Twelve
These Foolish Things
One week. I’ve got one week left with Luca. One week to pretend like we’re all glued up and back together again. Like I haven’t used Luca’s act of faith and affection as the key to getting out of his luxury prison. One week to listen to “Somethin’ Stupid” on repeat inside my guilty and confused head.
“Amber…. Earth to Amber.”
I snap out of my daze later that night to hear Naima say, “I think your stew’s burning, girl.”
I do a smell and an aural check. Strong odor, too angry sizzle. Crap, she’s right.
Cooking blind on a stove top is an all remaining sensory hands on deck sort of activity. But I’d completely spaced out for the second time today.
I curse under my breath as I turn down the burner, and hate that I have to ask Naima, “How is it?” because I had
