"You've got to snap out of it." Angie turns on the shower and pulls the t-shirt off me. "Do I need to undress you or are you able to do it yourself?"

I grunt, sit down on the edge of the bathtub, and pull off my socks.

"Doing it yourself then, good."

The moisture under my eyes is not from the shower. I'm crying. Again.

"Am." Angie kneels in front of me and takes my face into her hands. "You're gonna pull through. I promise." She wipes the tears away. "We are going to have a good day today, despite everything."

I nod, but because I don't have the energy to argue with her, not because I agree.

The shower does help. I can concentrate a little easier and when I leave the bathroom wrapped in a towel, Angie's nowhere to be found. I get dressed in a pair of jeans, instead of the sweats I've been steeping in for over a week. I pull my dripping tangle of waves into a ponytail and stare at two almost identical back t-shirts, trying to decide which one to wear, when I hear the front door slam.

"Are you out of the shower?" Angie shouts down the hallway. "I have a present for you." She finds me in my room and lifts a plastic bag from the supermarket down the street. "Ta-da."

"What is it, pray tell." My mood might be better after the shower, but it's far from a good one.

"Salmon and coffee. You know what that means."

"That you've lost your mind?"

"Ha-ha, funny. I see your sense of humor hasn't drowned in your tears."

I snicker.

"It's therapy time. By which I mean it's cooking time for you. I've only signed up for cheerleading duties."

The recipe Ben gave me is on the fridge and, reluctant but a little less dead inside, I start preparing the dish again. Angie makes a show of picking up the takeout containers and empty pizza boxes from the living room floor. She hums a melody I haven't heard before.

"A new song?"

"It's been rattling in my head for a week now; I can't seem to come up with the right chorus."

"Sing it for me. See if it helps."

Angie's luxurious soprano weaves the notes into an upbeat melody. Her accompaniment is her nails tapping on the glass coffee-table. The last two fingers of her left hand are crooked, the only visible reminder of the accident that ruined her budding career as a concert pianist. At eighteen, three months into her new college life, she had to give up her spot at Juilliard and transfer to UChicago. Her fingers did heal, but the crushed bones and nerves made it impossible for her to get back the level of dexterity to make it in the competitive world of classical piano.

When she took Dad's Introduction to Composition course, it had been a year since she had played the piano. People opened up to Dad; they just did. There was something about him that made you want to share your troubles, and Angie too fell under his spell. It was Dad who pushed her to focus on playing well enough to compose, channeling her unruly emotions into songwriting.

Dad introduced Angie to me, and we became fast friends. We bonded over our shared love of old movies and spent countless hours watching the classics with Humphrey Bogard, Sophia Loren, and Alain Delon on my couch. At twenty-one, three years her senior, I felt worldly, and experienced, switching from one bad boy to another. Our betting craze started when I first pushed Angie to re-start dating by taking her on a double date with me. She consented to come if we made it a game. The agreement was to count how many times our respective dates would say the word 'I'. That time I won, and she had to cover the tickets to the next movie marathon.

Angie stops singing.

"It's such a catchy tune. Are you gonna sell this one, or keep it for yourself?"

"Don't know yet. It feels special."

I put the sizzling salmon on the waiting plates. The aroma is not fishy, and the flaky pink flesh tastes even better the second time, maybe because I don't have to dread watching Pitch Perfect.

"This is better than the last time, but next time let's maybe make some potatoes to go with it," says Angie in between shoving the pieces of fish into her mouth.

"How about I ask Ben for some good side dish suggestions if he shows up again."

"Who's Ben?"

"The guy who started talking to me, so you won the bet? The one I complained had kept me past the closing hours on Tuesday nights?"

"Oh, yes, yes, Mr. Sweatpants."

"He's a chef then?"

"Don't think so. But he likes to cook." The last bit of the salmon is yummy. I need to add more fish to my meals. "No reason for me to be afraid to cook. There must be a million recipes I can try."

"Looks like you might've found a new hobby. Anything that gets your spirits back up is a win. All you've done in the last two weeks is cry," she chides me, not for the first time.

"I've always wanted to learn how to cook, but Nonna...she was the most patient person in the world in most things, but her patience abandoned her when she tried to teach me how to cook. Her kitchen was her sanctuary, and she couldn't stand having me, or anyone for that matter, underfoot while she created. I miss her and her food."

"She sounds like an amazing grandma." Angie's tone is gentle. "A pity she'd died before I could meet her. Your Dad loved talking about her too."

"I spent more time with Nonna than my own mother." I get up and turn the kettle on. "You want some tea?"

"Sure." She put another piece of fish on her fork. "Tell me why you don't want to talk to your mom."

"You know why."

"No, not really. All you've ever told me is she remarried and had no time for you."

"And that's not a reason enough?"

"I can't imagine not talking to my mom." She tugs the sleeve of her shirt down to cover the fingers of her left hand.

"Well, she didn't have a brand new baby and tell you she couldn't see you one summer, then another and then pretended that not seeing your daughter years in a row is just how life is." I glance at Angie, trying to read what the solemn expression on her face means.

She pushes the plate with the leftover salmon to the side and meets my eyes. "How old were you?

"When I moved to the US with my Dad and she stayed in France and I only saw her for the summers, or when she stopped contact altogether?" I slam the mugs too hard against the counter.

"Both. Either."

"I went to live with Dad before I turned two." The kettle whistles. "She stopped inviting me when I was eighteen and talking to me when I turned twenty. I think after grandma died, there was no one left to guilt her into being my mother."

There is no way to aggressively pour scalding hot water into a cup. Otherwise, I would've done it. I put loose tea into my mug, fill both, and put the other one and a basket with tea bags in front of Angie.

"You'll have to talk to your Mom, eventually, don't you think?" Angie presses.

"Why should I? What good is it having a mother only when it's convenient for her? Those months before Dad died were the worst, and she"—I choke on my last words, I'm so pissed at her—"I called her, I did. So stupid. How have I not seen that I've never been her priority? Why would she change when I needed her most? She said she was sorry to hear about Dad. Like he was an old acquaintance. When he died, she couldn't even bother to fly here for his funeral...she didn't call me then...she sent a card... a card! I just..." I cry. My hope is to eventually run out of tears.

Angie comes over and hugs me. It is a soft, gentle hug, not like her usual all-encompassing ones, but it is what I need—someone to care about me, someone who listens, someone who tries to understand.

"I'm here for you, Am, whatever you decide on with your mom." Angie releases me and goes back to her tea. "Please, talk to me about your dad, your nonna, or your mom anytime. And please, please, please, keep cooking. I can see it makes you happier."

"It does." I smile through the tears. "So many of the best memories I have are enjoying the food Nonna created."

"I would've never guessed. You eat frozen TV dinners, takeout, or cafeteria food."

True, but I want to change.If Ben's back next week, I'll take his advice seriously and start cooking more.I will. I can dust off Nonna's recipes and see if I can replicate her magic.I've always loved her ricotta and mushroom stuffed cannelloni. Her handwrittenrecipes must be in storage somewhere. I need to get them out.