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The cabinets were old oak, well worn and darkened with age, their handles a mix of original brass and whatever replacement knobs Mrs. H had found over the years. The countertops were crowded with things she actually used—a heavy stone mortar and pestle, a ceramic jar labeled “For the Love of God, Don’t Touch My Shortbread,” and an ancient-looking spice rack filled with herbs in mismatched glass jars, half of which had labels that’d been worn away decades ago.
The fridge was covered in clutter, but not with typical grocery lists or takeout menus. Instead, it was a chaotic scrapbook of Scottish pride—clippings from a newspaper about some distant cousin who’d won a fishing contest, a map of the Scottish Highlands, an old rugby ticket from a match that took place in the eighties—one she still ranted about.
And at the center of it all was the table—a massive, old oak beast, scratched and scuffed, covered in the battle scars of countless meals and heated arguments. The edges were worn smooth from decades of elbows resting on them, and one leg had a permanent wobble that Mrs. H had “fixed” with a folded-up Scottish tourism pamphlet. Her chairs were all mismatched, some older than others, and one of them—a heavy, carved thing with a Celtic knot design on the back—was her designated seat.
This wasnota quiet kitchen, I soon realized.
The cabinets creaked, the clock above the doorway ticked just slightly out of sync, and every surface carried the weight of a thousand meals and stories shared over strong tea and stronger opinions. It was the kind of place where you sat down, got fed whether you wanted it or not, and left knowing more about your own love life even if you never intended to share.
It felt somehow foreign and distant—and homey—all at once.
Mrs. H, as expected, took it upon herself to ruin the moment.
“So, how’s work?” she asked, casually scooping up another bite.
I shrugged. “Same as always. Busy. Weather’s been good, so we haven’t had too many issues.”
She nodded. “And the guys? Still giving you hell?”
I huffed a laugh. “Always.”
“Still have that one co-worker who calls you ‘Big Stick’?”
I sighed. “Yes.”
She cackled. “Oh, I love that.”
I groaned. “I don’t. I told him to cut it out.”
“Oh, sweetheart. You’re doomed now. The minute a nickname like that sticks, you’re stuck with it for life.”
I scowled, stabbing myRumbledethumps. “I know.”
Mrs. H grinned, entirely too pleased. “Could be worse. They could call you Sparky.”
I shuddered. “Don’t even joke about that.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re too easy to mess with, Elliot.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You say that, but you’re the only one who actually succeeds.”
She patted my hand. “That’s because I’ve had years of practice.”
I sighed. This was true.
We lapsed into a comfortable silence, finishing our plates, until—
“Speaking of things you could use more of . . .”
I groaned, immediately regretting every choice that had led me to that moment.
Mrs. H spooned a bite of gray death into her mouth, watching me with beady, knowing eyes.
“So,” she said, voice casual.Toocasual. “How was your date?”
I took a very slow, strategic bite, hoping if I chewed long enough, she’d forget she asked.
Spoiler: She did not.