“What about this one, Amerie?” she asks, showing me some flimsy fillets wrapped in plastic.
I glance at the package, then at her. “That’s cod.”
“Oh. Right. You’re making… catfish, was it?”
To her credit, she doesn’t take offense when I shake my head and put it back myself. Instead, she drifts toward Willow, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet since I scolded her in produce. She stays close to Chelsea’s side now, her little hand wrapped around the side of the shopping cart like she’s afraid to let go. Every so often, she glances at me—wide-eyed and uncertain—but says nothing.
The guilt gnaws at me. I hadn’t meant to snap earlier. I just needed a minute to focus. But it’s like every shelf I stop in front of mocks me for not being from here. These aren’t the brands I know. The packaging is different and the labels are confusing. Even the eggs are warm.
By the time we make it to the checkout line, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with physical effort. I glance over at Willow and soften my voice. “Hey, want to pick out a chocolate?”
She hesitates, then shrugs, her lips tugging downward. “I’m not really hungry.”
The words settle like a stone in my stomach. I offer a small smile anyway and push the cart forward.
“Okay. Maybe later.”
We pay, bag everything up, and start heading out. I’ve barely made it ten steps outside before I hear the telltale beep from the device on my hip. My glucose monitor.
As if today wasn’t already stressful enough.
“Shit!”
The curse bursts from my mouth before I can stop it, loud enough to echo over the simmering pots and the hum of theoven. From the living room, I hear the rustle of movement, then Chelsea’s voice drifting in. Too damn bright for my current mood.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
She appears in the doorway a second later, brow furrowed and eyes wide behind her glasses, as if something might’ve caught fire. I can’t even form the words yet. My hands are occupied turning down burners, trying not to burn the catfish or overcook the macaroni while steam rises aggressively from the big pot of greens. The smell is wrong—has been wrong since I started cooking—but I’d chalked it up to British produce being different.
I grab a spoon and take another cautious taste, praying it’s just my imagination.
But the second it hits my tongue, I know.
These aren’t collard greens. My stomach sinks.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, stepping back like the stove’s personally betrayed me. “These aren’t right. These aren’t—how could this have happened? How could I have grabbed the wrong type of greens? They didn’t look right when I was cutting them but I just… I thought it was because they were British.”
Chelsea inches further in, the epitome of calm in her neat cardigan and ballet flats. “Alright, breathe for a tick. What’s going on?”
I turn to her, exasperated, gesturing toward the pot like it’s obvious. “They’re mustard greens. Not collards. The whole damn flavor’s off. This is a nightmare. I’m supposed to be cooking a full-course dinner for Declan’s boss and his wife and now this?”
Chelsea grimaces with what looks like a half-sheepish, half-sympathetic wince. “Oh. That’s unfortunate. But I doubt they’ll notice the difference, Amerie. Mr. Doyle doesn’t sound like a fussy eater, and his wife sounds like the sort who lives on lettuce and cucumber water anyway.”
Her attempt at lightening the mood grates more than it soothes, but before I can reply, my gaze lands on something else.
A glass bottle with a yellowed label sitting on the counter like some part of a conspiracy.
I snatch it up and squint at the writing.
Cumin.
No. No. No. No.
“Chelsea,” I say slowly, holding the bottle like it’s radioactive. “Didn’t we grab cinnamon when we were getting ingredients for the peach cobbler?”
“I couldn’t say, dear. I wasn’t really paying attention, to be honest. You were doing the list. I was mostly with Willow, remember?”
I stare at her. At the cumin. At the goddamn mustard greens still steaming away like nothing’s wrong.
