She grabbed the cocoa powder and added three heaping spoonfuls. After eyeing it for a second, she added another. “I’ve considered buying real estate. This guy I know buys up cheap duplexes, renovates them, and rents them out. He’s even built a small complex of apartments. I think it only has, like, six units. But if the building was mostly paid for, that kind of passive income could bring in a pretty penny long term.”
Typical Remi, she was talking a million miles a minute, so I chimed in just so she’d know I was keeping up. “Not a bad idea.”
She went to the fridge and took out a stick of butter. After unwrapping it, she placed it in a bowl and then popped it into the microwave. “But then I think of all the stress of managing something like that. Even with the new restaurant manager, I’ll still be spread pretty thin to stay on top of The Wave. Plus, the whole goal when I opened Grey Realty was to take on new agents. That was always my plan, but we’ve only been open a few months, so maybe I should wait a while anyway. Ugh, I don’t know. It just seems like so many opportunities and I have no idea which, if any of them, I should take.”
She swirled back around to the fridge and retrieved two eggs. Continuing to talk, she cracked them on the edge of the bowl and added them to her mixture. “And who knows. Maybe there are a ton of other investment avenues out there that won’t require as much time and effort. I guess that’s what I’m really asking.”
I started to open my mouth, but she lifted a finger and said, “Hold that thought. This is going to be noisy for a second.”
She grabbed the softened butter from the microwave, scraped it into the bowl, and then turned on the hand mixer. A loud hum filled the room.
I blinked as she carefully combined the ingredients—not a single drop of batter splashed from the bowl. In disbelief and utter confusion, I studied her.
After Remi had been kidnapped, it was rare that she’d leave the house. At the urging of her therapist to find a hobby, she’d taken up baking. The first few weeks had been a literal smoke show. My house had smelled like scorched sugar no matter how many windows I’d opened. But eventually, she’d gotten there. Loaded ooey-gooey brownies were her favorite. They were also the reason I’d had to take up running on Sunday mornings.
I’d seen her bake those morsels of chocolate heaven no fewer than two dozen times. And the woman in front of me, talking up a storm and measuring with her heart, was not the novice she’d claimed. She’d never even looked at the recipe.
My chest got tight and a weight settled on my shoulders. However, I couldn’t decide why.
Maybe it was from fear that she was starting to remember, and thus it would be the beginning of her spiral down.
Or maybe it was from the excitement at witnessing a piece of the woman I so fiercely loved reemerge from the abyss of nothingness.
She clicked off the mixer, leaned it against the bowl, and then looked up at me. “All right, what were you about to say?”
I cleared my throat, but it was all I could get out. As far as I could tell, she hadn’t noticed how she’d instinctively put it all together. It must have been something akin to muscle memory. A place in her brain that, through repetition, had consolidated the process of making those brownies into a specific task.
Like driving home on the same monotonous route while your mind wandered, only to snap out of it as you pulled into your driveway, confused how you’d made it that far.
While her mind had been elsewhere, her body had taken over, knowing exactly what to do.
What did it mean?
Were all of her memories in there somewhere? Locked up in a mental safe? Only accessible to her subconscious?
Had being in my kitchen, like old times, triggered something?
Over time, would it trigger more and more until she remembered everything?
Panic built like a summer storm inside me.
I was terrified that it was all happening so soon, when everything was falling into place for us. What if with this memory some of her more nightmarish ones came back to haunt her too? I’d known the risks of seeing her again and possibly setting off this type of chain reaction, and I’d selfishly taken them anyway.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “Do I have some on my face?” Her eyes got wide. “Oh God, it’s the chicken, isn’t it? Are you going to puke?”
“No,” I forced past the knot in my throat.
I sucked in a deep breath, holding it until my lungs burned. Okay, maybe I was overreacting. It didn’t have to be bad. This was also kind of what I’d secretly wanted all along. To ease her into the past, create an environment where everything wasn’t so fucking traumatic and frightening all at once. So what if she remembered how to make loaded ooey-gooey brownies? Her baking was one of the few positive memories that had existed during that time of our lives.
If I took a step back and looked at it objectively, this was a good thing.
There were no quiet sobs coming through the bedroom door.
Nor was she faking a smile for my sake alone.
She wasn’t reliving any of the hell she’d been through.
Remi was baking, plain and simple.
I stood and walked around the bar. Wrapping my arms around her waist from behind, I pulled her against my front. “It’s nothing. You just reminded me of something I forgot to do at work.”
“Phew. You scared me for a minute.”
No more than she’d scared me.
I kissed her neck. “If you hurry up and get those in the oven, we can take the dogs for a walk before it gets too late.”
“Ohhh, that sounds fun. Dibs on Sugar.”
“You’re going to give poor Clyde a complex.”
“The dog’s as big as I am! He could take me on a walk.”
We both laughed, and just like that, everything was right in my world again.
I raked my finger over the paddle on the mixer and then licked it. “Mmmm. That’s delicious. And you said you couldn’t cook.”
She looked down at the bowl, her whole body jerking at the sight. “What the hell?”
“Clearly you have some skills hidden in there somewhere.”
She grinned. “Where the hell were those when I was ruining dinner?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My dinner was amazing.”
She frowned at me over her shoulder. “You’re already getting laid tonight. You can stop lying now.”
I barked a laugh and tickled her side. “Another installment already? Have I mentioned you’re my best client?”
“Hey, hey, hey. Stop! I’m not done yet. They’re missing the most important ingredients.” She ducked out of my arms and walked to her bag on the corner, pulling out caramel sauce, chocolate chips, and mini marshmallows.
“Oh, wow,” I said, pretending to be surprised.
“They don’t call these babies loaded for nothing.”
As we walked the neighborhood that night, the same route I’d forced Sally to take at least once a week for months, I allowed Remi to lead the way home. Clyde knew how to get back. Sugar too. But when we reached the four-way stop, Remi looked up at me, unsure which path to take. I couldn’t decide if I was more relieved or disappointed.
Just as I’d expected, and much to her shock, the brownies turned out incredible. I guessed it was time to get back to running on Sundays.