12. Adrian #3
“I’m the wrong kind of doctor,” he said, a little dazed. “I treat animals with normal skeletons.”
“And yet.” I got to my feet and did a small, unnecessary bow. “I believe the phrase you’re looking for is, ‘I was wrong, Adrian. My life is changed.’”
“I’m not saying that.”
“You’re thinking it. I read rooms for a living. Your whole face is screaming it.”
Puck dook’d, once, which I chose to interpret as a standing ovation.
Worm argument settled more firmly than a court precedent, we moved to his small balcony and began to grill.
His patio was large enough to hold two chairs and the grill and little else, which meant we were close enough together that our shoulders touched when we both reached for something at the same time.
That happened twice, not that I was counting.
Neither of us moved away after either time.
Brendan grilled chicken thighs with a simple marinade he’d put together while I stood in the kitchen doorway and watched. I ate a piece of pan dulce and reported on Puck and Mofongo’s ongoing diplomatic situation in the living room.
“Puck is back on him,” I said.
“Mofongo’s accepted it,” Brendan said, not turning from the grill.
“Mofongo hasn’t accepted it. He’s tolerating it.”
I watched the easy, unhurried way Brendan moved around the cramped balcony space, turning the chicken, checking without hovering.
He was, I was noticing for the hundredth time, a person who did things properly.
I didn’t think he was a perfectionist or had some organizational disorder in which he’d be rearranging my sock drawer or anything.
He was simply deliberate, performing whatever task was at hand with the quiet satisfaction of someone who understood that doing things right carried its own reward.
I had been surrounded by warmth my whole life.
It filled my abuela’s kitchen, hummed throughout Barbacks, and drifted on Dona Carmen’s dough-filled air at 4 a.m. It was a warmth that came from the stillness—no, that wasn’t the right word—the peace of Brendan’s movement that was different.
His warmth was the kind you didn’t notice until you were already inside it, already enveloped by its soothing presence.
It was unlike any I’d ever felt, and my heart told me I liked it far more than my head wanted to admit.
We ate at his kitchen table with the balcony door open. The food was simple but exactly right. The chicken and a salad he’d thrown together, followed by the pan dulce after, which he ate slowly, was the perfect complement to a most unusual and serene evening.
Mofongo and Puck continued reenacting some Edwardian battle in the living room.
Perhaps most striking, looking back, was how we talked the way we’d been texting.
Words flowed easily and without gaps, the conversation finding its own level.
He told me more about Marisol, the theory he was building, and the call he’d made to Peter.
I told him about the panadería, about the bread that proved overnight, about Dona Carmen’s law of the end piece, which he thought was the funniest thing he’d heard in years.
I really liked hearing him laugh, how it rolled around the room and settled somewhere deep behind my ribs.
He asked questions that meant he was listening.
I asked questions back.
At some point, I looked up and realized two hours had passed. Neither of us had noticed.
When the plates were empty, I stood and began gathering them. He said, “You don’t have to,” and I said, “I know,” and took them to the sink anyway, because that was simply what you did.
He followed with the glasses, turned on the water, and started rinsing.
I leaned against the counter next to him and watched for a moment, then reached out and took freshly rinsed plates from him and set them into the dishwasher.
I couldn’t help but enjoy the ordinary domesticity of it all, this man washing two plates and two glasses in his small kitchen on a Sunday afternoon with the balcony door open and the Tampa light coming through.
Something about it settled deep inside me in a way that was comfortable and old and new, all at the same time.
I put the pastry box on the shelf.
Then I folded the dish towel.
Then I looked at the back of his neck, and I didn’t make a decision about what I did next so much as I simply did it.
I stepped behind him, slowly pressed my chest to his back, giving him every opportunity to step away.
When he didn’t, I put one hand on his hip, lowered my head, and pressed my lips right below his ear.
He went very still.
It didn’t feel tense, just still.
I didn’t dare move.
The warm kitchen surrounded us, the sound of the faucet still running.
Mofongo was doing something in the living room that involved his nails on the hardwood.
My lips remained against Brendan’s neck, just resting there, not pressing, just present.
His hands had stopped moving in the water.
I could feel his breathing shift.
“Adrian.”
“Yeah,” I said, my breath drifting across his skin.
“What—” He stopped, then tried again. “What are you doing?”