Marinara and Memory
1028 Words
---
The grocery store felt louder than it should.
Elara pushed the cart with one hand, holding a folded list in the other. Darian walked a few steps behind her, scanning shelves like a man on autopilot. They hadn’t said much since they left the house — and the silence between them had become something else entirely now. Not awkward. Not forced.
Just… charged.
It hummed beneath every small moment.
The list crinkled in her hand. She read it again even though she didn’t need to.
Diced tomatoes
Garlic
Fresh basil
Parmesan
Olive oil
Pasta
Simple things.
Things that didn’t mean anything.
Until they did.
---
“Elbow macaroni or penne?” she asked, turning slightly.
He glanced at the boxes. “Penne.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Feels more honest.”
She blinked. “Honest pasta?”
He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Elbow’s trying too hard.”
She laughed — a light, surprised sound that made his eyes flick toward her for a second too long. Their gazes met, held, then broke as if on cue.
She added the penne to the cart and moved on.
---
Back at the house, the kitchen filled with the scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes.
Elara sat on the counter, legs swinging as she watched Darian move — sleeves pushed up, forearms taut, brow furrowed in quiet focus. He didn’t talk much while cooking, but the silence didn’t bother her.
She liked the way he worked.
Deliberate. Careful. Like he was trying not to ruin something delicate.
“You really weren’t kidding about the marinara,” she said, sniffing the air. “Smells amazing.”
He stirred the pot. “Told you.”
She smirked. “Didn’t peg you for the apron type.”
“I’m not.”
“But you wear it anyway.”
“Because it’s practical.”
“Of course.”
He glanced at her, eyes narrowed playfully. “You always talk this much?”
“Only when I’m nervous.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Darian said quietly, “You don’t have to be nervous here.”
Her heart thudded.
Not from his words.
From how he said them.
Like it wasn’t just about the house.
---
Dinner was warm and full.
They didn’t eat at the counter this time.
Darian surprised her by pulling out two chairs at the kitchen table and setting the food down like it was normal. Like this was something they did.
Elara didn’t protest.
She just sat across from him, twirling her pasta and trying not to stare.
“So,” he said after a few bites, “art school, huh?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Micah told you that?”
“No. I saw your sketchbook.”
Her lips parted, but she said nothing. She didn’t realize he’d looked at it. Didn’t expect it.
“You’re good,” he added. “Better than good.”
She chewed slowly, not sure what to say.
He filled the silence. “My brother used to draw. Not like you. Cartoons. Comics mostly. But he could never finish anything.”
“I don’t finish half my stuff either.”
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t good.”
She looked up, eyes meeting his. “You talk about him more lately?”
Darian’s expression tightened. “No.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.” He set down his fork. “He died in a car wreck. Four years ago. We weren’t speaking at the time.”
The room went still.
“I didn’t know.”
“Not many do.”
“Do you miss him?”
Darian’s jaw worked for a second. Then he nodded. “Every damn day.”
The rawness in his voice silenced her. Not because it scared her, but because she understood it. Deeply.
“I lost someone too,” she said. “Not to death. Just… walked away. Never looked back.”
He didn’t press.
He didn’t need to.
They both understood that kind of grief.
---
After dinner, she insisted on doing the dishes again.
Darian let her — but this time, he stayed nearby, sipping a beer and leaning against the fridge, watching her work with a calm focus.
“Your ex ever cook for you?” he asked out of nowhere.
Elara laughed. “Micah? He could barely boil water.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She gave him a look. “Were you two ever close?”
“No. We’re too different. He takes shortcuts. I don’t.”
She turned back to the sink. “Yeah. I noticed that.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the soft splash of water and the clink of plates.
Then Darian said, “He hurt you?”
The question wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even really a question.
Elara swallowed. “Not physically. Just… slowly. You know?”
Darian nodded once. “Yeah. I know.”
---
Later that night, she found herself on the couch again, curled up under a throw blanket with her sketchpad in her lap.
The TV was on — low volume, a crime drama playing in the background.
Darian sat in the armchair nearby, beer resting on the side table, eyes on the screen but not really watching.
Their silence was comfortable now.
Lived-in.
She sketched his silhouette — not directly. Just the suggestion of him. Broad shoulders. Tired posture. The shadow he cast when the screen flickered.
She didn’t tell him.
She didn’t need to.
He glanced at her once, like he knew anyway.
---
At midnight, she stood up to go to bed.
Darian stood too.
They faced each other in the hallway, just for a second.
“Goodnight,” she said softly.
His voice was lower. Rougher. “Night.”
She stepped past him — slow, close.
Their arms brushed.
Neither of them moved.
Then she was gone, into the guest room, door clicking shut behind her.
And Darian stood in the dark hallway for a long time, staring at the door like it held a question he didn’t know how to answer.
---
- Writer
