Jake's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Of course, there's a fucking column for it. What's Column G? Things Jake does that make Evan… fuck, I don't even know what they make you do."
The kitchen walls started to close in. Jake stood three feet away, shirtless and defiant, milk still dripping from his toes, and I wanted to shake him and kiss him and lock him out of the apartment all at the same time.
"You know what?" Jake threw the dish towel onto the counter. "You want control so bad? Control this."
He gestured broadly at the mess—ceramic shards, scattered Rice Krispies, and a puddle of milk. Then, he grabbed a hoodiefrom the back of the chair where he'd draped it the night before and headed for the door. He yanked on his sneakers.
"Jake—"
"I'm going for a walk. Try not to alphabetize my absence while I'm gone."
He left milky footprints as the door slammed hard enough to rattle the picture frames in the hallway.
The apartment was suddenly silent again, while I stared at the milk gathering in the grout between the tiles.
I swept up the ceramic shards first, each piece clicking against the dustpan. The rice cereal was more difficult—it had scattered under the refrigerator and stuck to the baseboards where the milk had splashed. I found myself on my hands and knees, wiping down every surface twice, three times, until the kitchen showed no signs of the disaster.
Except for the empty space on the drying rack where the blue bowl used to sit.
I dumped everything into the trash, pressing down harder than necessary to make room. My hands shook—probably adrenaline or the caffeine from my tea. I washed them under water hot enough to leave red marks on my knuckles.
The pantry door swung open with its familiar creak. Jake's Rice Krispies sat on the middle shelf, half-empty box tilted against a container of oats. He'd left the top open again, which would make them stale by tomorrow.
I reached for the box, intending to close it properly, and caught myself staring at the cartoon characters on the front. Jake had been eating the cereal every morning since he moved in.
I pulled out the flour, brown sugar, and vanilla extract.
I retrieved the butter from the fridge and executed the familiar motions—measuring flour and cracking eggs with sharp taps against the counter edge. The electric mixer's whir filled thesilence Jake had left behind, and I focused on the sound instead of the echo of his voice:Micro-controlling my breakfast cereal.
Had I been doing that? Managing him instead of living with him?
I folded cornflakes into my batter, listening to them crackle against the wooden spoon. It sounded similar to the cereal he'd been eating when everything went sideways. The same cereal probably still stuck to the bottom of his feet.
The first batch went into the oven, and I set the twelve-minute timer. Soon, a cloud of warm vanilla and brown sugar scents filled the kitchen, comforting and calming to my nerves, usually.
Instead, I kept replaying the fight. It wasn't only Jake's words, but how he'd looked when he said them.
You want to organize me into a neat little column where I can't disrupt your perfect kitchen ecosystem.
The timer chimed. I pulled out the cookies—golden brown with dark chocolate chips and cornflakes visible on the surface—and set them on the cooling rack. Perfect. Symmetrical. Everything a cookie should be.
I made a second batch. Then a third.
The apartment was too quiet—no off-key singing from the shower.
I sat at the kitchen island with a warm cookie and stared at the empty stool where Jake usually perched, one leg tucked under him, talking with his hands while milk dripped from his spoon.
A quiet apartment was safer. It was also lonelier.
I opened my laptop and pulled up my practice schedule, updating notes from yesterday's scrimmage with mechanical precision. I kept glancing at the door.
At the bottom of the Home Operations spreadsheet, I added one final line:
Fridge Drama: 1 broken bowl, 0 resolved tension. Action item: TBD.
I closed the laptop and picked up another cookie, still warm from the oven. Outside, October wind rattled the windows, and somewhere in Thunder Bay, Jake Riley was walking through the cold without a proper coat because I'd made him feel like he couldn't exist in his own space without breaking something.
I didn't want him to come back angry, but I wanted him to come back.
