Unwinding

LEONARD:

“Had a good day?”

Seriously? That was what she could say after all that happened—everything still happening?

She’d called our kiss an abuse, asked to postpone our wedding, demanded a breakup, then returned to ask if I had a good day.

Why didn’t I realise Erica was a weird woman until now? And to spice it up, she even offered to make dinner. After weeks of living together and now that we are about to go our separate ways, she wants to play the doting partner?

Or was that her attempt at friendship?

“Good luck with that,” I muttered and retreated to my room.

She had no idea there was nothing in the kitchen. Nothing. She never bothered to cook, so she wouldn’t know. I could have told her, but the idea of knowing she would be disappointed, knowing she would give up… was oddly satisfying. So I let it be.

But hours later, a smell drifted into my room—rich, fragrant, irresistible.

Sweet garlic. Spiced butter. Grilled beef. Even from behind closed doors, the scent made my mouth water. I doubted it was coming from my house.

Curious, I stepped into the hallway and headed to the kitchen.

She was there, plating food. It was really her. She had gone out, bought things, and cooked a full meal.

I stood there, stunned.

Something stirred inside me–gratitude… maybe even admiration.

The first bite shut down my thoughts. The food melted in my mouth. My appetite that had been long buried under years of greasy takeout, awakened with a vengeance.

“Want some more?” she asked.

I want a lot more.

I was a heavy eater; always had been. My mother, a brilliant cook, raised me on rich, home-made meals that only broadened my appetite. But when I moved to the States, fast food became my norm. Uninspiring, tasteless, overpriced food. I ate less out of necessity.

Moving back, I got my own place. Not because I couldn’t stay with my mother, but because I needed space. I couldn’t stand the crowd anymore. Nathan, his mom, the housekeepers… too many people. I wanted quiet.

So I chose solitude. I didn’t hire help. I didn’t want the company. I escaped a house full of people. I wasn’t about to fill mine again.

When Erica moved in, I never asked her to cook. I never took on the responsibility either. I loved home-cooked meals but had never learned to make them myself. Why force it on her?

But tonight, I was reconsidering everything. This food? I would pay, plead, beg—whatever it took to make her cook again, at least for the next three months.

Then she reappeared after dinner, holding a cup of ice cream.

The only thing her father ever warned me about was her milk allergy. Even the tiniest amount triggered her. I’d seen it firsthand. At last year’s company evaluation, the chef made a sauce with cream. She ended up hospitalised for days. Rashes covered her skin for weeks.

I didn’t penalise the chef. He had been warned. But truthfully? I didn’t care. Back then, I didn’t care if Erica lived or died. I told myself she wasn’t a child. She should’ve identified a cream even when mixed in mud. She should’ve known better.

But watching her lift a spoonful of ice cream to her lips, and about to do it again…unsettled me.

In a blink, I was on her, snatching the cup, breathless with fear. But she looked at me like I was crazy.

I had thought maybe she was stupid enough to forget her allergy. But then she rolled her eyes, took another cup, and disappeared into her room.

It didn’t make sense.

Erica wouldn’t have developed amnesia overnight. Indeed, she has been dragging me through a series of unexplainable emotions and actions, but that didn’t mean she could lose memory of her allergy.

Even if she had forgotten, the reaction should still be there. Yet I didn't see her struggle to breathe. No swelling. No rash. Nothing like what happened at the company event.

She should’ve collapsed after swallowing the ice cream. But she didn’t.

I couldn’t sleep. I paced my room, filled with questions. And when I couldn’t bear it, I went to her door. However, I heard her talking on the phone. Chatting. Cursing at intervals. Alive and breathing fine.

I returned to my room, but I was still rattled.

I woke up in the morning feeling the same. Worst. I couldn’t focus on my driving to work. I pulled over, my thoughts whirling. I tried to calm myself, to think clearly.

Erica couldn’t put me in a state so confusing…physically and emotionally…God help me, she wasn’t even a business project!

I thought back—when Erica started acting strange… when all of this starts unwinding.

Then it hit me.

The first spark was when I met her at that man’s house. Her eyes were…different. Her voice bolder. Her behaviour unpredictable. That was the first time I noticed something wasn’t right.

Different!

She was different.

This wasn’t a shift in personality. This wasn’t some emotional breakdown. This was someone else. Erica had a doppelganger. I brought home a different woman.

I slammed the gear into reverse and sped home.

“Erica!” I called, banging on the door. The knob wouldn’t turn. “Open the door… or I’ll break it down!”