24
Peter
When we get to the kitchen, Sara’s demeanor changes so suddenly it’s as if someone flipped a switch, turning on a different personality. A kind of frenetic energy seems to take hold of her, and after she gulps down two Advils, she starts rushing around the kitchen, putting away the leftovers and getting fresh plates for dessert with the speed of someone racing to catch a train.
“I got this, ptichka. Just relax,” I tell her, guiding her to her chair when she tries to grab the pie out of the oven without mitts. “You’re not feeling well, so just take it easy.”
“I’m fine,” she protests, but I ignore her, carefully taking the pie out of the oven myself and carrying it to the table while the guys watch the whole thing in bemusement.
Sara sits still for a few moments, letting me cut
