“What?” I repeat.
"Tonight." Rosa's voice is steady, patient, the voice of a woman presenting a solution to someone who is about to talk herself out of it. "Three months, private island, they house you, they feed you, the pay is good. I understand why you don’t want to go to your sister now. Three months there, you can go toyour sister, not empty handed. With some money, that would be better.”
It’s as if she knows me so well. Yes, going with some money, and not being completely helpless would make me feel better.
Three months housed. Fed. Paid.
I’ll come back with enough for a deposit, and I’ll be able to figure out the next part without doing it from complete freefall.
"Yes," I say.
Rosa smiles.
I take out my phone and text my sister.
Anna. Quick question. Give me every easy recipe you know. Foolproof. All of them. Right now.
Her reply comes in forty seconds.
Why. What happened. Are you okay? Jennifer.
I'm great. I just got a job. I need recipes. It's an island thing. Three months. Don't panic.
A pause I can feel through the phone.
An island.
Yes.
Cooking.
Yes.
Another pause.
Okay. How fancy. Are we talking nice dinner party or five star resort.
I look at Rosa, who is watching me with quiet satisfaction.
"How fancy is the island?" I ask.
"Very," Rosa says.
Somewhere between those two things. Just send me everything. Appetizers, mains, desserts, straightforward but impressive. Also your rice recipe. I need your rice recipe.
Okay. Anything to help you sis.
I love you.
Anna sends twenty-three recipes over the next ten minutes, because Anna has always been someone who commits. She sends them with notes, little annotations in her digital handwriting.
This one always gets compliments. This one looks harder than it is. Don't skip the resting time on this one, I know it seems unnecessary, it's not.
I sit on the floor of my almost-former apartment reading my sister's recipes and something loosens in my chest. Not everything. Most of it is still very much knotted. But one thread comes free, and that's enough to stand up with.
I finish packing.
Forty minutes, the box heavier than expected because of the books, always the books, and Rosa helps me carry things across the hall to her apartment. I leave my key on the kitchen counter next to the mug I didn't wash, and I don't look back, becauselooking back is a choice and I'm making different ones starting now.