Page 136 of Never After Us
“Yep,” Alec calls over his shoulder.“But only if you two are sous chefs and wash your hands.”
Mila salutes him.“Yes, Chef.”
And just like that, we’re pulled into his rhythm—his world where things make sense, where dinner gets made, and people show up when they say they will.
It starts simple: garlic, olive oil, basil.Mila grates cheese while I slice tomatoes too slowly because my brain keeps drifting—toward Alec.Toward how natural he looks with a towel tossed over his shoulder, barefoot on the tile, humming under his breath as he stirs.
Mila wraps her arms around his waist mid-song.“You smell like noodles.”
“That’s the goal,” he replies without missing a beat, flicking a droplet of sauce at her nose.She squeals and hides behind me, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s laughter and pasta and light.
And I forget everything.The truth.The letters.The way my mother lied.The way my aunt disappeared.For a split second, it’s just this—this makeshift almost-family standing in a kitchen, pretending we aren’t all a little broken.Well, I’m shattered and these two are keeping me together.
I catch Alec looking at me when Mila’s distracted.
It’s not a smirk or a leer.It’s not pity, either.
It’s worse.It’s that soft, wrecking kind of gaze that says: You don’t have to hold all of it alone anymore.
And something in me aches to believe him.
We fall into an easy rhythm.
Mila “sets the table” with help, of course, placing the forks upside down because “that’s how a Queen should do it.”We’re not sure which queen but ...Alec doesn’t correct her.He adjusts his own plate and calls her “Your Royal Noodleness.”
When we sit down to eat, it’s surreal how normal it feels.Like we’re three people who’ve always belonged at this table, even though the ghosts around us are still crowding the corners of the room.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” Mila declares dramatically.“Except for that one-time Mom let me eat cake for dinner.But you’re close.”
Alec tips his head toward me.“Cake for dinner?”
I lift a shoulder.“It was her birthday.And we had spent an entire day going through a festival with a lot of food.Sue me.”
“She’s a lucky kid.”He laughs.
I don’t say anything.Can’t.So I focus on twirling my pasta and act like my throat hasn’t started to close.
Then I catch it—Alec watching me again, and I wonder if he doesn’t care about this mess.The parts I’ve tried to bury.The grief that’s still settling and doesn’t know where to grow or how to exist.The exhaustion in my bones from pretending like this truth didn’t just crack me wide open.
Honestly, right now I want to let myself inch closer.Rest—for just a second—in the possibility of being held instead of doing all the holding.He’s been great, but there’s so much a person can do with someone who’s just been cracked open, isn’t it?
Later, while we’re organizing the vinyl collection—because I don’t want to read the letters—Mila dozes off in Alec’s hoodie.Curled like a cat across the couch, her face pressed against his side like she belongs there.
“Should we wake her up so she can take a bath?”Alec asks right as the phone rings.It wakes her up.
“Maybe she should have some warm milk and then tell her to shower,” I say because that’s faster than a bath at seven at night.Then, answer the phone.“Mara Cavanagh speaking.”
“This is Bob Hanley.”His voice comes from the other side a little louder than I care for.“It has come to my attention that you’ve found out about your relationship with Ms.Lafferty.”
“Let me guess, Laura, her sister, called you,” I say because I shouldn’t expect less from my mother.She’s such a meddler.“Yeah, I figured that out last night.How can I help you?”
“It’s more like how would you like to proceed,” he states.
“Me?”
“Yes, I have other documents that I’m supposed to deliver once you figure this out,” he explains.
“And you couldn’t tell me from the beginning something like, ‘your aunt birthed you and now you’re inheriting all her shit?’”
