“In the meantime,” I said, “just… be aware of that other person inside of me. This may not make any sense, but she’s the one who needs you the most. She’s the one who’s hurting. She needs someone who understands that she hasn’t healed properly. Really, she’s just a bunch of broken pieces duct-taped together. But I think she needs you. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Yes. Of course. Whatever you want. You are in charge.”

The confused look on Roscoe’s face, however, indicated that it made zero sense. Maybe even negative sense. But he wasn’t about to admit it. Right now, he was the King of Understanding Metaphors. He nodded with so much raw determination, he could’ve skipped astronaut training and gone straight to the part where we launched him into outer space. If that’s where Wynonna was, he was so fucking there.

Oh well. He didn’t need to understand right now. He’d understand the moment he crossed paths with the wrong Wynonna.

“So…” I said. “You went to culinary school in Switzerland? That’s cool.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It was cool. It was also hell.”

“Hell?”

“Oh yeah. It sucked hard.”

I offered a prodding look.

“Imagine Gordon Ramsay cloning himself and running his own cooking school.”

“Yikes.”

“Yikes is right. The Swiss method is generally: Kick them when they’re down. Wear steel-toe boots while you’re at it. Then gently insert the knowledge into their submissive, catatonic brains.”

“Wow. Sounds great.”

“It was a learning experience. And it wasn’t all bad. The training programs at most Swiss academies combine traditions of European culinary schools, including the French and Italian ones. Essentially, you’re getting the full culinary experience. And even though the courses are taught in English, they also offer German, French, and Italian to expand your employment possibilities.”

“No shit,” I said, genuinely impressed. “Can you speak any of those languages?”

“Ein bisschen,” said Roscoe, in a guttural, phlegmy accent.

“Whoa. What was that?”

“C’était allemand,” he said—this time in a completely different accent. Relaxed. Delicate.

“Okay, that was French. Was that first one German?”

“Sei molto bravo a capire gli accenti,” he said, in a third accent. Suave. Flowing. Probably Italian.

“Now you’re just showing off.”

Roscoe chuckled. “You’re good at picking up those accents.”

“You’re good at picking up three different languages!” I exclaimed. “There are just three of them, right? Please tell me there are only three of them.”

“Just three. And to be fair, I learned French in high school. And I’m not good at any of them. At my best, most of my instructors would’ve told you that I sounded like three different kinds of bumbling village idiot.”

“Friendly lot.”

“I’m actually pen pals with some of them now.”

“Pen pals?” It came out of me in a stifled burst of laughter.