Ittakes all my willpower to resist reaching a hand out to the side of her neck for her to lean into, pulling her into a hug, or grasping her hand— anything to comfort her right now.Instead,Iswallow hard and say, “I’msorry,Mackenzie.”
“Wait.Youwant us to stop dating?”
“Ido,”Isay, and thenIforce myself to turn and leave.
Whenshe calls out, “Don’tIget a say in this?”Isomehow manage to keep walking.
CHAPTER37
SHAKEN, STIRRED, AND SPILLED EVERYWHERE
MACKENZIE
Iopen my apartment door and head to my bedroom to kick off my shoes.Peopleare always saying that exercise— especially outdoors— is great for their emotions.Ithelps them to pound out stress.
Yeah,I’mnot getting that at all.Maybeit takes running instead of walking?Iopen the app on my phone and record my daily walk.Mystreak is now on day one thousand two hundred and sixty-two.
Ichange into sweatpants and aT-shirt and head out toward my kitchen.I’malmost there whenLivivideo chats me, andIanswer.Excitementis written in every line on her face as she says, “Areyou ready for a classic?SeanConnery, theOGBond,JamesBond.Comingup on our medium-sized screens, we’ve got metallic-handed maniacs, a nuclear menace, tropical nightmares, and martinis ‘Shaken, not stirred.’”Shesays that last part in her bestSeanConneryimpersonation. (Heis probably rolling over in his grave at how much she butchered it.Restin peace,Mr.Connery.) “Ihave a watch party link coming up right now, andI’mjust about to send it to you.”
“Canwe watch something different tonight?”Igrimace, knowing what a big ask that is.
Livigasps. “Whoare you and what did you do withMackenzie?”
Ishrug, trying to act normal. “I’mjust not feeling the intelligence operative vibe tonight.”
“Intelligenceoperative?Mackenzie, are you okay?What’sup?”
“I’mhangry.Ijust need to grab dinner.”
Imade macaroni and cheese in my rice cooker before my walk, throwing in every kind of cheese that was in my fridge.Which, okay, wasn’t that many andIhave no idea if it’ll even taste okay, butIwant nothing more right now than a bunch of creamy cheeses over carby goodness.Idon’t even care if it tastes weird;Ijust want it in my belly.
Iplace the phone standing upright against my blender and push down the button on the lid handle of my rice cooker to release the lid, but it doesn’t release.Pressingit again does nothing.Ipress with both thumbs at the same time, with all the forceIcan summon, and it also does nothing.Probablybecause the button is already pushed down— it’s just not releasing its thing on the inside.
Igrab a butter knife and work the side of it into the space between the base and the lid, trying to pry it open, but it doesn’t even have the decency to make me feel likeI’mmaking progress by budging a bit. “Whatis wrong with you?”Isay to the machine in a voice that is every bit as frustrated asIfeel.
“Wow,”Livisays, “you must be really hangry.”
Iignore her and lay the cooker on its side soIcan put one hand on the lid and one on the base and use the maximum strength possible to push them in opposite directions.
Nothing.
Ipause a moment and rub my forehead with the back of my hand because this is exhausting.ThenIspy the olive oil.Once, whenIwas a teenager,Ispilled an entireCostco-sized bottle of olive oil on our kitchen floor.Ittook a metric ton of baking soda, a whole lot of soapy water, and a ridiculous amount of time to clean up, butIcan fully attest to its slipperiness.Ipour some all along the teeny gap between the lid and the base.Itwill find its way to the seal and make it loosen its grip,I’msure of it.
OnceI’mconvinced it has soaked in all the way around,Istand the cooker back upright and try to open the lid again. “Why,”Ipound my fist on the side of the lid, hoping to loosen whatever is catching it. “Won’t.”Anotherfist pound, this time on the side. “You.”Pound. “Open!”Ipound one last time, but nothing.
Livi’shead is tilted, and she’s looking at me like she’s really concerned for my well-being.Iam also concerned about my well-being ifIdon’t get some macaroni and cheese in my belly soon.
“Didyou have a rough day at work?Wasone of your patients a pain?Oh!Didyou see that one creepy guy who always says, ‘So, when doIget my rub down’?Orthat woman who puts in zero effort during the week and then says that you must be a bad therapist because she’s not getting better?”
“Workwas fine.”Idecide to push down on the release button with every bit of energyIcan muster one last time.Whenit doesn’t open,Ilook down at the kitchen floor, exhaustion filling me, and want nothing more than to sit right there on the cold tile.
Igrab my phone first.Asmy arm is coming back from that andI’malready sinking to the floor, my arm somehow gets tangled in the cord and yanks it out of the wall socket, then the whole rice cooker comes to the floor with me, crashing onto the tile.Thelidfinallyopens— this time on its own— and all my gloriously cheesy macaroni spills everywhere.
Andby “everywhere,”Imean all over the floor, all over me, and all over my cabinets, but not in my mouth.Iclose my eyes. “Don’tyou hate it when you plan for something to go one way and then it just doesn’t work out?Thenit makes you really mad and you want to throttle something.Thenyou get sad and want to cry, so you do, but then you get mad again?”
Liviis quiet for a moment before she asks, “Thisisn’t about the rice cooker, is it?”
Ishake my head.
