down. Much like Macon he’s rumored to be both a social recluse yet is adored by many. He is in his midthirties, is the son of Irish immigrants, and has the Midas touch when it comes to restaurants.
And he’s coming to dinner. All because Macon asked him to. I could kiss Macon for that. For a lot of things. I knew sex with him would be good, intense. What I didn’t realize was how close I’d feel to him. Sex is something I understand. It’s pleasure and release. Intimacy is different. I thought I understood it. I’ve had boyfriends. But I knew nothing. Because this thing between Macon and me is changing the very makeup of who I am.
He’s not getting under my skin; he’s becoming part of it. I don’t think I can walk away from him now without tearing a good chunk of myself apart. It’s both frightening and comforting. If tonight goes as planned, my life will change yet again. I’ll be one step closer to my dream. And it’s all due to a text that wasn’t even meant for me.
I’m ashamed to say I haven’t wanted to think of Sam. At all. Sam now equates to guilt. Guilt for not telling Macon about her call. Guilt about sleeping with Sam’s childhood boyfriend. Guilt for even feeling guilty about that. What a mess.
A small, childish part of me is glad she’s gone. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that. But pushing something away won’t fix anything. My sister is flawed. But she’s family, and she owes it to all of us to return.
Sitting heavily on the bed, I reach for my phone and send a text before I can think better of it.
DeeLight to SammyBaker: Everything has changed. I just wish you were here. I have so much to tell you.
I give her a good twenty minutes. She doesn’t answer. I have to resign myself to the fact that she’s not ready to come back. Swallowing down a lump of disappointment, I get dressed and focus on tonight.
I’m so damn nervous I can hardly keep my hands from shaking as I smooth out my hair and apply my makeup. The Delilah in the mirror has round cheeks that are too flushed and amber-brown eyes that are too big and shiny—scared. I leave off the blush, since I’m clearly not going to need it, and dab on some red lipstick.
Despite my jitters, I have confidence in my menu. It had taken two weeks to come up with it, searching through old cookbooks for inspiration, remembering childhood recipes, experimenting with taste combinations that bring me joy. Each dish feels deeply personal, even though I can’t fully express why. I created them without thinking too hard about it, letting my memory of food, knowledge of taste combinations, and basic skills guide me. It was worth it. I had to figure out who I was and tell my story through the food I made. It’s all there in this menu. All of what means the most to me. Whether it works, I don’t know. But I’m about to find out.
Macon
The morning after Delilah told me her dreams, she woke up with a wide smile and said, “I want to cook.” That was that. She disappeared into the kitchen and began to whip up dishes that made my knees weak and my mouth water. My diet went out the window; production orders be damned. I’d rather spend my days as her willing taste tester.
She’s become a woman fueled by a creative drive that lights her up. She cooks; I eat; we make love. Over and over. For two weeks. I don’t fully believe in karma, but somewhere, at some point, I must have done something right.
Now I have a chance to return the favor for the woman who’s become my everything. But first, there’s something I have to do for both of us. I pull out my phone and find Sam’s number.
Saint to Sam Baker: I was set to hate you. But I can’t anymore because you brought Delilah back into my life.
I’m not going to forgive you for the watch; I’m not that magnanimous. But I’m no longer going to look for you. Stay gone if that’s your wish. Or come back and ease your family’s worries.
Either way, you and I are done. Pax, Saint.
I have no idea if Samantha will get the texts. I’m not certain I care. But officially letting Sam go releases something in me as