The Kindest One

Warning: Explores mature emotional themes.

The olive oil sputtered as it struck the pan. Alex leapt back slightly, chuckling at themselves. Jordan, already chopping onions at unnerving speed, didn’t bother to look up.

“You always forget that it does that,” said Jordan, beaming.

“Refuse to learn,” Alex replied, reaching for the wooden spoon.

The kitchen had the scent of roasted garlic, rosemary, and a citrusy scent Jordan had zested up earlier without saying a word. Speakers installed above the refrigerator were playing an old Etta James album, a rough-smooth croon that seemed to turn the whole house into a lazy Sunday.

Jordan stepped back behind Alex, kissed the side of their neck but didn’t break stride. Alex didn’t blink — this was choreography. A thousand tiny motions, all rehearsed. All second nature.

“You stirred that clockwise,” Jordan said, nudging Alex’s hip with theirs. “You know it’s bad luck.”

"That's only if it's risotto."

"It is risotto."

Jordan snorted. “We’re doomed.”

Alex grinned and let them take over the stirring. They leaned on the counter, watching Jordan’s hands work — always so precise, even with something as ridiculous as rice. There were only a few hours in the day where Jordan seemed truly relaxed, and this — cooking with wine open and nothing too urgent — was one of them.

“I didn’t text your sister,” said Alex suddenly. “About the time.”

Jordan looked up. “She'll come whether you text her or not.”

“You worry too much.” Alex lifted up their glass of wine and swirled what remained. It was the same type they always purchased, at the same tiny store on Larchmont, from the man in suspenders who always said “Ah, excellent choice,” regardless of what you selected. They took a drink. The sunlight coming in the kitchen window struck the wine just so — golden and still.

Jordan reduced the heat and shifted the pot slightly off-center, as they always did. Alex acted as if they didn't see how frequently Jordan made those little adjustments.

"You know," Alex stated, "if we broke up, I’d starve to death."

“Bold of you to think you’d end up getting the kitchen in the divorce.”

“I wouldn’t fight for it at all. I’d give you the knives and run.”

Jordan chuckled — a low, fond sound — and bumped their hip again. “That’s fair.”

The space between them had no tension. The type of comfort that does not declare itself, just inhabits you like old furniture. Now and then, Jordan would sing along to the music, and Alex would, too, both of them getting the lyrics wrong but not minding.

From the hallway, the soft buzz of Jordan’s phone lit up the counter. They glanced at it and muttered, “Alyssa. Confirming dessert.”

Alex washed their hands and leaned in to read. “Let her know we have cheesecake. She loves cheesecake.”

Jordan was already typing.

“Already informed her, didn’t you?”

Jordan smiled without answering.

The doorbell rang right as Jordan slid the risotto off the burner.

Alex glanced at the clock. “Of course they're early.”

“They’re always early,” Jordan said, already heading down the hallway. “You’re always surprised.”

“Rude of them to be predictable.”

Jordan opened the door with that unflappable warmth that made people lean in. Alyssa and David stepped inside with the clatter of boots and wine bottles. Alyssa went straight for the kitchen without asking, as usual.

“I brought your favorite,” she said, waving a bottle of red in the air. “Well — Jordan’s favorite. I’m resigned to not keeping up on what Alex likes. Changes weekly.”

“True,” Alex replied in the kitchen.

Jordan laughed and took the bottle. “Thanks, Lyss.”

“You look insufferably domestic,” David said, hanging up his jacket. “Is that music playing? Did you light a candle?”

"We live here," Alex said.

“Still. Gross.”

Dinner proceeded as always — plates were passed, old tales were recollected, wine was refilled before anyone had noticed they were dry. Jordan facilitated the conversation as if he were a well-oiled machine: inquiring at the right moments, refilling waters without having to be asked, delivering the ideal humorous one-liner just after someone had begun to monologue for too long.

It was smooth. Easy. Jordan always made it easy.

Halfway through a recount of a catastrophic camping trip from yesteryear, Alyssa tapped her fork on her glass. “Okay, I have to say it.”

Everyone looked up.

“Jordan,” she said, in mock solemnity, “you must be a saint to tolerate this one.”

She pointed to Alex, and they blinked. David snorted into his wine.

Alex laughed along — maybe a little louder than needed.

Jordan smiled graciously. “They keep it interesting.”

Alyssa raised her glass. “To the nicest one at the table.” Everyone drank. Jordan dipped their head in a humble little nod, the kind that said they didn’t need the compliment — but they’d earned it.

Alex had gotten up to get the cheesecake out of the fridge, but they stopped halfway. “Hold up — didn’t we say we’d reserve that for your sister’s birthday?”

Jordan blinked. “That was last weekend.”

"No, I mean. we didn’t—"

“Well, you promised us you’d serve us tonight,” said Jordan softly. “It’s already plated.”

“Oh.” Alex experienced something constrict in their chest. “Right.”

They came out with the dessert anyway.

Their shopping list was in Alex’s phone. Or in their notebook. Or maybe just… in their memory?

Jordan stood calmly beside the cart, watching them scroll.

“I swear, I wrote it down,” Alex muttered.

"It's alright," Jordan stated, already moving in the produce’s general direction. "We’ll improvise."

Alex hurried to catch up, struggling with the Notes program. “We needed—um—lemons? Was it lemons?”

“We already had lemons,” said Jordan, collecting up a bunch of parsley and taking a whiff at it. “We needed shallots. And oat milk. And that annoying type of mustard your brother likes.”

Alex blinked. “How do you recall all of that?”

“Look at me!”

There was no edge to it. Jordan said it the same way someone might comment on the weather.

By the time they got to checkout, the cart was just right. Alex would offer to pay, but Jordan already had the card out. The cashier looked at them — at the man and wife who didn’t argue in public, at the pair that moved as one sentence’s half and half.

As they shopped, one of the older ladies in the checkout behind them drew closer to Alex.

“You’re lucky,” she said warmly, nodding toward Jordan. “That one’s a keeper.”

Alex smiled, automatically. “Yeah. I know.”

Out in the car, Alex looked out the window as Jordan drove.

“You know,” Alex said, “people really like you.”

Jordan chuckled. “I try to be likable.”

“No, I mean—like really like you.”

Jordan glanced over. “Should I worry?”

Alex smiled but did not respond.

At David’s birthday dinner, Alex showed up twenty minutes late.

The table had already been filled upon their arrival — friends in the middle of appetizers, glasses dripping in condensation. David gestured for them to join him with a smile. “Here they are! We were just going to send out a search party.”

“I thought we said seven-thirty,” Alex said, pulling out a chair.

Alyssa drew closer. “We did.”

Alex blinked. “Hold on, I scheduled it in my planner—”

Jordan handed them a napkin. “It was seven. I reminded you this morning.”

They stopped. “Oh. Right.”

“No big deal,” said Jordan, beaming as they handed Alex a glass of water. “Traffic must have been bad.”

Alex forced a laugh. Everyone else was already back in conversation.

Jordan massaged their shoulder later in the evening on the way out to the car. “It really doesn’t matter. They love you.”

Alex nodded. But in their head, they were already replaying it — the message thread with Alyssa, the vague memory of reading “7:30” and feeling sure of it.

Had they misread it?

It occurred once more the following week.

A forgotten RSVP to a friend’s engagement celebration — an easy backyard drink-and-dessert style of affair. Alex had promised to text back. They hadn’t. Or maybe they had? They could not locate the message one way or the other.

Jordan smiled and fixed it with one call, smoothed it over like butter.

She texted a voice message: “You're lucky you have Jordan to keep you in line. I'd be feral on my own.”

Alex looked at the phone one second too long.

At brunch, David rattled his mimosa against Jordan’s. “Saint Jordan. Keep-ing it together.”

Alex laughed — a little too hard. Jordan squeezed their hand under the table. Warm. Reassuring. Though something in Alex’s chest had started to wind. A silent, crawling question that could not quite articulate itself.

The risotto was good again. Not perfect — a little looser than usual — but Jordan didn’t complain.

They had eaten in silence. The lights were low. The remaining wine from last week was still good enough to drink. Soft jazz music played in the background at low volume, indistinguishable and high-priced-sounding.

After dinner, Alex started to gather dishes. Jordan didn’t move. Just said, “Leave them.”

Alex looked over. “You alright?”

Jordan nodded toward the couch. “Sit down for a minute.”

That word — a minute — always indicated there was something on its way. Alex dried their hands on a towel and walked across the room.

Jordan remained speechless at first. She sat with hands in her lap as if to report the news in a systematic way.

“I think I've pushed myself as far as I can,” Jordan said.

Alex blinked. “The risotto?”

"No. Us."

Nothing in the room shifted. The music continued to play. The wine remained half-full. The planet didn’t tilt. But something in Alex’s chest gave way – not from collision, but from strain unwinding too quickly.

“I don’t—what?” Alex asked.

“I’ve been ending this for a while,” Jordan said. Their voice was level. Not cold. Just… already done.

“I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t want to do it dramatically,” Jordan went on. “That’s never been our thing, right? No screaming, no plates thrown. Just… resolution.”

Alex sat back like someone trying not to fall backward.

Jordan reached for their wine, took a conscious drink. “I needed it to go a certain way.”

“What way?” Alex asked. Their voice was thin.

Jordan stared at them — not cruelly, nor sadly. Just straight on. “So that when I went, nobody would doubt it.” Their heart raced. “What does that mean?”

Jordan smiled faintly. “You’re not much to frame, you know. You’re forgetful. A little off. You show up late, you get things confused, you over-apologize. I didn’t have to make you be the problem. I just gave it a little push.”

Alex's mouth felt dry.

"All I had to be," Jordan said, "was consistent. Patient. Calm. Forgiving. Everyone else filled in the rest."

Alex remained silent at first.

There were too many words and none of the words fit.

Jordan stood up, walked to the kitchen in slow, deliberate ease. They rinsed out their wine glass. Dried it. Set it gently on the rack.

“I thought…” started Alex, but he couldn’t finish. “You said you loved me.”

“I did,” said Jordan, not looking up. “I just knew it wouldn’t last. And if I was going to be the one to back out, then I didn’t want to look like the bad guy.”

The sentence sat there, silent and obscene.

“So you made me look like one instead?”

Jordan spun, toweling off. “I made it easy to think. That’s not the same.”

Alex stared at them. “You let people think I was — a mess. Like I couldn’t handle things. You let them feel sorry for you.”

“They did that on their own.”

Jordan cocked their head. “You’re still arguing as if we’re in the same story.”

Alex felt it then—the ground tilting, but only for them. The room hadn’t changed: the low lights, the wine-stained glasses, the air still sweet with lemon and rosemary.

But it was a set. A carefully dressed stage. Every choreographed touch, every patient correction—none of it love. Just the slow turning of a key.

Not the friends, laughing and sipping wine. Not me, writing it all down like it was love.

Not you, reading this now, believing it until this line.

Jordan got up to the door, already in their coat.

“I’m going to stay at Alyssa’s tonight,” they said. “She’ll understand.”

Alex blinked. “Did you… already tell her?”

“I didn’t have to,” Jordan said. “She’ll assume.”

And Alex came to — they were right.

Because everything had looked a certain way. The mistakes, the apologies, the missed details — all real, all small, all manageable. But seen through the right lens, they became… a pattern. A problem.

A story. And Jordan had given everyone the script prior to Alex having any idea they were in a play.

Jordan opened the door and paused, hand on the frame. “You’re going to be okay, you know.”

Alex didn’t respond.

The door shut after them as if the last thread had been tied.

The house was still. The plates untouched. The music had stopped.

Alex sat on the couch, staring at nothing, trying to be indignant — or betrayed — or something sharp enough to lend some meaning to it.

Rather, they simply felt… empty.

Neither heartbroken. Just displaced. As if they’d slept in another’s life.

It beeped once. A text message from Alyssa.

“Hey. Just heard. So sorry. Jordan's wonderful, but you must be having a rough time. Let me know if you need anything.”

No questions. No curiosity.

Just a quiet faith that the best of the family had tried hardest — and gone quietly.

Alex said nothing.

They sat there in the same place where, weeks before, they’d stirred sauce and heckled one another over bad risotto and divorce humor.

Then, alone, they weren’t quite sure which of the segments had been genuine.

Maybe none of it. Maybe all of it.

Or perhaps the one Jordan had related — the one everyone already knew to be true — was the one that counted now.

By morning, the kindest one would be gone. And no one would ever ask what really happened.