Page 7 of In Somnis

“It’s because she told me to come to her in a dream.”

CHAPTER TWO

Lennon

Scruffy Guy slides his butter knife away from me, like he’s deciding whether the maniac next to him is chatty or stabby.

But the only thing I’m stabbing tonight is the burger.

Assuming it ever gets here.

“Yeah, I know it sounds stupid. You probably think, okay, so why don’t you just call her, right? She’s your friend.” I nod to myself. “Tessa and I go way back. Culinary school, the CIA? Ever heard of it? The Culinary Institute of America in New York? Anyway, we were roommates, in the same classes, and became instant best friends.”

I was drowning a little back then. Everyone else at culinary school seemed smarter, faster, apparently born knowing how to chiffonade basil without losing a fingertip or saying words like gastrique without sounding like an idiot. Tessa never treated me like I was weird for it. She acted as if I belonged there before I knew it myself.

She was the friend who would find me stress baking at two in the morning or sitting on the counter, eating raw cookie dough with me until I could breathe again. The friend who painted my nails when my hands shook too much to do it myself after I messed up an exam. The friend who made me believe I could be a chef even when I was failing half my classes.

The kind of friend I haven’t seen in twelve years because life got complicated.

The kind of friend I should have fought harder for.

So, yeah. She was a better friend to me than I was to her.

I was always better at collecting people than judging them. Friendly doesn’t mean loyal, and proximity doesn’t mean love, but I didn’t learn that until very recently.

“Everybody likes her, you know? The fun one. You’d like her, too, since she does not talk as much as I do.” I give him a weak smile. “But no… I can’t call her.”

He exhales, a short huff, as if I’ve finally cracked his armor, even if only enough to leak out annoyance, but before I can fill the silence again, the waitress returns, balancing two plates. “Here you go.” She slides a burger in front of me, then one in front of him as if we’re here to dine together.

We are now.

“Enjoy.” And then she’s gone again, vanishing into the back with a rag over her shoulder.

“Oh, you got a burger too?” I lean over my plate, breathing in the scent, and my stomach clenches so hard it’s almost painful. Gas-station candy bars can only carry a girl so far, even with grief dampening my appetite.

I take another inhale of the burger, and my nose wrinkles. “There’s not enough salt on that.”

That earns me another look, but I ignore him and flip the bun open. “Yeah. Knew it.” I swipe a fingertip through the sad, pale smear pretending to be sauce, taste it, and scrunch my nose. “Nope, absolutely not.”

I unzip my purse, peeking inside with a sigh. “Of course, I forgot to pack the travel spices. I only have the emergency sprinkles.”

His stare is practically audible at this point, but I pretend not to notice and reach for the face-down coffee cup by the napkin holder.

Time to improvise.

This is the part I know, not the crying in parking lots, the driving toward dreams, or unraveling in front of strangers. This. Turning bad ingredients into something worth eating. I’ve been doing this since I was five years old, standing on a step stool beside my dad while he narrated everything he touched.

“A handful of this, a pinch of that.”

“You taste as you go. Lenny girl, always taste as you go.”

He cooked how he talked, which was constantly and with great enthusiasm. I obviously inherited both.

Thinking back, my parents ran a loud house. Music on, oven on, someone laughing. Silence usually meant something was wrong, so I grew up filling it without even thinking.

Maybe that’s why silence feels like a threat now.

Turning the cup upright, I scavenge and gather whatever the table has to offer—ketchup, mayonnaise, the tiny salt-and-pepper shakers, and a sugar packet. I pluck the pickle off my burger, chop it into tiny cubes with the dull butter knife, and add it to the cup, stirring it until it no longer looks like a cry for help.