This time Delia has eggs cooking on the stove when we come out. But they’re just sitting in the pan, congealing beneath the heat. As Coby takes the seat at my desk, I pull the pan off the burner. “Delia, watch it,” I grumble, scraping the eggs onto a plate. “You trying to burn them on purpose?”
Her glare is the only response I get, but I ignore it. Setting the plate in front of Coby, I apologize. “They’re a little crispy.”
“‘S okay.” His hand touches mine as he takes the fork from me, and his smile tells me it is okay, they’re just eggs. Before he can turn away, I kiss him quickly, a little peck on the corner of his mouth.
Behind us, Delia drops the pan into the sink, the clatter of cast iron on stainless steel loud in the tiny kitchen.
“Delia!” I shout, growing angry.
“Sorry,” she
