Chapter 38 Andrew #2
“You know, maybe more of our dates should be disastrous,” she comments, pouring the wine. “Especially if this is how you’re going to fix it.”
“I guess that’s one way to look on the bright side.” I serve the pasta and bring the plates over to the table, setting hers down in front of her. She takes in a big inhale and hums with a pleased smile.
“This smells amazing.”
I sit down, suddenly famished with the scent of lobster and creamy sauce wafting into the air. We’re quiet as I watch Grace dig in.
“How is it?”
“If you ever feel like a career change is an option, you can try your hand at the culinary arts,” she comments, taking another heaping forkful.
I chuckle. “That good, huh?”
She silently nods. I let her eat without making conversation while enjoying the view. When I notice about half her dinner is gone and the speed at which she’s been consuming her pasta slows to a more leisurely pace, I pour her more wine.
“So, I was thinking about…things.”
The wineglass she had tilted back stops mid-sip. “What things?”
“About us.”
“Okay.” The single word trails with concern, making her sound scared and worried.
“It’s not bad,” I assure her. I reach out and swipe my thumb across the corner of her mouth, wiping off a smear of sauce. “I just had some time to think, and after this weekend, it would be irresponsible for us to not talk about things. Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” she answers, adding a nod to show no protest. Though the up and down motion of her head feels hesitant, and I wonder if the weekend we spent together left a different mark on her.
One that allowed her to have second thoughts instead of a more assured frame of mind like mine.
“I was actually wanting to talk to you too.”
I sit up straighter, angling myself to face her. “Go ahead.”
“I was just thinking that…what happened on Friday was a—”
“Shit show.”
She chuckles a morose laugh. “Yeah. To say the least. And…I know I said we can tell Teeny soon, and maybe tell other people like my sister and the rest of your family too, but…”
I don’t know if I like where this is going. It definitely isn’t going in the direction I was hoping it would. But I don’t poke or prod. I just listen. “But…”
“I think we should pump the brakes on that.”
“You want things to stay between us?”
“Just for a little longer,” she says with urgency.
She reaches out to smooth her hand on top of mine.
A placating gesture to ease the harsh brunt of her request. “I think running into Frankie and you losing your job can’t be a good omen, and I don’t know.
Maybe it’s a sign that we should slow down. ”
“Okay,” I tell her, though all I want to do is say no. No, I don’t want to keep us a secret for a second longer. No, I don’t want to keep our bubble intact to protect what we have as if it’s this fragile, delicate thing. We’re so much more than that.
“Is that okay?” she asks cautiously.
I look at her, plastering on a fake smile along with a reassuring nod. “Of course. If that’s what you want and if that’s what makes you feel comfortable.”
She leans forward, hovering over our unfinished dinner to kiss me.
Her hand cups my cheek, and I feel the tension dissipate away from all the soft parts of her I love.
How can I tell her otherwise? Especially if this is how relieved she is that we no longer have this daunting task of telling people about us. Only, it’s not daunting to me.
“Thank you for understanding,” she adds. “And, you know, this…is a good thing. Us officially being a couple means a big commitment for you too. I know that’s a huge step, so…I—this is for both of us.”
For us. I hadn’t realized my now vanquished commitment issues bled into the fate of our relationship, but I guess I should’ve known.
If all I’ve been presenting myself as was a commitment-phobe who thought the idea of a relationship meant vulnerability, I guess she would think I would be on the same page as her.
“Yeah, totally,” I say, lying through the mask I’ve slid on.
“What did you need to tell me?”
“Huh?” I ask, suddenly thrown off.
“You said you needed to tell me something,” she reminds me.
“Oh, just that…I think we should be sharing custody of Buster,” I say, thinking on my toes, though I’m not opposed to the idea. A day with him on our own gave us a bonding moment.
She laughs. “Sharing custody?”
“Yup. I think you should be referring to me as ‘daddy’ from now on.”
“Daddy?” she repeats. “I think that sounds way more obscene than you meant it to.”
“You know, I think you’re right. How about father?”
“Or papa,” she jokingly suggests. “Sounds less formal.”
The mood is somewhat lifted, hovering high above us instead of right over our heads.
The strains of our relationship feel easier with sex or jokes (or sex jokes), much like a pair of training wheels strapped on to a two-wheeler, and it can stay that way a little longer until we’re ready to rip them off and careen straight into the unknown.
“By the way,” she adds. “Where did you find the plates?”
“In your linen closet,” I tell her. “Why do you keep your plates in the linen closet?”
“Those are my wedding china.”
“They are?”
She nods.
I suddenly want to hurl them off the balcony. “How about we find an empty alley to break them after dinner?”
She smiles slyly. “Yes, please.”