Sugar and Spice

Meatloaf: Mallory

The kitchen smelled like warmth and safety, a combination I hadn’t realized had a scent until that moment. It wasn’t the sterile, lemon-scented clean of my mother’s kitchen or the heavy, grease-laden air of Stella Cucina. It smelled like toasted corn and savory herbs.

Jay’s mom looked exactly like what I would’ve imagined. She was wearing an oversized, tie dyed shirt, and had her long graying blonde hair clipped up in a messy bun. She looked like someone that spent her free time browsing the coastal antique galleries that had massive sand dollars on the walls and pukka shells hanging from the porch.

“Mallory, right? The mermaid scientist,” she smiled. Her eyes were twinkling with a kindness that made my throat feel tight. She sat a plate of meatloaf and a chunk of steaming cornbread in front of me. “I’m Cat. Sit. Please. Jay tells me you’ve been doing the hard work of teaching him how to be a good employee.”

“Actually, he’s the one that was teaching me today,” I said as I eased into the chair. It creaked under me, but instead of feeling like a structural failure, it felt like a greeting. “I survived my first surfing lesson.”

“Surviving Jay’s surfing lessons is a feat in itself,” Cat laughed, sitting down with her own plate. “He often forgets that not everyone has salt water in their veins.”

I looked at the food. It was rustic. There were no garnish lines or calculated portions. It was just… a meal. I took a bite of the cornbread and the sweetness hit me followed by a heat I didn’t expect. “Jalapeños?” I asked.

“The secret ingredient,” Jay winked. He dug into his own meatloaf with a hunger that made me realize how hard we’d actually worked out there.

“Jay says you’re a physics student,” Cat said, leaning her chin on her hand. “Is that what takes you to Kingsport?”

I nodded, the mention of the city bringing that familiar weight back to my chest. “There’s an internship at a propulsion lab. It’s… it’s the goal. It’s what everything else is built around.”

“A big goal for a big mind,” she said softly. She didn’t look at me with the clinical expectation my father did, or the frantic worry my mother had. She just looked at me like I was a person who happened to have a plan.

We continued to eat while Jay tried to convince his mom that we didn’t need to see his third-grade school photos. The way they interacted — the easy teasing, the lack of tension, the way Cat seemed to truly see him — was a revelation. There were no spreadsheets on the table. No “market volatility” discussions. Just a mother and a son in a house that leaned to the left.

“This is the best meatloaf I’ve ever had,” I said, and I realized I meant it. Not just the flavor, but the feeling of eating it.

“It’s the lack of straight lines,” Jay murmured, catching my eye.

After lunch, Cat shooed us out to the wrap-around porch. She said she had a book to finish, and didn’t want us “cluttering up her chi.”

Jay led me around to the back where there were two Adirondack chairs next to a set of French doors. The sun was beginning its slow descent, turning the tips of the tall grass into shimmering bronze.

I sat down, the wood cool against my thighs. My skin felt tight from the salt and the sun, but my mind felt quiet. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t thinking about what I needed to do next.

“You okay?” Jay asked, sitting in the chair next to mine. He leaned back, his long legs stretching out in front of him.

“I think I’m experiencing a lack of signal,” I said, repeating his words from out on the water. I looked over at him. “Your mom is wonderful, Jay.”

“She is,” he agreed, his voice softening. “She’s the one who taught me that the only thing worth building is a life you want to show up for.”

I looked back out at the marsh, watching a dragonfly dart between the reeds. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked myself if I wanted to show up for my life. It’s always been treated like something I have to execute… like a program.”

“Well, programs can be rewritten, Mal. You just have to be willing to change the code.”

I didn’t pull away. I leaned my head back against the chair, listening to the wind in the grass. The bridge to Kingsport was still there, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like the only way home. I sat there, knowing I was going to have to leave soon, wondering what kind of life I really wanted to build. What kind of life I wanted to show up for.

When I finally returned home, the sun had already sank below the horizon and the stars were starting to shine. The whole drive home had felt like a long walk down to a gallows. I was dreading the interrogation that I was certain was coming, especially after three missed calls from my parents.

I cut the engine in the driveway and slowly approached the door. I unlocked it and cracked it open enough to peek inside. So far, the coast was clear. I could hear the television in the living room, the nightly news. I headed straight for the stairs, creeping up them to my room like it was two in the morning instead of eight o’clock at night. I had just barely turned my doorknob when my mother’s voice called down the hall. “Mallory?”

I froze, my hand still on the cold metal of the knob. For a second, I considered pretending I didn’t hear her and slipping into the dark sanctuary of my room. However, my “perfect daughter” upbringing wouldn’t let me.

“I’m home, mom,” I swallowed, turning to face her.

She was at the end of the hallway, a silhouette against the lighting of her bedroom. “You’ve been gone for fourteen hours, Mallory. We called. Your father was concerned.”

“Concerned” was code for “he thought I was wasting my momentum.”

“I was at the beach,” I said, finally pushing my door open.

She closed the distance before I could escape inside. I winced as the hallway light came on. I knew I looked exactly like what I was: a girl that had spent the day drifting. Salt-crusted and sunburnt.

Her nose wrinkled as she stopped, “You smell like garlic. And mud.”

“I had lunch,” I said, leaving her in the doorway as I moved to my closet to retrieve a fresh set of clothes.

“With who? You don’t have friends at that restaurant, Mallory. You have colleagues.” Her eyes narrowed as she noticed the strap of my bikini peeking out of my sundress. “You weren’t out there alone were you?”

“I was with someone from work,” I answered, trying to keep my tone level. I looked at my reflection in the vanity mirror. The girl looking back didn’t look like someone who was meant to be an intern.

“Your father is going to want to talk to you,” she warned, as I moved to the dresser.

“I’ll be down after I shower,” I sighed.

She was silent as she eyed me again, a disappointed frown heavy on her face. The shower wasn’t going to be long enough. Eventually, I emerged downstairs, clean, armored in a thin sweater and slacks, my hair brushed. Every trace of the “variable” was gone.

“Fourteen hours, Mallory,” my father said, his voice unsettlingly calm as he turned off the TV. “A significant deviation from the recovery period.” His eyes moved over me. Examining me. “You’re tired. Your eyes are bloodshot. Dehydration from the sun, I presume?”

“I was learning something new,” I answered, my heart starting to pound against my chest.

“Unless it pertains to propulsion, it’s a distraction. Now, get some rest. The weekend is coming, and you should yield your highest tips yet. Don’t lose your momentum now.”

I walked out of the room, thinking about the stilt house and the meatloaf, and the cornbread with jalapeños. I went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water and looked out at the dark lawn. Tomorrow was Thursday, one more day before the weekend explosion.