Page 6 of Julian

Dylan’s portion looks… fine.

But he’s seventeen. He’s six feet tall and still growing. He eats like someone preparing for hibernation.

I glance down at the plates, hating that I didn’t buy another few breasts of chicken for him, but it was that or a pack of bacon for breakfast. He has the lion’s share, but it’s not enough and I don’t need that much.

Without overthinking it, I slide a decent scoop of rice from my plate onto his. A few extra pieces of chicken follow.

“There,” I murmur. “That’s better.”

I cover his meal carefully with aluminum foil, pressing the edges down tight, then open the fridge and place it on the middle shelf where he’ll see it immediately when he gets home.

“Dinner,” I say quietly, closing the door. “Handled.”

I carry my plate to the small kitchen table that only seats two and takes up so much room, I have to push it out of the way to open the cabinets or sit down. The apartment feels somewhat subdued again, finally. No alarms or doorbells or ringing phones.

Just me and Beau, who positions himself beside my chair instantly, sitting tall and attentive, panting softly, eyes locked on my fork.

“You’re shameless,” I tell him.

His tail thumps once.

I take a bite. It’s… fine. Not terrible. The char is mostly gone. The rice is warm and comforting.

Beau’s gaze intensifies and I sigh. “I can’t believe I’m negotiating with a dog.”

I spear a small piece of chicken and hold it up. “This is it. A small one.”

He takes it gently from my fingers, as if he’s doing me a favor.

“That’s all,” I warn.

His eyes say otherwise.

I eat another bite, then give him a little rice. Then another small piece of chicken. His gratitude is immediate and overwhelming—tail wagging, body leaning against my leg like I’ve just rescued him from famine.

I reach down and run my hand over his head, fingers sinking into the soft fur between his ears. “You and me,” I murmur, scratching along his neck. “We’re a disaster.”

He nudges my hand, insistent. I look around the small kitchen—the slightly crooked cabinet door I keep meaning to fix, the counter still dusted with flour from earlier, the faint smoky smell lingering in the air.

It’s not glamorous, but it’s ours.

I press my forehead lightly against the top of Beau’s head. “We’re going to be okay, Beau.”

By the time I finish eating, the kitchen has cooled, the earlier chaos reduced to a faint smoky scent that lingers stubbornly in the air. I rinse my plate and begin the familiar task of washing dishes—warm water running steadily, soap foaming against cheap plastic plates, Beau lying stretched across the floor as if he’s just survived a natural disaster.

There’s a grounding feeling about cleaning up after a mess you’ve created yourself. It restores order. It suggests control, which I often seem to lack.

I dry my hands on a dish towel and finally turn toward the package sitting unopened on the counter. It’s small and rectangular, light enough that I barely felt its weight when the delivery guy handed it to me. I rotate it slowly, inspecting the label.

The return address makes my stomach dip.

It’s from my employer, the beauty brand where I work customer service—or, more accurately, where I answer calls from people who are furious that their serum arrived cracked or their foundation oxidized two shades too dark. It’s not ideal, and it’s certainly not the role I imagined for myself when I first fell in love with the industry, but it’s adjacent to where I want to be.

And adjacency matters.

The job pays decently and gives me flexible hours, which means I can schedule shifts around Dylan’s school and my other work as a chauffeur. It keeps the lights on and groceries in the fridge. It keeps us afloat.

And more than that, though I don’t always admit it, it’s an education.