unch. I got dressed, walked to the diner, and told my boss I was quitting, effective imme

or the first time in years, the day was mine. I called my old friend from culinary schoo

ly you?" Maria's voice

across my face. "Are you free tonight? I

lasted the jazz music Ethan hated. We cooked for hours, experimenting with a deconstructed paella, laughing and drinking cheap wine. The kitche

tood in the doorway, looking lost and out of place. His face tightened when he saw t

e asked, his voice t

," I said simply, not st

u quit your job? Wit

. I didn't think I ne

y own life, to be more independent. But now that I was actually doing it,

, "Jocelyn's Creole Kitchen," posting recipes and photos of the intricate dishes I wa

e sounds and smells of a life that didn't include him. He hated it. My independence, which he had pa