38: R&N: In Your Cricket World

Noon, Vera Manor, Kitchen

"I'll go grocery shopping with Harry and Jordan at the organic market and get them there. Gimme a list and I'll do it." Mel knew she wasn't a great cook, but in a showdown with her partner's ex, she was determined to come out on top.

"Ok…if you're absolutely certain…" Abigael replied cautiously.

"I am."

10 am, Organic Grocery Store, Meat Aisle

Mel surveyed the list again. "1 pound of beef tenderloin." All she needed to do was find a cut of meat that was already labeled and arranged in the refrigerated section, right? However, she hadn't accounted for the acute sticker shock as she sifted through the heavy parcels of cold, icy meat. She'd expect a single pound of meat to cost upwards of six dollars at a regular grocery store. But thirty dollars? Mel wondered if the grocery store's label machine was broken but realized that the price hike was due to the organic aspect. She rifled around through several one-pound biodegradable plastic-wrapped packages, finally choosing the cheapest, which was twenty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents exactly. Maybe Abigael was right when she said she didn't seem the 'tenderloin type.'

10:10 am, Organic Grocery Store, Vegetable Aisle

She checked the list once more. Salt, pepper, and olive oil were all at Vera Manor kitchen already. The next ingredient to hunt for was mushrooms (half shitake and half cremini, Abigael's calligraphy specified). Mel wandered over to the refrigerated prepared vegetables section, where she spotted both in miniature plastic-wrapped recycled cardboard cartons. She was used to spending a dollar on simple generic mushrooms. Mel regarded the product labels overhead. Ten dollars for the lot? Sheesh.

10:12 am, Organic Grocery Store, Deli Meat Aisle

Next was the prosciutto. From what she could recall, there was a deli meats section, and the last time she bought cold cuts, she recalled paying three dollars. She was beginning to dread price-checking. Please let it be three dollars, please let it be three dollars, please—

Mel plucked the prosciutto from the metal display hanger. Nine dollars, it read. She sighed, throwing it into her slow-filling shopping basket.

10:15 am, Organic Grocery Store, Condiments

Jordan and Harry were quickly gathering their items at warp speed, treating the whole exercise as a miniature scavenger hunt. What was with men and time-based competitions? Mel groused to herself, kneeling in front of the mustard section to pick out "Original English Mustard" with supposed "whole mustard seed." Original and genuine, as opposed to what, fake? Mel thought sarcastically, spotting the bottle and placing it in her shopping basket. The next item after that? Mel rechecked her list. Puff pastry.

10:20 am, Organic Grocery Store, Frozen Pastry Section

Mel opened the freezer door and a cloud of fog obscured her view of the products. She reread Abigael's footnote. Puff pastry needs three hours in the fridge to thaw prior to use. So in essence, the prep time for Beef Wellington was…five hours at bare minimum? Yeesh. Puff pastry…puff pastry…she searched and searched again, realizing that the closest thing she'd ever had to puff pastry was the three-dollar stuff that came in a can. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. This exercise in futility seemed to drive home the point that Abigael and she had been brought up worlds apart with completely different cultural norms, foods, mannerisms, and everything else. Do I fit in your world? Mel thought to herself.

10:30 am, Organic Grocery Store, Dairy and Egg Section

Mel quickly found a carton of eggs, which she was about to place in her cart, but Jordan and Harry came over and stopped her. "Not those," Harry said tactfully, placing them back in the refrigerated aisle.

"But they're organic—" Mel began.

"These." Harry held up a half dozen eggs, with the words "British Lion" and an accompanying insignia crest. Classy. "For a proper Beef Wellington, you must use entirely British ingredients."

Mel checked the price. Ten dollars. She groaned.

11 am, Vera Manor, Kitchen

"Here's the groceries you asked for," Mel said, handing Abigael the bundle.

"Thanks," Abigael kissed her in response, seizing the plastic handles. "I'll put these in the fridge for now, then take them over to the apartment once I'm done with the magical defense portion of today's lesson."

"How do you afford to shop like this every week?" Mel couldn't help but ask.

"I don't," Abigael's tinkling laugh could be heard as she opened the vegetable crisper drawer. "If I did, I wouldn't be able to afford my apartment nearly so much."

"Phew, you had me for a moment there—it's four times more than I usually spend on groceries," replied a relieved Mel.

"I can pay you back?" Abigael shut the fridge door and turned to Mel.

"N-no, whatever, it's fine, it's a one-time thing…" Mel responded. "It's just—" she paused.

"What?"

"We have such…different tastes—literally and figuratively. The meat I buy costs five dollars. Yours was thirty. You know how to make fancy British dishes—and I've burned nearly everything I've ever made—and set the smoke detector off. Multiple times, in fact."

"This isn't about the tenderloin, is it?" Abigael scrutinized Mel closely, stepping closer to stroke a tendril of her partner's dark, flowy locks. Mel looked up at Abigael, wanting to contradict her—of course I'm being silly. Of course I'm cost conscious. Of course it doesn't matter—but when she opened her mouth, what she said surprised them both.

11:10 am, Vera Manor, Kitchen

"Do I belong?"

Abigael's mouth involuntarily twitched, unsure of whether to frown or laugh. "Belong, as in, belong in…the apartment? Fit in, in my life? Belong with…me?"

"All of the above," sighed Mel, avoiding Abigael's eyes. "I'm no Rani. I'm neither rich nor famous, I'm not platinum-haired, I know toddlers with more Instagram followers than me—I'm nobody."

Instead of discussing the topic at length, Mel's insecurities bubbling to the surface, Abigael did something different. "Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too?" she whispered in Mel's ear. "Remind me again, how do the last lines of the poem go?"

"How dreary—to be—Somebody!/How public—like a Frog," murmured Mel.

"To tell one's name—the livelong June—" Abigael uttered.

"To an admiring Bog!" ended Mel, a smile curling upwards on her lips. "A poem by the great Emily Dickinson herself." Abigael nodded as she kissed Mel on the nose affectionately.

"I found fame overrated—it's one of the reasons it never worked out between Rani and myself," remarked Abigael softly. "We could have been happy, her and I, except she was constantly jetting off places for her art shows, and there were days I woke up late at night, and I wouldn't know which country or time zone she was. It would be days before I'd get so much as a call. Long story short, I learned that while fame is fun at first, it can be very lonely. My career is unpredictably hazardous, and with that sense of danger, I have found comfort in stability. With you, my Cricket."

"Cricket,as in, the bug?" Mel made a face; she wasn't sure whether to be flattered or deeply insulted.

"No. As in Jiminy Cricket. You're my voix de raison—my conscience. Every time I go off the rails, just the tiniest bit, or grow heavy-handed in my negotiations, or need a peace treaty written up for the next monster—I turn to you, Cricket, for your infinite wisdom—whether you realize it or not."

"Really? Me?" Mel asked incredulously.

Abigael nodded. "You're the sensible, smart one. You keep me balanced, and you make me happy. It's as simple as that." She paused to gather her thoughts, as she enveloped her partner into her arms, touching her forehead against Mel's, as they stood in the kitchen. "It's not a matter of belonging in my world, love—" Abigael whispered against Mel's cheek. "It's a matter of merging ours together."