Page 8 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Oh.” She clicks something on her computer. “I see you’ve been employed at the Seaside Spoon for six years.”

“That’s correct.”

What I don’t say: I’ve also been under-appreciated, underpaid, and had more conversations with a temperamental coffee maker than most people have with their therapists.

“And you were terminated due to...?”

“Health department closure. The coffee maker died, the freezer gave up on life, and apparently running a restaurant with ancient equipment is ‘not up to code.’”

She blinks at me with the stare of someone who’s heard every story in the book. Her emotional range rivals that of a parking meter. “I’ll need documentation of the closure.”

I slide the health department notice across the desk. Somehow I manage to knock over her coffee mug in the process. We both watch in horror as lukewarm coffee spreads across her desk, soaking into what I really hope weren’t important documents.

“Sorry! Sorry!” I grab for the napkins in my purse, which of course choose this moment to get tangled with my keys, my phone, and what appears to be a melted crayon courtesy of Mason’s last car ride.

She rescues the soggy paperwork with the resignedexpression of someone whose day just got worse. “It’s... fine.”

It’s not fine. But she processes my claim anyway, probably just to get me out of her office before I destroy anything else.

“You’ll receive your first payment within ten business days,” she says, handing me a stack of forms. “You’ll need to apply for three jobs per week and report back every two weeks.”

Three jobs per week. I run through the local options—Michelle’s coffee shop pays minimum wage but she’s flexible with hours. Hazel mentioned the beach boutique needs help during tourist season. There’s Jack’s parents’ hardware store, and the ice cream shop where Tally works.

None of those will come close to what I was making at the diner. I wasn’t rolling in money before, but I was managing. The unemployment will cover the basics. Barely.

Tally’s in the kitchen when I get home, making herself a sandwich with the kind of teenage precision that suggests she’s been fending for herself after school since she could reach the counter.

“How’d it go?” she asks, not looking up from her peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“About as well as you’d expect. I only knocked over one cup of coffee.”

I drop my folder on the counter. Several forms scatter across the floor like confetti from the world’s most depressing party.

“That’s good for you,” she says with a grin, then her expression turns serious. “I picked up two extra shifts this week. And Mrs. Davidson asked if I want to help with her garden Saturday morning.”

My chest tightens. “Tally, you don’t need to?—”

“I know I don’t need to. I want to.” She takes a bite of her sandwich. “Plus, the ice cream shop tips are good during summer.”

She shouldn’t have to worry about money. But arguing with her would just make us both feel worse, and honestly? I’m grateful for her help, even if it makes me feel like I’m failing at the whole responsible adult thing.

“Thank you,” I say, because sometimes accepting help is just good parenting.

“Where are the boys?” I ask, suddenly realizing the house is suspiciously quiet.

“Crew’s at Aaron’s house working on their science project. Mason’s in the living room, supposedly watching cartoons, but I think he’s actually reorganizing your magazine basket again.”

Of course he has.Mason has developed this recent obsession with organizing things into what he calls “proper order,” which means I can never find anything but it all looks very neat. Yesterday I found my latest issue ofCoastal Livingtucked between his toy trucks because apparently magazines belong with “things that move around the house.”

I find Mason in the living room, surrounded by magazines sorted into piles that make sense only to him. He’s also sporting what appears to be finger paint in his hair and possibly on the couch.

“Hey, buddy. What’s the organizing system today?”

“Pictures of food go here,” he says, pointing to one pile. “Pictures of pretty ladies go here. And pictures of houses go here.” He holds up a home improvement magazine with the pride of someone who’s just solved world hunger.

“That’s a very good system. What happened to your hair?”

He reaches up and touches the blue streak with surprise, like he’d forgotten it was there. “Art happened.”