Grayson’s POVI had dropped onto the couch the moment I stepped out of the kitchen, my back hitting the cushion as if I’d been shoved there by an invisible hand. Sweat slicked my skin, my shirt clinging to me, lungs dragging in air like I’d just run miles. The familiar scent of a certain kind of dish filled my apartment, reminding me of what the day meant for me.Meatloaf glazed with brown sugar and ketchup sat cooling on the counter, the same way my mom used to let it rest. Mashed potatoes whipped smooth with butter and cream waited in a ceramic bowl, a dent in the middle for gravy. There were green beans sautéed with garlic, cornbread wrapped in a cloth to keep it soft, and cooling by the window, was an apple pie with a lattice crust I’d never quite mastered but tried anyway.These were my dad's favorite meals. And my mom used to make it for him on every of their wedding anniversary, humming while she cooked, swaying slightly to the soft background music from the radio. Dad would
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