Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
GOOD AUGUST
BOYFRIEND MATERIAL
He likes me. He likes me back. He’s so hot, and he likes me back.
I’m not going to think about any of what he said about us parting. I’m going to seduce him with cookery and hair metal, and he’s going to be mine.
The beef skewers are almost ready. I ran out and got the beef this morning before work, leaving it marinating in garlic, lemon, and oregano all day. That should be nice. I got fresh bread on the way home, and I’ve got a salad almost ready. But I know the zucchini is the star of the day.
I hadn’t expected him to react like that.
Yet I’m glad he did. I’m glad I was there when he did.
I’m glad I didn’t cry, for once. There’s something full circle about it, making the food that was provided for me, providing it for him.
Taking that care and passing it on. To take care of myself in taking care of both of us. It feels right.
All of this feels more right than anything I have ever experienced.
That’s why it can’t end. Why I know it won’t end.
August’s on it, and tomorrow, if he’ll let me, I’ll go back to his place and we’ll work again.
And again. Until we crack this. I never thought I was a ‘love will find a way’ type of person, but maybe that’s what I am.
Not that I’m calling it love, for the record.
But it feels like it could be. One day. Maybe.
All I know is right now there’s a hole in my heart when I think about him leaving.
So I don’t. I take the wine and the plates and put them on the table, adding a candle for extra boyfriend-material points.
He’s turning the beef while I dress the salad.
The bread’s on the board. And he knows what comes next.
When we take the zucchini from the oven, grilled and glistening strips, it’s a race against time to compile the thing and keep it hot.
Five pieces laid side by side, August dollops on the Greek yogurt, sharp with lemon juice and raw garlic, seasoned and full of basil.
He’s generous with it, as he should be, and it starts to melt on contact.
I drop a shower of toasted pine nuts, then crisscross the next layer of zucchini on top, golden olive oil mixing with the charred zucchini and yoghurt, spilling down the side in rivers of flavour.
Up and up, we build it high, a towering achievement of deliciousness, a monument to simple home cooking and the way those humble moments can become your whole world when they’re gone forever.
Or when you thought they were.
Not anymore.
Now August’s got the meat, I’ve got the zucchini, and he’s shuffling things around to fit it on the tiny table. I’m having the first candlelit dinner of my life. With me. And I could not be happier.
Not until we’re seated, and he lifts his wine glass, leans in, and says, “I’m so lucky to have met you. Thank you. For doing all of this.”
“You did half of it.”
His slanted smile and raised eyebrows suggest I’m maybe deflecting his compliments again.
“I mean… Thank you for coming over. To share it with me. I hope you like it.”
“I’d like anything you do.” He taps his glass to mine, then watches me drink while he does the same.
The best thing is, I believe all these things he says.
I don’t feel the tension of having made something for someone, wondering whether it will be good enough to impress them, to capture their attention, to keep them with me next time their phone buzzes.
August doesn’t even have a phone. He’s completely in this room with me, not dreaming of his next trip away, and I’m sure he’s not thinking of anyone else.
Not judging by the way his eyes run down my neck when I swallow.
I want his tongue there. I want it everywhere.
I start cutting into the zucchini pie, because everyone loves a man who can cook. But a man who can cook your favourite ever dish like a pro? Boyfriend material.
Our plates are loaded. There’s a hesitating dance between me trying to act normal and not stare at him, and him waiting for me to start the meal.
So, I go straight to the zucchini pie. The sharp knife glides through the layers like they’re air, brilliantly silken. He does the same, and my eyes flick up to his. He sees, and his smile, wide and bashful, lights my heart on fire.
I go first, because that’s probably manners for a host, but he’s only seconds behind me. The flavours are balanced: sharp lemon, delicate grilled zucchini, unctuous yogurt and olive oil, the crunch of the earthy pine nuts. It’s a perfect mix, enhanced by a thousand memories.
For the billionth time, I feel a simmering guilt for how often I turned Mum’s food down, picky child that I was. I wish she could have known how strong this memory of her is. What it means to me. I wonder if she ever did know.
“That’s incredible.” August’s words are quiet, but firm. “It’s exactly the same. It’s the same flavour, and I never thought… I don’t think I realised how much I miss this.”
“I’m so glad you like it.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve had in years. Not since she was around.” He takes another bite. His eyes are glistening, but this time he’s not trying to hide it from me. I’m a mirror to him. But I’m not going to let him get down.
“It’s underrated, don’t you think? If you tell someone the ingredients, it doesn’t sound like anything special. But when you stick them together, it’s alchemy.”
“Magic.”
“Science.”
“Music.”
A bewildered laugh bubbles up. “It’s all those things. It just takes a little care, and you can turn something humble into something incredible.”
He takes a sip of wine, then looks down at his plate as he asks, “Do you make it often?”
I’m oddly relieved that I can tell him, “No. It’s special to me. I don’t make it for anyone because I don’t want to give it to someone who wouldn’t understand.”
Another smile and a lingering look. Always that sadness in his eyes. It is a sad thing, this dinner. A bittersweet thing. But it’s always there. And I want to pluck it out of him.
“I never made it for Jon. Not once.” I’m embarrassed at the way that spilled out of me, so I throw in, “He doesn’t eat vegetables anyway.”
August laughs in response, a light scoff.
“I ditched him last night, by the way. After I left you. I told him to keep the key, and that I never wanted to see him again. And I feel great.”
He settles his wine glass on the table. “How long were you together?”
“Seven years.”
“Fuck!” he announces, and fair enough too.
“On and off. I won’t say it was a waste, because I learned a lot. But funnily enough, I’ve learned more with you in the past few days than seven years with him taught me.”
His smile turns quizzical, a gleam in his eyes. “What did you learn?”
“That I like nice men.” Fuck, do I look that pretty when I blush? Christ, I hope so. “And if you leave—”
“When I leave.” He corrects me softly but starkly.
I chew over the words, “When you do, I’m… I’m not dating anyone, I think. I’m just not interested. Not unless it can be like this. Not unless I can make them nice things and have them understand.”
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve gone too far. He’s not my boyfriend. I haven’t known him long. Maybe it’s not the smoothest move to drop something like that on him.
Maybe he’s desperate to get out of here now.
Christ, I’ve blown the whole thing already and made this awkward as fu—
“Can I ask you something?”
The meal turns to lead in my stomach. “Of course.”
“If you were going to die, would you want to know?” He stares dead into my eyes, like my answer is somehow incredibly important.
“Well, that just got dark.”
“I’m sorry.” He laughs, but there isn’t much humour behind it.
I guess we are eating our dead mother’s favourite dish, so it’s no surprise he might be thinking morbid thoughts.
He expands a little, “I sometimes wish I’d said things to them before they went.
But that’s because I went on. We went on.
And I feel like they might have wanted to say things to us too. ”
“They might have liked to,” I reply softly. “But I think we know what they’d have said. Because they said it all when they were living. And for me, so long as I’m like that…” I take a sip of wine while I consider the idea. “No, I don’t think I’d want to know if I was going to die.”
“You wouldn’t?” His brow smooths, possibly for the first time since he arrived.
“No. I think if I knew, that’s all I’d think about. And maybe I wouldn’t waste so much time listening to records and drinking tea. But is that time wasted, really, if it makes me happy?”
“No,” he says very fast.
“I could go climb a mountain, or spend a lot of that time on a plane trying to fly somewhere important or meaningful. But I guess if that place really was more meaningful, I’d already be there, right?”
“That’s exactly right,” he replies.
“So no, I wouldn’t want to know. Blissful ignorance and all that. What about you?”
“What about me?”
Another laugh creeps out of me. “Would you want to know if you were going to die?”
“No.” He shakes his head, looking me firmly in the eyes. “I just want to live. I want to live in the moment for a while, carefree. I only want to be here. Now. With you. And I wish we’d get caught in another time loop. And we could just stay here.”
I reach across the table, grasping his hand. “Do something. August, find a way. Find a way to fix this.”
“I’m doing everything I can.”
“I know you are. I know you’ll come back to me. If you go, I know you’re coming back. That’s how I’m living my life. Because I believe in you.”
He grips my hand tighter. And I know he’s about to open his mouth and tell me again there isn’t anything he can do—that I can’t expect one man, me, to crack time travel, or science up some interdimensional portals in the next week.
So I speak before he can. “Eat. We’re going to have a great night, and none of that exists for us now.
This is it. This is our time loop. Fuck time. ”
“Okay. Fuck time.” He smiles, lifts my hand, and kisses it.
His leg stretches out, and he links his ankle around mine.
And so we eat. And we talk. And it’s light, and it’s fun.
And by the time we settle down for a movie, it almost feels real.
Like we’re not racing against time and reality.
Like if we stay here in my tiny apartment, with everything else out there, nothing can touch us.
It feels like we’re cheating.
But just for now, it also feels like we’re winning.