CHAPTER 19

She held it strongly in her hands, her laughter had subsided, replaced with the pain of failure. She dipped a finger in the middle, bringing it slowly to her mouth as the look scared her—it tasted worse than it looked, a bitter revelation of her growing incompetence.

A consistent feature of hers since she met Jace. Nothing seems to be moving in the right direction for her, maybe it's because she had forgotten herself in the chase of love, a foolish mistake she has repeated severally.

She stared at the casserole or what was to be casserole in her hand. The top was golden brown while the edges were crusted. She dropped it on the counter, letting it cool. Clara stared down at the sorry excuse for a casserole like it had personally offended her, and when it reached her satisfaction, she scooped out a portion, holding it up as she dreaded what was to come next

She brought the bite to her mouth slowly, then swallowed with a hard gulp. She closed her eyes, trying to chew, but not up to a second later, she gagged. Clara rushed forward, holding her hand over her mouth tightly as she ran to the sink. She spat at the little content in her mouth, coughing slightly but it wasn't enough.

The taste still lingered on her tongue. She turned the tap handle, using her hand to hurriedly rinse her mouth with the water. After a while, her mouth felt free again. She turned around and glared at the item on the counter.

The top layer was too dry while the insides were mushy. It had a terrible smell—something between burnt cheese and uncooked garlic which still lingered in the air, taunting Clara. She opened the windows to reduce the smell, or at least try.

She picked up the casserole, heading straight for the bin, but the light grumbling in her tummy stopped her. She was hungry, too hungry to judge rightly. So she tried again, dipping her fork into the crust, scooping a small portion. Tears nearly rolled out of her eyes as she swallowed the portion. She put her hands together, skipping lightly as she struggled to pass it down.

There was just too much garlic. The chicken too was undercooked in the middle, while the sauce was undone, it clung to the roof of her mouth. The casserole was an ultimate failure. There goes all the YouTube videos and tutorials.

"What can I do right?" She groaned, tossing the fork away. She threw her hands in frustration. Tears burned at the back of her eyes, she wasn't sure whether it was the hunger or the pain of her incompetence.

She leaned against the counter, feeling defeated. “This is stupid,” she whispered. “Why am I even trying?”

She glanced at the empty chicken pack, the half-used cream, and the last block of cheese she had saved. Her stomach groaned again. Clara clutched it, frustration washing over her features. She didn’t want to admit defeat, not again but she couldn’t try again either—not with the last piece of chicken, not with her last supplies, not without assurance.

Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the plate and dumped the rest into the trash. She whispered bitterly to herself, "There goes breakfast and half my groceries."

The worst part wasn’t the wasted food, no, it was what it represented. Her failure wasn’t just in cooking. It was a reminder of everything else she had failed at recently—trusting the wrong people, falling for broken promises, believing in love that only knew how to break her.

She had spent nearly an hour peeling, slicing, mixing, stirring, baking—and for what? A lump of shame on a plate.

She walked back into the sitting room, feeling the cold tiles against her bare feet. The couch seemed too far away, like a finish line of a marathon she had no energy to reach. But she made it there, collapsing into the corner of the cushion, hugging one of the throw pillows.

Clara closed her eyes, trying to gather herself. Then a thought ran through her mind. At first, she tried to shove it away, thinking it was not necessary. Then came the grumbling in her tummy again, louder this time. Then the thought came again, louder this time. She reasoned it.

"What do I have to lose?" She asked herself before giving in, but she knew it wasn't easy. It was something she should have done at first, but she had resisted it out of pride, but now, there was no time for pride; she needed this done.

She walked to where she remembered tossing her phone. She searched around, then her eyes found her phone lying face down on the floor. She wiped her hands on her apron before grabbing the phone and opened her contacts.

As soon as she opened it, her recent call log opened automatically, and the first thing that hit her wasn’t the contact she was looking for.

It was Jace.

Jace. Jace. Jace. Jace. Jace.

Call after call met with no response. Not even a reply.

Clara stared at the screen, jaw clenched. Her thumb hovered over his name again before she shook her head and whispered, “No. Not again.”

She backed out of the call history and scrolled slowly, carefully, until she saw it—“Mom.”

Her finger hesitated. They hadn’t spoken in a long while. The last time they had spoken was shortly before she moved out of their apartment without telling either her or her dad.

They weren’t exactly close—not in the way mothers and daughters were supposed to be. Her mom had always been selfish, demanding and hard to please. Growing up in that house meant living by rules Clara never understood. Her mother had wanted perfection. Clara had only ever wanted freedom.

And now? She wanted help.

So with a deep breath, she tapped call. The phone rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Just as she considered hanging up, a click sounded, but she was met with the words she didn't want to hear. The first four words nearly drowned her.