Delectable

by Meg Cannistra

My mom’s the reason I don’t like to cook.

Not because she never taught me. It’s the opposite. When she wasn’t in the kitchen teaching me how to make roast chicken or the best marinade for skirt steak, we were watching cooking shows. The Food Network raised me. Sandra Lee was like a wacky aunt, and I had many opinions about Bobby Flay.

Mom died when I was twelve. Hit her head while suffering from a heart attack. I was in the next room when it happened. Screaming, she clutched her chest as she stumbled and took the pot of pasta sauce she had attended to all afternoon with her. A hollow sound: skull and metal against marble tile. Blood from a wound in her head mixed with the rich, red sauce making it impossible for me to tell the difference between the two. When the screaming stopped, the gasping began. Her mouth opened and closed in a way that was less human, more animal. Eyes darting around, fearful, like a wounded deer. Then they rolled to the back of her head. I dialed 911 with trembling fingers and by the time the operator picked up, she was already gone.

The sick part is that even though some of the details are hazy, what I remember most is the smell–the delicious aroma of the sauce as it pooled around her body.

It seemed totally random at the time because she was in perfect health. After I attended medical school and started learning about the inner workings of the body, I found out that a coronary spasm, though rare, can happen to anyone.

You’d think studying cardiology would be the thing that would trigger my mom-related trauma. Nope. It’s cooking. Spending years in school and now working through my residency is, according to my therapist, a means of controlling my grief. But having a strong aversion to cooking means that after a twelve-hour shift of resident duties at Sacred Heart Hospital, figuring out what’s for dinner is my least favorite activity.

The fridge’s bright light and incessant hum burrow into the wrinkles of my brain, making it ache. There are about two bites worth of Irish cheddar wrapped in plastic. Take-out leftovers from Sunday. A sad, under-seasoned chicken breast with the texture of an old tire.

Getting pizza delivered would take at least thirty minutes. Chinese an hour.

My stomach rumbles.

I settle on a piece of week-old cake in a Styrofoam container. Gross, but it’ll do.

I take one bite and nearly choke on the crumbly, stale cake and thick glob of frosting. I toss the rest in the garbage.

Gertrude, my inquisitive, orange tabby, brushes up against my legs. She sits tidily, with her tail curled around her front feet, and cocks her head to the side to meow up at me. Crouching down, I scratch under her chin. “Don’t worry about me. I promise I won’t starve.”

She gives me a look, as if she doesn’t believe me, and I shake my head. Scooping her up, I walk us into the bedroom and drop Gertrude on my bed. Sleeping, like cooking, is something I don’t like.

Maybe it’s because I can’t turn off my brain. I press play on the podcast I was listening to on the car ride home while I change into pajamas. Pop Culture Pop Quiz with Janet and Chloe. It’s probably the fifth time I’ve listened to this episode. It doesn’t matter what they’re talking about. The hosts remind me of the kind of friends I’d like to have. Or, if I’m honest, the kind of person I’d like to be—funny, smart, effortless.

I need people talking to me constantly—even when I’m sleeping—to stay out of my own head. Whenever I try to fall asleep without a podcast crowding my mind, I hear my mother. Her gasps. The desperation. The panic. The final woosh of air squeezing from her lungs.

Gertrude curls into my side as I open up Instagram. I scroll through my feed, staring into the middle distance, looking at memes. Who would I even send my favorites to? I didn’t stay in touch with most of my friends from high school and college. Not even med school.

Except for Sam Wainwright. A former member of my study group and fellow intern at Sacred Heart. He’s cordial when we see one another. I wish we saw one another more.

My fingers hover over the magnifying glass, heart in my throat. Before I can stop myself, I tap it. Of course, Sam was my last search. He’s my only search.

I scroll through his grid, careful not to like any of the photos. There are some new ones.

Sam at the beach.

Sam with what looks like his mom at brunch.

None with anyone who could be suspected of being a girlfriend. Or boyfriend.

I scroll further back.

Sam with his family at graduation last spring.

If you squint, you can see me in the background. Standing on the fringes of the students celebrating. He asked if I wanted to get lunch with him and his family.

I lied and said I needed to catch up with my parents as they were pulling the car around outside.

I didn’t tell him I haven’t seen my dad since I was three and that my mom was dead. I never told anyone these things about me. The reaction people have when you tell them you don’t have parents is embarrassing. Also painful. They don’t know how to handle it. They turn and run.

I feel the old resentment stirring in the pit of my stomach. Oh, I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable because my life is tragic. But it all kind of worked out though! My mom left me enough to pay for most of my schooling. So that’s pretty cool.

Seeing the pity in Sam’s eyes if I told him the truth would ruin everything. He’s so kind. A real fixer. That’s why he wants to be a doctor. To fix people. But I don’t want to be a project. I want him to like me for me –not for the places I’m broken.

So instead of engaging in deep conversations in the break room or responding to his DMs, I just stalk his Instagram.

Gertrude’s purring reverberates against my chest and my eyes grow heavy. One of the podcast hosts—I think it’s Janet—laughs. I laugh, too, but I’m not sure exactly at what. Placing my phone next to my head, I sink into my pillow as Janet and Chloe’s chattering dulls to a murmur.

***

“Cassandra?”

It’s the next day (or is it two days later? I’m not sure) after my shift. Another fifteen-and-a-half-hour crossover. God, it sucks being a first year. I could swear I heard someone call my name.

“Cassandra, is that you?” A familiar voice pulls me from the marshmallows I’m tossing into my shopping basket. I turn around to see someone staring at me, a smile tugging at his lips.

Oh, God. Sam Wainwright.

“Hey!” His green eyes glitter. The corners of them crinkle as his mouth forms a smile.

“Sam! Uh–I– hi.” My face flushes. I clutch my basket in front of me.

“How’s it going?” He asks. Unlike me, he’s wheeling a full-sized shopping cart. He leans forward and rests his forearms on the handle. So casual. His sandy, brown hair is tousled, curling at the ends, his lips pressed together like he’s about to tell a joke he knows will land. My heart squeezes.

“Fancy meeting you here. Were you on the swing shift too? Killer.”

I glaze down at my feet. “Yeah. Killer.”

“If I could just…sorry.” Sam reaches toward the shelf behind me. The baking chocolate. I take a step back and collide with a cardboard display, sending a few bags of marshmallows flumping to the floor. Sweat collects at my hairline, face growing even hotter.

We both crouch down and reach for the same bag. Sam laughs. I wince, the hairs on my arms standing on edge.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble before snatching the bag from him and the others that fell on the floor. “I’m a walking accident.”

“Now that’s just not true.” He grins. “We were lab partners in Anatomy, remember? A walking accident isn’t as skilled as you are with a scalpel.”

My lips twitch and I hide behind my hair.

“What’cha got there?” Sam examines the contents of my basket, his lips twisting into a smirk. “On a health kick I see.”

I follow his gaze to the embarrassing amount of processed foods in my cart.

“I–uh. Ha, yeah.” Unlike my basket, Sam’s is well-balanced with fresh things like mushrooms, oranges, carrots, celery, apples, onions, parmesan, and arborio rice. “Looks like you’re making a feast. Risotto?”

Sam nods with enthusiasm. “How did you guess?”

“I sort of, used to, like, cook. But. I don’t. Anymore.”

Sam nods. “I get it. It’s like, who has time, right? I hated cooking until I got into this YouTube chef. Makes it all super easy. She’s even got one of those meal kit delivery services.” He looks back at my basket and adds, “You know, her recipes are great. And cooking’s a good way to relieve the stress of a hectic job.”

I need to change the topic stat. I cannot go into the uncomfortable discussion of my mom’s death. So I nod politely and ask, “Oh? What’s her channel?”

“Her name’s Millie Soffet! Her show’s Delectable. She’s the best.”

“I’ll check her out. Thanks.” Crisis averted. I think.

Sam rubs the back of his neck. “You know, if you get into her, it might be fun cooking together sometime.”

I blink at him for a moment before nodding. “I—I’d like that.”

“Awesome,” he says, smiling.

“Awesome.” I can’t help but mirror his expression.

“You know, you don’t smile much. But you’ve got a great one. I’ve never noticed it before.”

Blushing again, I look away and focus on the pickles in my basket. Before I even know what I’m saying I blurt, “My mom used to call me her little chipmunk because my cheeks are so big when I smile.”

Sam laughs. “Well, I like them! What’s that word Millie always uses to describe a dish? Oh! Succulent. Succulent cheeks.”

I scrunch my nose. No one’s ever described me as succulent before. I’m about to say as much when a loud buzzing disrupts the conversation. Sam’s brows creases, and he pulls his phone out of his pocket, frowning at the screen.

“Damn. I need to take this. But text me, okay? You’ve got my number right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Great. Text me! We’ll make beautiful dishes together!”

Sam turns the corner out of the baking section. I look down at my basket. Damn it! What have I just promised? Groaning, I make another turn around the store, putting back all the items in my basket. I Google a recipe for pasta primavera. I cannot have a panic attack in the kitchen. Not with Sam there. I have to figure this out, and I have to start somewhere. Pasta’s easy. Simple. Tonight, I’ll make pasta. Either all my mom’s cooking lessons will come flooding back or I’ll trigger childhood trauma.

Maybe both.

***

The unopened box of spaghetti sits on my kitchen counter, mocking me.

After getting back from the store last night, I got to work chopping up a zucchini and promptly sliced my finger. Blood poured across the cutting board.

Vomit rushed up my throat and I scrambled to puke in the sink. Unfortunately, all over my dirty dishes. The sweet, sickly smell made me throw up again. So instead of finishing the recipe, I put a Band-Aid over my finger and curled up in a ball on my bed, sobbing until I fell asleep.

I cannot do this alone. Should I put on PCPQ with Janet and Chloe? I’m searching for their latest episode when I remember the YouTube chef that Sam recommended. What was her name, Mary…Margaret…Millie! I type her name into YouTube. Her channel comes up immediately. I scroll through, looking for a pasta primavera video. Every chef has a pasta primavera recipe. It’s a solid beginner meal. After ten videos, I find it. Somewhat eager, mostly nervous, I prop my phone against an old cookbook and turn the volume all the way up.

“Hello, hello and welcome darlings,” Millie’s gentle voice greets. “Welcome to Delectable. If you’re joining us for the first time, which I’m sure some of you are—” she pauses, smiling at the camera “—a special welcome to you. I’m Chef Millie Soffet and I’m thrilled you’re here with us.” She clasps her hands in front of her pristine, white apron. “It’s a big day here at the house. We’re having special guests for dinner—my dear friends the Duke and Duchess of Hertfordshire. Isn’t that just wonderful?”

Millie stretches out her arms, looking at the array of ingredients laid out before her on the kitchen island. “And what better way to celebrate our terrific guests than with a fantastic pasta primavera. Made with the freshest summer vegetables. Picked right from the garden.”

I snort. Mine are from Meijer, which is certainly no sunny backyard plot.

“And, while fresh pasta is ideal,” she continues, “We’ll be using boxed today to make things easier. But if you want to go the extra mile, I recommend making your own. As I always say, fresh is best.”

“I can barely look at the box of dry pasta, Millie, what makes you think I can handle making it from scratch?”

“Now!” Millie claps her hands before grabbing a knife. “We’ll want to start by getting our mise en place together. I know many of you dislike this part, but it really helps having all your ingredients prepped and ready to go.” She begins chopping a yellow squash and looks up at the camera, smiling. “Plus, it’s just so much fun slicing vegetables. Don’t you agree?”

I stare down at the yellow squash on my cutting board and feel dizzy. Eyeing the picture of my mom and me hanging on the fridge, my hands start to shake. Taking several breaths, I adjust my grip on the knife and start slicing.

The loud clunk of the sauce pot hitting the tile floor.

Mom’s body, twitching and trying to fight death.

The savory smell of tomatoes and basil.

The cloying stench of blood.

My knife clatters to the counter and I bury my head in my hands, sliding down the kitchen cabinets. Tears well up in my eyes and I grip the roots of my hair until pain shoots across my scalp. Gertrude pads over and rubs against my legs.

Somewhere in the distance, Millie’s voice cuts through my panic attack, “You know, I learned how to cook from my mother and grandmother. They were incredible in the kitchen. I’d stand on a wooden stool, watching as they worked. As I got older, I was given the job of prepping ingredients.” The grip on my hair softens and I wipe the tears away, twisting to look up at my phone as Millie works. “I cherished those lessons,” she adds. “They were my guiding stars in the kitchen. I knew that following their instructions would never lead me wrong. They both passed on, a few years apart. I wondered if I could ever recover. But cooking…cooking always brings them back. When I make a dish like this, I feel like they’re still with me. For an hour or two, it’s like living inside a memory.”

I push myself up off the floor. Oddly, Millie gets it. And if she could do it…

The sound of chopping fills the kitchen and soon the yellow squash is sliced into perfect half-moons. The zucchini goes a little faster and so do the other vegetables. A smile creeps up my face as I smash the garlic flat with the side of my knife, pull it from its skin and mince it with precision.

“Very good,” Millie says and I preen at the compliment. “Now, get your water boiling for the pasta as we start heating some olive oil in a large pan.” Millie continues to give instructions and I follow them dutifully, my mind drifting to my mom.

But rather than the cold, winter day she died, it's springtime. All the windows are open and the entire house smells like sautéed garlic. Mom likes listening to the radio when we cook and she hums along—badly—to whatever song is playing. I laugh as she starts doing it worse on purpose and asks me to keep an eye on the vegetables. Toss them occasionally, she says, to keep them from burning.

Soon, the pasta primavera is finished and I’ve cooked my first dish in fifteen years. “It’s time for the best part,” Millie announces. “Eating the fruits of our labor.” She takes a quick bite and closes her eyes, savoring it. “Mmmm. Delicious.” Opening her eyes, she stares back into the camera and adds, “The Duke and Duchess will be here soon, so enjoy and have a delectable day.” The video ends. I exit YouTube and turn on a podcast, bringing the pan of pasta primavera over to the kitchen table and take a nervous bite. Leaning back in the chair, I groan. It’s perfect. Millie’s a genius.

Grabbing my phone, I Google her again. Sam mentioned her cooking kit. I find it fast. It takes a couple minutes to enter my credit card information and scan through the terms and conditions. Auto renewal after a year, blah blah blah. Then, By agreeing, you have the opportunity to be part of one of Millie’s delectable dishes. Fun. She must invite people to cook with her on Delectable. I accept the terms and a confirmation page pops up. My first box will be delivered in a few days. Happiness floods my body and, riding the endorphin high, I text Sam asking when he’s off next. He responds almost immediately.

Two Saturdays from now.

With Millie’s help, I’ll be ready.

***

“Tonight, we’re cooking something really special.” Millie smiles broadly. “Pork loin stuffed with pesto and prosciutto. Doesn’t that sound just wonderful?”

I lay in bed after a day shift, watching the latest episode of Delectable. My eyelids droop as I stare at the screen, the bright light giving me a headache. My chief resident—Doctor Nowak who is constantly prying into why I’m so tired and slow—was especially challenging today. Thank God I found Millie when I did. Otherwise, residency would have driven me off the deep end.

A white paper package tied in butcher’s string appears on the kitchen island next to the other ingredients. I blink and the package is now in her hands. Winking, she says, “You’re going to want to use the good pork loin for this. Ethically sourced, of course.”

“Good pork loin?” I repeat, brows scrunching together. There must be a decent butcher shop in Grand Rapids. “We’ll find some, right, Gertrude?” She snuggles closer into my side.

“When I was in my 20s, I had no idea who I was or what I wanted to do with my life.” Millie unwraps the pork loin. Pink with just the thinnest fissures of marbling running through it like cracks in a porcelain vase. Millie grabs a knife and continues, “I was simply lost.” Looking into the camera, her face falls. Lips pursed, her forehead creases in concern. Posture curves as she holds the knife to her chest—hand pressing against the flat edge. “Anxious. Depressed.”

Silence.

She stares through the camera, gaze meeting mine and her eyes watering as she refuses to blink. The knife gleams as she raises it over her head and stabs it into the pork loin.

“I know what it’s like to feel alone. To hurt.”

My vision blurs and I look up from the screen—staring at the darkness of my bedroom. Rubbing my eyes, I tune back into Millie who is making quick work of slicing the pork loin lengthwise.

Giving it a tiny pat with her hand, Millie cuts off a piece. “Food became my love language. And there’s nothing more—” she grins, eyes sparkling “—well, delectable than raw meat.”

Unease slithers down my spine. I blink, wondering if I heard her correctly.

“You know what I always say…” Millie presses the piece between her lips and sighs. “Fresh is bes—”

“—Doesn’t that smell incredible? Crushing up the basil leaves with the pestle and pine nuts and olive oil. Really brings out those earthy aromas.”

The video skips to Millie making a pesto in her mortar. She’s calm again, face no longer screwed up with dread. I sit up, finger gliding across the trackpad to frantically replay the last minute of the video.

“I always knew I wanted to be a chef,” Millie says as she unwraps the pork loin. “Cooking has brought me so much joy and I’m grateful that I have the privilege to do so for my terrific fans.” She slices into it again, this time a warm smile on her face as she does so. “Each and every one of you is important to me. This show wouldn’t exist if not for you. Now, for the pesto—” Millie washes her hands in the sink before plucking basil leaves from a nearby plant “—you’re going to want fresh basil leaves. As I always say, fresh is best.”

I rewind again and then a third time. There’s no footage of Millie talking about being alone or eating a piece of raw pork. I shake my head. I must have dozed off and dreamed up something bizarre. We had a motorcycle accident in the ER today. Gruesome stuff.

Gertrude’s still asleep, lulling me to lay down once more. Millie continues through the recipe, interweaving the steps with her usual stories. She takes a spoon and spreads the pesto across the pork loin in an even layer from end to end.

As I’m drifting off again, I think, that piece of pork loin was shorter than before.

It’s raining and dark by the time I pull into my apartment parking lot. An October chill settles in the air. I hurry up the stairs to my door where I’m greeted by a delivery.

On the side of the box, in a chic font befitting a coastal chef, are the words Delectable Dishes—Millie’s subscription meal kits. It arrived earlier than I thought it would. But I’m not complaining about the timing. Sam’s coming over tonight and what better way to impress him than a full-blown Millie meal.

I bring the box straight to the kitchen and open it up with a knife. There are a few recipe cards that, in the same nice font, tell me what dishes are in this week’s kit. Divine pork belly and glazed kabocha squash with rice. That sounds good. I wade through the included ingredients to find kabocha squash, garlic, scallion, premeasured seasonings and oils. At the bottom of the box is a slab of meat wrapped in paper.

“Are you ready,” I say, looking over my shoulder for Gertrude. But she’s not in her usual spot on the dining chair. “Gertrude?”

A pair of eyes flash from the dark doorway.

“What’re you doing all the way over there?” I grab the box of cat treats and shake them. “Gertie…come on.” She doesn’t move.

Mrowwwww.

Paws skitter across the wood floors, away from the kitchen. Weird.

Shaking my head, I tap my phone screen. It’s already seven. Sam should be here soon.

The kitchen fills with the sumptuous smells of garlic and roasted squash. I season the pork belly and fry it, watching with delight as the fat renders and glistens in the pan.

My phone buzzes and I check it immediately. Just a news article. It’s now nearly eight. Weird. Sam still isn’t here. I brush the pork with the gochujang sauce before carefully putting it on a cutting board and use the rest on the kabocha.

Should I text? I don’t want Sam to think I’m too eager, but he was so excited about our dinner. Plus, he never struck me as the type of guy to ghost someone.

I type up a quick message—Hey! Just wanted to see if you were still going to make it tonight. I kind of finished the recipe without you, but Millie’s divine pork awaits!

I open up a bottle of pinot noir and plate up the food so it looks just like Millie’s would. The dish is full of color. Gorgeous. I snap a picture and send that too.

No response yet. It’s fine, though. I need to put on makeup anyway. Gertrude’s not lying in bed. Odd. She must be hiding somewhere. Maybe she’s just not a fan of pork. This would be the first time I’ve cooked anything like it in the house. After finishing my makeup, I head back into the kitchen. Sam still hasn’t responded and now it’s an hour and thirty minutes after he should have been here.

What if he got in a car accident or had an emergency?

No. I take a sip of wine, crossing my arms over my chest. The most reasonable explanation is the simplest. He changed his mind.

I sigh. There’s no reason to waste a good dinner. At least I’ll have leftovers now.

Slumping down on the couch, I dig in. The kabocha’s tender, just a little bit sweet followed by a tartness that gives it some punch. Perfectly balanced. I slice into the pork belly, but it’s tougher than it should be. Hmm. What could have happened? I followed the recipe exactly. I made sure.

I take my first bite, eating slowly. It’s still a little tough and the fat’s chewy. I probably should have rendered it longer. Overall, though, the flavors are correct. My shoulders relax and I sink further into the couch, relishing the taste. The hint of pepper and garlic, the sweet smokiness of the gochujang sauce—it pairs excellently with the kabocha.

“Gertrude!” I call from the couch. “Want some pork belly?”

I spear a piece of the pork belly with my fork and get up to hunt her down. She’s got to be somewhere in here. The front door’s closed, plus her life’s way too cushy for her to step a paw outside.

“Gertie!” I head to the bedroom and kneel next to the bed. In the very back corner, pressed against the wall, is Gertrude. “There you are!” She narrows her eyes, tail curled around her tiny body. I hold the fork out and say, “Would you like to try a bite?”

She swats the fork and sends it flying across the floor. Hissing, Gertrude darts out from under the bed and skitters off to another hiding spot. I grab the fork and stand up, feeling even more dejected and abandoned than before. First Sam, now Gertrude. She’s never hissed at me in her entire life. My thoughts drift to my mom—to her dying young and leaving me all alone to live with my grandma—and I can’t stop myself from crying. I’ve been alone for so long. I hoped things were changing.

But no. Just more bullshit.

With no one else to turn to, I collapse on my bed, opening my laptop to Millie’s smiling face. Greeting me with the same enthusiasm she always does.

***

“Cassandra, it’s Doctor Nowak calling. It’s 4:45 in the afternoon and your shift began at seven this morning. This is the third shift you’ve missed. Please call back as soon as you can.”

I delete the voicemail and settle back in under the covers, watching Millie make cheeseburgers and fries. Gertrude disappeared sometime after the hissing incident. She’s nowhere to be found, but I discovered a hole in the screen on the window I keep open in the bathroom. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself not to lose it again. I’ve broken down every day since and can’t even manage to post about her missing in local Facebook groups.

Without anchors like taking care of Gertrude and going to work, it’s hard to determine when one day ends and the other begins. But Millie keeps me sane. Her subscription boxes and videos are all I need. In the past few days, I’ve eaten spicy crispy beef, steak with truffle butter, and pork ragu.

“You’ll want to chunk out your beef so it fits in the grinder,” Millie says. The video flashes for half a second to black before returning on a close shot of Millie’s bloody apron as she cuts down what looks like an animal’s loin to size. “Make sure your meat is ethically sourced. My butcher, Mr. Todd, always says the meat will be unsuitable if there’s any crying. You want all that wonderful moisture to stay locked in.”

The blood’s fresh, dampening the white apron, and wasn’t there a moment ago.

Blood on the kitchen floor. Pouring from my mom’s head. Mixing with the sauce.

A scream echoes off camera.

I jump, heart hammering against my ribs. Millie’s knife stills. Blinking rapidly, her gaze flits in the direction of the noise and she frowns. I run a shaky hand through my greasy hair and bring the laptop screen closer to my face. Another scream. This time, followed closely by a dull thud.

Millie stays still for so long I check to see if the video’s paused. But then she turns back to the camera, her scowl deepening. “I don’t want them to scare you.” A broad smile curls over her face, and she wipes her hands on her gore-stained apron. “But screams are to be expected.”

The video cuts again. Burgers are sizzling in the cast iron as Millie finishes caramelizing onions on the other burner. “Caramelizing can be tedious, but it’s so worth it. Especially when paired with a good Swiss cheese and homemade horseradish aioli. Doesn’t that sound fabulous?”

I lean against my pillows, sighing. I’m losing it. Breaking apart. But Millie keeps me grounded. There’s nothing wrong with Millie. There’s everything wrong with me.

Someone knocks at the door. Pausing Delectable, I rush to answer it. Another subscription box sits on the mat. I bring it to the kitchen, opening it to see the typical ingredients. Flour, seasonings, onion, carrots, beef broth, and a couple white packages of meat. Underneath is the stack of recipe cards, the first one reading Extraordinary beef heart braised in wine.

Beef heart.

There’s another card at the bottom of the box.

It’s important to know where your food comes from…ethically sourced from a prime specimen…six foot two inches…muscular, but well-fed…green eyes…curly brown hair…beautiful laugh…magnificent…

The card slips from between my fingers. Trembling, I open the package. A dark red heart glistens against the white butcher paper.

A human heart.

I walk back to my room and watch the rest of Millie’s video.

She finishes plating and sinks her teeth into the burger. Juice dribbles down her chin. Millie wipes it away with her finger. “It’s perfect. Simply perfect,” she says between bites. “And next time, we’ll be making something truly special.” Excitement flashes in her eyes. Her smile’s impossibly large, teeth stained pink. “Succulent beef cheeks with parmesan risotto. Terrific!”

I touch my face. Mom’s little chipmunk.

Tears fall hot and fast. I walk back to the kitchen and take a pan out of the drawer. The stove clicks on and the oil heats up while I prep the vegetables.

Sam’s heart cooks up fast. The smell of meat marries to the scents of dry red wine, carrots, and onion. A delightful bouquet. I plate the food carefully and bring it to the kitchen table, cutting into the braised heart.

Mom’s dead on the floor. Blood and sauce everywhere. Running down the front of the oven and splattering the cabinets. I crouch by her side, dipping a finger into the red sauce and press it between my lips. Its copper taste mellowed by the acidic tomatoes.

Her heart’s no longer beating. Neither is Sam’s. Not anymore. His heart sits on my tongue, robust and slightly gamey. An excellent flavor profile.

Simply delectable.

YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF THE CHAIN.

Come back every Tuesday… if you dare

---

About the author

Meg Cannistra is the author of The Trouble with Shooting Stars, the Giada the Healer series, and Road to the Wizard: A Topsy-Turvey Tale of Oz. She grew up in Sarasota, Florida, and got her MFA in writing for children and young adults from Hamline University. After living in New York City and northern New Jersey for a few years, Meg now resides with her husband, two cats, and dog in Charlotte, North Carolina. When she’s not taking pictures of her pets or wandering around grocery stores, she writes magical, mysterious, and sometimes scary stories. You can find her on Instagram at @MegCannistra and learn more about her books at www.megcannistra.com.