Chapter Eight #3
“So...” He checks the recipe, turns on the burner, unwraps a stick of butter, drops the entire thing into the saucepan, and motions for me to stir, which I do, while the agonizing tension of his unaccompanied so stretches out between us.
“So, when I was a junior in undergrad, here at Cornell, I fell for a girl in one of my marketing classes.” He checks the recipe again while I keep an eye on the melting butter, ignoring a growing knot in my gut.
“We started dating and things got serious pretty fast. We bought a condo together after we graduated. It wasn’t large or high-end and it was pretty far out of town due to our budget, but it was cozy, and ours, and it felt like home.
” He glances over, notices I’m barely moving, and gestures for me to get more aggressive.
I do, sort of, too distracted to really commit to the task, while he measures sugar as if we’re chatting about the weather and I’m not side-eyeing him like I’m bracing for a bomb to drop.
“We got along great while we were in school,” he continues, still focused on measuring.
“But once we moved in together, little things that weren’t so great became a lot harder to ignore.
Differences in lifestyles and interests.
We both made an effort, tried to compromise, but by the end of our first year living together, the tensions were palpable.
The claustrophobia grew and we started looking for reasons to spend time out of the home.
I took on a million projects at work, a choice I’m still digging myself out of.
She built a busy social life that didn’t include me. ”
I break the softening butter into smaller pieces, watching them bubble and shrink around the edges while waiting with keen anticipation for the next chapter of Everett’s story.
He wrestles with the cocoa canister until it pops open.
“No one cheated,” he says as he measures the cocoa.
“No one did anything cruel, deceptive, or unforgivable. We simply stopped working as a couple, finding fulfillment outside the relationship instead of within it.” He sets the cocoa by the sugar, taking a moment to brush off the counter where he spilled a little.
“She recognized what was happening before I did, and one night, when I got home from work, she sat me down and told me she wasn’t happy, and she didn’t think I was happy, and it was time for us to reconsider our relationship.
It sucked at the time, but in retrospect, I’m really grateful to her.
” He sneaks a glance at me as he reaches for the salt.
“You know me well enough by now to know I don’t walk away from things easily.
I try to save them. She was smart enough to see we’d only end up back in the same place again.
So, after a few weeks of hard conversations, I started looking for a new place while she looked for a new roommate, and by the time I moved out, most of the hurt was replaced by a sense of relief. ”
He pauses there, and my gut finally unknots while my brain catches up, putting the remaining pieces together, what I know of them anyway. A rented apartment at the other end of the hall. A conversation that went deeper than I realized about holding on to things. And...
“She was the woman in the hall tonight?” I ask.
He nods as he checks the butter, turns off the burner, and adds the sugar, cocoa, and salt.
“We put the condo up for sale a few months ago. It sold last week. She needed me to sign the papers, and we both thought it would be nicer to do in person. It’s been a while.
I had another place for about a year before I moved in here.
And Vanessa and I—my ex, obviously—we never stopped caring about each other.
It was good to see her. She’s doing really well.
New job. New place. A recent trip to Croatia with a bunch of her friends.
She also met someone she really likes, though she’s not sure where it’s going yet.
” He digs around until he finds the vanilla, which he measures and adds to the saucepan, and which I stir in with the other ingredients.
As I stir, I finally realize why he brought the baking supplies.
He’s not fidgeting. I’m not fidgeting. We both have safe places to look and anchor our hands if we need to.
And maybe it’s disingenuous to act like we’re busy or distracted while he’s telling me about his ex, but I don’t think so.
I think he knows himself, and after only a month, I think he knows me pretty well, too.
“I’m never sure when it’s the right time to bring up old relationships.
Too soon and it seems presumptuous. Too late and it feels dishonest.” He opens the egg carton and examines the eggs, but he doesn’t take any out, rotating instead to face me and meet my eyes.
“Then I saw your face tonight and realized I waited too long. Or maybe I’m wrong and none of this matters, but in case it does matter, I wanted you to know.
I got together with my ex tonight so we could sell our place, and maybe catch up, but also.
..” He flicks at the edge of the egg carton, picks at a chip in the counter, and shifts his stance at least three times in as many seconds.
“I’ve been single for about a year and a half now and I’m not seeing anyone.
So. Just. There it is. What I wanted to say. In case it’s useful information.”
I give up on stirring and set aside the saucepan. There’s a time for distraction and a time for attention, and this is definitely a time for attention, even if that attention involves fidgeting.
“I panicked,” I tell him.
“I had a feeling.”
“That wasn’t a simple good night hug.”
“It was definitely complicated.”
“She’s really beautiful.”
“She is.” He picks at the counter again.
“She also loves high-end decor, and thinks houseplants are more hassle than they’re worth, and she’s ruthless about cleanliness, and really particular about her hair, her nails, and her clothes, and she thinks cuddling in front of a movie is boring when she could be out at a club or trying a new restaurant, and none of these are bad things, but relationships aren’t so much about who people are, as who they are together. ”
A warm, expansive feeling spreads through my chest as I exhale slowly and the last of the tension in my body eases. What a gift, for him to lay everything out like this, so clearly and candidly. It’s new to me, and unexpected, and I feel like I should offer him something in return.
“Everything you said,” I tell him. “It does matter. And for the reasons you think.”
He bites down the start of a smile as a hint of pink colors his cheeks. “Yeah?”
I nod, feeling suddenly shy for some reason. “Yeah.”
We look at each other like newly smitten idiots for a few seconds.
Him with his flushed cheeks, his tousled curls, his grandfather’s glasses, and yet another sweater I want to curl up in, this one fuzzy and olive green with a Charlie Brown zigzag in a deep eggplant running around his chest. Me with my mismatched socks, my barely legible concert tee, and my tangled topknot nearly falling out of its overburdened elastic.
And suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore that I’m not as beautiful and put together as the woman in the hallway.
She wasn’t the right partner for Everett, or maybe she was, for a while, but she isn’t now, and now is what matters.
Who we are—or at least who we could be —together is what matters.
I take a step forward, putting me nearly toe to toe with Everett.
He walks his fingers along the edge of the counter, inching closer until the pad of his index finger makes contact with mine, tapping it like an invitation to come out and play.
“Everett?” I ask. “Can I—”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know what I was going to—”
“Doesn’t matter. The answer’s yes.”
I almost call him on this, tell him I was going to ask if I could compost his plants or get rid of his Neil Diamond CDs.
But the warmth in my chest takes over, and the softness of his skin where it’s barely touching mine, and the look in his eyes, the anticipation, the vulnerability, the heat, the want, the will, the care, the trust. All that in a look. He deserves the same in return.
So I don’t make a joke. Instead, I close the distance and kiss him.
Or maybe he kisses me, leaning forward at the same I do as his fingers slide between mine to knot our hands together on the counter while his other arm wraps my waist and draws me against him.
His lips are warm. His hands are firm. His eyelids drift closed and I let mine do the same, relaxing into the feel of him, into knowing I didn’t imagine anything after all.
I didn’t get it wrong this time, which is good, because nothing about this feels wrong.
Not his arm against my back and his hand in mine.
Not his lips gently parting so his tongue can slide against mine, sending a jolt of liquid heat through my entire body.
Not the breath that rushes out of him. Not the softness of his hair as I slip my free hand around the back of his neck and tug at his curls.
I like his height, only a few inches taller than me, and his build, strong, solid, but like a guy who spends a lot of time in an office, not a gym.
I like the press of his chest against mine. Everything about him just... fits.
A soft thump, thump, thump halts my thoughts. And our kiss.
Everett pulls back at the same time I do, not far, but far enough for us both to glance over at the futon where Aggie’s watching us intently with her head resting on the cushions between her paws as her skinny little hairless tail plays a happy drumbeat.
“Someone has a lot of opinions tonight,” I tell her in a faux-scoldy voice.
Everett’s chest shakes with a silent laugh. “Maybe she’s excited about brownies?”
Her brows twitch as she looks back and forth between us, her tail still wagging.
“ That is not about brownies,” I tell Everett.
He turns his smile on me, and it’s a hell of a smile, with his lips reddened from kissing, his cheeks flushed, his dimples on full display, and his eyes sparkling behind his glasses in a way I haven’t seen before.
It’s magical, this post-first-kiss moment, as the armor we’ve both been wearing falls away and the little voice that’s been whispering quietly but continuously What if it’s just me? finally goes quiet.
“I’m glad your dog likes me,” he says. “It could be a real problem if she didn’t.”
I trace the zigzag pattern on his chest with my index finger. “It’s the sweaters.”
His brows rise. “She likes my sweaters, does she?”
“I mean, they’re pretty cute on you. All these mushy yarns and cozy fall vibes.”
He unlinks our hands where they still rest on the counter, looping me within both of his arms and giving my nose a quick nuzzle. “What if I also have a winter collection?”
I huff out a laugh, already picturing it. “Do you?”
He shakes his head, echoing my laugh. “No, but now I kind of want one. Just so I can hear how cute your dog thinks I am in those, too.”
My face goes hot and I can tell I’m blushing, which is ridiculous when he already knows I like him. Any attempt at hiding that—however futile—ended when I kissed him.
But just in case...
“Everett?” I say. “I really like you.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I really like you, too.”
Then he kisses me again, while over on the futon, Aggie’s tail thumps away.