Epilogue February 21stBruce leaned over the kitchen counter like a food safety inspector who’d found rat droppings in the salad bar, eyebrows practically touching her hairline. “Please,” I laughed, steadying my hand over the perfectly plated frittata slice, “I’m not screwing this up. Back off.”“Are you absolutely certain about that?”I rolled my eyes and placed the tiny piece of green garnish with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. “Look. It’s perfect.”To be fair, she’d done ninety percent of the actual cooking after witnessing me crack one egg and somehow launch most of it onto the kitchen floor like I was auditioning for a slapstick comedy. She’d grudgingly allowed me to handle plating duties, but she trusted me in the kitchen about as much as her uncle did: not at fucking all.“What’s going on here?” Alonzo’s voice cut through our breakfast theater as he stepped into the kitchen mid-tie adjustment. Neither Bruce nor I were typically conscio
Zuletzt aktualisiert : 2026-02-04 Mehr lesen