Chapter XXIII
XXIII
James
I think about that night often, the last night I spent with Lucy in New York.
We didn’t fall asleep until almost five.
We were trying to stop time, to not let the sun rise.
In between the sex, we talked and talked.
We took a shower. We managed to clothe ourselves long enough for a final meal at the dining hall, where Lucy showed me her favorite cereal combo—one part Golden Grahams, one part Cinnamon Toast Crunch—and I jokingly cursed her for holding out on me.
But what I return to most about that night is holding her. Our limbs tangled up in her bed. When her alarm went off in the morning, that’s how we were. Her body felt like home. The place where I wanted to stay.
But finally, we had to let go.
She asked me to kiss her goodbye in front of her building.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she joked that she didn’t want our last kiss to be on a subway platform that reeked of August. I asked to go with her all the way to the airport, but she shook her head. She didn’t think she could handle that.
So I held her face in my hands and gave her a long, slow kiss. And then she left.
It’s been three years, but that kiss is still fresh in my mind.
I’m reliving it for probably the millionth time as I trudge downstairs from the living space to the restaurant in what was once my grandmother’s home. I’ve named it Esther, after her.
When I opened ten months after returning to Newport, I started small.
A set menu and craft cocktails. When I had enough revenue to expand the kitchen, I brought in a proper sous-chef.
In the summer, when I serve the full pork chop meal I made for Lucy, it sells out every night.
A steady stream of tourists book in advance, but I make sure to set aside half a dozen tables for my regulars.
It’s the start of June, and last night, every seat on the porch was filled.
I’m heading back toward the kitchen to start the dinner prep when I hear the front door open. I turn to see a familiar silhouette in the morning light, a statuesque woman with a suitcase at her side and a bouquet of wildflowers in her hand. “Hello,” she says, low and warm. “Are you open?”
I would know that body, that voice anywhere. I can’t see yet, but I’m sure her black eyes are gleaming. And that the tips of my ears are red.
“We don’t open for a few hours, actually,” I say, keeping my tone even, professional.
“Can you make an exception? I’ve heard you make a mean brioche French toast.”
She leaves her bag in the entry, sets the flowers on a table, and strides toward me. I shake my head. “I haven’t made that one in quite a while.”
As she comes closer, she traces a finger along the wall.
It’s lined with framed photos of us over the last three years.
In front of a Ferris wheel during my autumn trip to The Hague.
Lucy hugging a pile of books at Powell’s on her first trip to Portland the following spring.
Me learning to make udon when I joined her on a work trip to Tokyo.
That was a few months after she started at the Portland office.
Then there are all the shots from the past year, when she started working remotely and moved here to Newport. Us on the upstairs balcony. My hands as I sketch her hands.
And of course, there are the travel posters—also all carefully framed. The one she bought me in The Hague has a place of honor over the fireplace.
Lucy slides into my arms, and this house feels complete once again. “I missed you,” I say.
She grins. “So where are we on that French toast?”
Lucy
James gathers up ingredients around the kitchen like it’s an extension of him as I put the flowers into my favorite vase—the mercury glass one his grandmother always kept full.
He knows exactly where everything is and moves with a rhythm that’s mesmerizing.
I sit at the counter and watch him work, unable to stop smiling.
After my first month in The Hague, I accepted that missing James wasn’t a fleeting feeling.
I finally broke down and wrote him a short email, asking how things were going with the restaurant.
That kicked off a nightly ritual. Throughout the day, I’d gather little anecdotes, moments I couldn’t wait to share with him.
I told him things in those emails I’d never told anyone, not even my mom.
We got to know each other on a whole new level—a level I never fully allowed us to reach over our summer together, a level that somehow felt less terrifying with an ocean between us.
I realized I still wasn’t ready to put down roots in any one place, but he and I had taken root in each other.
After a few weeks, he told me he still desperately wanted to see me.
So against my better judgment, I agreed to a visit.
I showed him all my favorite local discoveries, taking care not to overwhelm him, but the best day of the trip was the one we spent entirely in bed—having sex, eating stroopwafels, watching Singin’ in the Rain, and talking for hours on end.
Within a month of him leaving, I realized how stubborn I’d been in my resolve to end up back in New York.
From Portland, I’d have opportunities to work in East Asian countries, places I’d been dying to explore.
But I was clinging to New York as a sort of act of defiance, determined not to put a guy over my career.
James stopped being just a guy a long time ago, though.
Maybe he never was. And my career could be just as good, maybe even better, near him. My life would be better near him.
When I told Rebecca all this in a video chat, her expression said “no shit” before her mouth did.
He proposed the day after I moved into his grandmother’s house—now our house—in Newport.
He held a ring in front of my nose the moment I woke up, and I kissed him so forcefully I nearly knocked him out of bed.
He planned the whole day for us—bowling at the local alley, his signature French dip for lunch, karaoke at the local dive bar.
He even flew Rebecca out to celebrate. Her first topic of discussion was how to arrange the porch for a summer wedding.
We miss each other when I’m gone, but we still email every night, without fail.
Things are going so well at the restaurant, but not yet to the point of him being able to step away for weeks on end, and I’m not sure he’d want to be away that long, even if he could.
But not once has he asked me to turn down an assignment.
And coming home to him has become my favorite part of any trip.
Sitting at the counter, I watch James whisk, and wafts of vanilla and cinnamon hit my nose. But my eyes can’t resist the pull of his forearms. One hunger overcomes the other.
I slide off my stool and step behind him, wrapping my arms around his torso. I prop my chin on his shoulder. “On second thought, forget breakfast. Just take me to bed,” I whisper in his ear.
James turns to me without hesitation, lifting me into his arms and carrying me out of the kitchen with a playful grin. “Welcome home.”