Delilah licks her upper lip. It’s a quick nervous gesture I saw her do dozens of times when we were kids. But she never was one to shirk from answering—at least not with me—and she doesn’t disappoint this time either. “I went to college because it was what I was supposed to do, you know?”

I nod. Because I did the same. Follow the track society set for me.

“Don’t get me wrong; I enjoyed it. But the closer I got to graduation, the more scared and less satisfied I became. What the hell was I going to do when I got out? I felt . . . stifled. I had this urge to create . . . something.”

“Like something’s pushing against your insides, wanting to get out.”

“Yes, exactly!” Delilah’s words flow with more ease. “I asked myself, what was it that I most enjoyed? And I realized it was cooking. Food was my joy.”

“So you followed your joy.”

Her slim finger traces the edge of the journal, the one that looks almost exactly like mine. “A mentor of mine once told me that food is a commonality that binds us all. We all need to eat to survive. But in eating, creating dishes that gave us pleasure, we developed a story of our humanity as well as the story of who we are as individuals. Food is tied to so many of our memories.”

“I once read a quote that good food heals our soul.”

“The right dish certainly can.” She leans toward me, her gaze intent and bright. “Give me a memory of food that makes you happy.”

She wants to heal me with food? Strange thing is, I’m fairly certain she’s already doing that.

I answer without thought. “Grilled cheese sandwiches your mom used to make us after school.”

She blinks, pink lips parting, but recovers quickly with a warm smile. “Yes.” In a flash, she moves to the fridge and pulls out a few packs of cheese.

“You’ve been hiding cheese in there?” I say with mock outrage.

She smirks. “I’m not going to forgo cheese. You never look in this thing, do you?”

“It makes it worse if I do.”

Delilah puts the cheese on the counter, then goes about gathering bread and butter. She has a thick loaf of farm bread that she cuts in slices.

“You’re going to make me a grilled cheese? Actually cheat?”

From under the fan of her lashes, her eyes gleam. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

I fall just a little further under her spell, my walls crumbling in places I never thought they’d weaken.

“And I’m not making it,” she adds, taking out a frying pan and turning on the stove. “We are.”