I move off in the direction of the meat counter and get two fresh-cut rib eyes. Marley and I decided on six o’clock for dinner tomorrow. I’m going to make my mom’s secret family rib eye recipe, which… could definitely go either way. It’ll be good to hang somewhere other than the park. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I don’t want to think this impromptu invitation from me was anything more than just a change of scenery.
I make my way to the deli counter, where I grab a number and wait behind an old lady getting four pounds of American cheese. She’s in for a night.
I take a Tylenol while I wait, warding off the return of the nagging headache I’ve had for most of the day. I’m getting better at figuring out how to manage the pain, but some days I still can’t get ahead of it.
“Sir?”
I look up, realizing the deli clerk has been talking to me. He wipes his hands on a towel and repeats his question. “What can I get for you?”
“Sorry,” I say, stepping closer to the display case. “Half a pound of turkey, please, thin cut.”
“You got it,” he says, snapping on a pair of fresh gloves. I watch him grab the hunk of turkey and drop it onto the slicer with a loud thump.
“Kyle?” a voice says from behind me.
I turn, but I see only an empty aisle of the grocery store. Light glints off plastic soda bottles and metal cans. Uh-oh. Not now. I will the Tylenol to kick in as I nervously turn back to the deli clerk. He reaches up to put his hands on the machine, his shadow moving on the wall behind him.
But…
They aren’t in sync. My eyes shift from the man to the shadow, his movements a second faster in silhouette.
He leans over the machine just after the shadow does, but now there’s long hair flowing over the silhouette’s shoulder.
I take a step closer, confused. The height and shape of the shadow is suddenly shockingly familiar to me. Too familiar.
Kimberly.
I see the electric blade spin, but the sound isn’t right. Instead of the whirring of metal, I hear an odd whooshing sound.
Chill out. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
I think of what Marley said, about how I’m trying to control things. Trying to keep a part of her here.
The shadow’s arm reaches for the slicer again, and I close my eyes, focusing on that. It’s in my head. It’s—I jump when a hand touches my neck.
“What the…” I whirl around, coming face-to-face with my mom, her hand in midair.
“I’m sorry,” she says, studying my face. “I thought you heard me.”
I glance back at the deli clerk to see him making a normal slice, with a normal shadow.
It’s been almost a week since my last weird vision. I’m pissed at myself.
“You okay?” my mom asks, feeling my forehead. She’s been better at giving me some space to figure things out now that I’m not staying in bed for twenty-three of the twenty-four hours in a day, but that still doesn’t stop her from poking and prodding me after the slightest trace of a headache.
“Yeah,” I say as the deli clerk puts the wrapped meat onto the counter. I grab it, put it into the overflowing cart with a thunk. “My head’s just bothering me today. What else is new?”
I can still feel her looking at me, so I try to reassure her again. “Nothing a little Tylenol and some food can’t fix.” I look down at the pile of groceries in the shopping cart, the bag of potatoes hopefully buried somewhere at the bottom. “Where’d the wind blow you?”
She shrugs coyly and holds up a tub of ice cream, making the both of us laugh as we head to the checkout.
* * *
Exactly twenty-four hours later, I’m in way over my head. The steak? Looking great. Veggies? Steaming. My mom’s béarnaise sauce recipe?
A catastrophe.
I’m surrounded by two empty egg cartons, shells and yolk guts littering the entire counter, and for what feels like the millionth time, the sauce comes out lumpy.
Why is it so lumpy?
My mom always makes this look so easy.
I glance at the clock, panicking a bit when I see it’s 5:45. I only have fifteen minutes to get this sauce right, reheat everything, and probably change my shirt, since I’ve sweat clean through this one trying to figure out how to make this fancy-ass sauce.
After speed-watching a YouTube how-to video, I finally realize that I’ve had the temperature too high this entire time. I scan through my mom’s handwritten recipe card for the thirtieth time, and there is no mention of temperature. So I toss it back onto the counter, doing a double take when I catch sight of a tiny note scrawled on the back: lower temp before eggs.