Abby wasn’t cooking for anyone in particular. That was the lie she told herself as she diced onions with military precision. She was cooking because the alternative was sitting alone in the living room, scrolling through photos of friends’ engagement announcements, feeling the sharp little pinprick of a life she hadn’t quite figured out how to want—until she realized she did want it. Just not with him.
“This island is beautiful,” Clara said, running her fingers along the grain. “Did you build it?” abby winters kitchen
Maybe it was the place where people finally stayed. Abby wasn’t cooking for anyone in particular
Abby blinked. Then, despite herself, she laughed. It came out rusty, unpracticed—like a drawer that hadn’t been opened in months. Just not with him
She stood over a simmering pot of tomato sauce—her grandmother’s recipe, the one written in fading ink on an index card stained with olive oil. The windows were fogged with steam. Outside, the first real snow of December was beginning to fall, thick and quiet.
Clara stepped inside, stamping snow off her boots. She smelled like cinnamon and something else—clove, maybe, or the kind of confidence Abby had forgotten she could borrow.