of coffee, I sip on it while scrolling my phone for gluten-free baking shopping lists. Once I find a comprehensive one with tips for keeping it safe and not cross-contaminating anything, I head off to Amazon. May be in the cuts out here, but we still get packages delivered to a stop in town.
I drop onto a barstool and spend hours researching, filling my cart, and eventually, checking out, all while eating the food she sweetly cooked for me, knowing damn well she couldn’t have any.
While I was reading, I found articles about keeping items separate in the house, even down to pots, pans, seasonings, and sauces.
One of them suggested having an entirely separate drawer, color-coded if possible, for everything gluten-free. Another mentioned storing gluten-free baking ingredients above the standard ones to prevent dust contamination.
So I do it.
I clear out the bottom cupboards under the island and move all my baking and cooking shit there. I’d toss it, but it’s new,donated from friends and family, and I’m sure with Aurora here, I’ll need regular supplies, but I don’t bake, so they get tucked away.
After moving everything for Aurora to the left, I designate the right side for Georgia, leaving Post-its marked with aGon every door. When that’s done, I shoot a text to Clem to ask if she still has that dumb label maker she used to tag everything in her room.
By the time I’m done, there’s space for whatever’s on the way—new baking trays, measuring cups, mixers, gluten-free flours and sugars and syrups in sealed containers. I even cleaned the damn toaster and added a second one to my Amazon cart just to be safe. Separate tongs. Separate cutting boards.
Hell, I even spring for a new spatula set just so hers never touches something that could hurt her again.
She deserves that.