Six
Somethin’ Stupid
Amber
“Heya, Reynolds,” Jake says when I let him into the apartment Monday night. He presses a kiss to my lips, and then I hear the sharp inhalation. “Smells f*****g amazing in here!”
“It’s the oil and garlic for the scallop and scallion stir-fry I’m making.”
“Sounds great,” he says.
“We’ll see…” Since Jake doesn’t eat Italian or weekday carbs, I’ve been experimenting with a lot of new recipes that go beyond what I grew up cooking with Mom.
I rush back to the kitchen and can hear his wingtips clipping against the wood floor. He comes to stand at the counter just inside the kitchen’s arched entrance where I keep the Jawbone he got me.
“Siri, play ‘Frank Sinatra, Best of Vegas,’” he commands into my phone. A few seconds later, a 60’s-era voice announces Frank Si
