"Something Different" by C.L. Prestland

Something Different

by C.L. Prestland

The same book. The exact same one. 

Sophie felt years of disappointment wash over her. She forced herself to stand. Her limbs were too heavy, as if something was dragging her down by the ankles, the wrists. Chained. She made her way to the tree, pulled out his gift and handed it to him. He smiled up at her, but it wasn’t a warm smile—it didn’t show in his eyes.

She waited for him to open it and accepted the quick peck on the cheek. On autopilot, her feet led her to the kitchen. She flipped through the book, ignoring the weight of his gaze. 

“Don’t forget my parents will arrive at three o’clock. They'll expect dinner served shortly after.” Whether she nodded or replied, she wasn’t sure. Her eyes had landed on a pork recipe. 

Recipe.

The word echoed around her head as if mocking her. Her eyes filled, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Last year was bad enough. Getting it again was punishment. She knew he was struggling and apologised at first. Then bargained—promising to cut back her hours once Joe was back. The world around her seemed to shiver. She had to grab the door frame to steady herself. Being head chef—even temporarily—was everything. Her whole career had led her to this. 

Easy Air Fryer Meals.

But he’d never taken it—her—seriously, had he?

She didn’t even have a bloody air-fryer.

“Easy, Sophie, been on the Prosecco already?” His stinking breath warmed her neck. She hadn’t heard him follow her. Bile rose in her throat, souring her mouth. She wanted out. Wanted to run. He pushed past her, entering the kitchen. 

And then she saw it. Behind him, on the counter—fresh out of the box and tied with a big, red bow. He stood like a peacock, proud and bold, his chest puffed out. No—just a cock strutting proudly. Oh, she would love to pluck his feathers.

She heard it—like a twig cracking, right where the neck joins the head. It tore through her— a blazing rush of heat and searing pain. She dropped the book as her hands rushed to her forehead. It felt like something sharp had sunk deep into her scalp, into her brain. But it was over before her hands had grasped her temples. He was saying her name, telling her she was drunk. 

Something inside her had snapped. Something inside was new.

He pointed at the book splayed on the floor, so dutifully, she retrieved it. Page 13. Sticky Glazed Pork. Simple. Delicious. 

She smiled.

When his parents arrived fifteen minutes early, as they always did, she was ready and waiting at the front door. She waved, happy to see them. The house was filling with smells of Christmas. Roasted meats, sage and onion. Mulled wine simmering on the hob. Alexa was playing festive songs, and for the first time in months she felt lighter. Softer somehow. The turkey was resting on the counter. The table was laid. 

“I guess you’re the one cooking again this year?” Her mother-in-law, Joyce, grunted. 

“Dan can’t cook toast,” she quipped, savouring the flicker of horror on Joyce’s face. It was the same look that used to terrify her, whispered you’re not good enough for my son. Sophie allowed a small laugh to escape. “Just a joke. Dan is having a lay down, he isn’t feeling great. He’ll be here for dinner.” She licked her lips. “Let me take your coats.”

Joyce was already finger-dusting surfaces and straightening ornaments. John, Daniel’s father, trudged straight toward the kitchen. Sophie watched them—really watched, like a cat studying its prey. For five years she had crept, bowed down. Electricity sparked through her. She felt alive.

“What on earth is that?” John bellowed. Sophie froze. “In the air fryer? Is that pork? Smells...different.” Joyce rolled her eyes and huffed. Sophie’s stomach roared. The hunger screamed through her—ravenous, desperate.

“I wanted to try something different this year…something unusual,” Sophie said cheerily. “There is turkey too. And all the usual trimmings.”

“Thank the Heavens.” Joyce muttered, scowling at the invisible dust. “When are you going to get a cleaner? Place is filthy.” Heaven, Sophie thought darkly, had no part in this.

“Dan wouldn’t let me; said it was too expensive. Which is a little rich, don’t you think?” Joyce straightened and snapped round to face her. “I earn twice he does. John, would you like to carry the turkey to the table?” John was interfering with the food as usual. She wondered if he’d tasted the gravy. 

Joyce had insisted they checked on Daniel before dinner—Sophie expected it, so didn’t argue. His head propped on the pillow, body tucked away in blankets. Just as Sophie had left him. She encouraged her mother-in-law to leave him be. To come try her new recipe—after all, it was thanks to Dan’s gift.

Once seated, Sophie poured wine and invited John to carve the meats. 

“I do wish you had told us Daniel was ill.” John grumbled, pulling the sticky glazed meat towards him.

“We wouldn’t have bothered coming,” Joyce added.

“Oh, Dan was himself earlier,” Sophie shrugged. “Please,” she said. “Do tuck in.”