Chicken linguine or lasagna.
I tap the two frozen boxes of Healthy Choice together, letting a sprinkle of shimmering freezer burn frost to fall on top of Buster’s head. He whimpers as if whatever selection I make is going to affect his own dinner of dried kibble and wet dog food.
“Sorry, buddy,” I tell him, ducking my head to face him. A set of round puppy-dog eyes joins another chorus of whimpers. “It’s one of these or popcorn.”
His paws tap on the floor, the clicks of his nails expressing his preference for popcorn over anything else. Preferably while sitting on the couch cuddled up in my lap while we watch a movie and I hand feed him. He nuzzles his snout into my tattered pajama pants, my business casual attire tossed into my hamper after I got home from work, a day filled with the occasional diversion in the form of multiple unwarranted remittances.
Maybe I should’ve picked up some takeout on the way home. Or planned some elaborate meal, shopped for ingredients like saffron or a wedge of pecorino Romano at the specialty market. Carbonara sounds really good right about now. But it’s just me tonight. Just like most nights. And it feels a little inane to spendmy hard-earned money just to feed myself when a meal cooked in the microwave for three to four minutes, taken out, stirred and re-covered, then cooked another two to three minutes would do just the trick.
I lay to rest the possibility of anything besides a dinner that was once frozen and settle for the chicken linguine. I’m chucking the lasagna back into the freezer when I’m interrupted by a knock. I immediately look at Buster, the both of us silently asking if the other is expecting company through confused looks. I walk to the door after realizing I’m expecting an actual answer from my dog. I’m still deciding if I should play it off like I’m not home, when I hear another knock, this time more urgently.
“Grace?” I hear from the other side. It’s a male voice, sounding insistent and pleading. And oddly familiar.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Andrew.”
The blood in my veins runs cold. “Andrew?”
All plans to play the “no one’s home” game vanish when his name is spoken with suspicion and disbelief. I undo the locks, Buster letting out a low whimper for the wishful playmate on the other side. When I swing the door open, Andrew’s standing there, just like he announced. His hair’s a little disheveled, shirt slightly rumpled and askew, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. I allow myself a second—just a second—to admire his forearms before meeting his eyes. And I suddenly realize that I don’t know if I’m ready to face him.
“Hey,” he calls. Though I expected something a little more playful and flirty, it doesn’t necessarily surprise me when I’m greeted with a solemn grave expression. A part of me feels like I deserve it. Even asked for it.
“What are you doing here?”
It’s then he procures a plastic bag from behind his back. From his index finger, he’s dangling what looks like two squareStyrofoam takeout containers, and the contents smell hopelessly delicious. Maybe it’s the serious look on his face that doesn’t transition into something lighter and hopeful, curling a painful ribbon of pity to knot in my chest, or the fact that he soothed away the aching woes that actually convinced me the frozen dinner sitting on my kitchen island is equivalent to a warm, home-cooked meal, but all I want to do is wrap my arms around his neck and let him hold me.
“I got dinner,” he answers, “and I was wondering if you’d help me…eat it?”
I cover the tearful pout on my face with a pinched brow. A measly attempt to hide my curiosity and my genuine gratitude for such a simple act of consideration. “Whatcha got?”
“You in the mood for sushi?”
Dammit!My weak spot. I almost want to burst into a puddle of tears. No one’s ever brought me sushi. Not even my ex-husband. No one. Ever.
I don’t answer him, worried if I spoke, my emotions would be on full display by the raspy crack in my voice. Thankfully, Buster chooses that moment to interrupt us, nudging his snout through the door. The guilt of turning Andrew away when he’s done something so sweet prevents me from telling him to go home, so I turn to walk back into my kitchen. With my back to him, I use the moment to get my shit together. The Grace who appeared cool and collected, even a little aloof, during those Cash App transactions needs to make an appearance immediately. Because if he sees the Grace I want to be—the Grace he saw the other night—this isn’t going to end well. It’s going to end with more complicated feelings and an itch we both know we can’t scratch.
I hear the door close and lock behind him, and I continue, making sure to maintain the nonchalant energy by keeping my eyes ahead of me. When we reach my kitchen, I round the islandand face him. With the slab of marble between us, I feel an inch safer. I need it. A buffer, a line of defense while we’re in the same room. A room without a mediator to keep us from ripping each other’s clothes off again.
He plops the bag between us, and his eyes land on the frozen dinner, still in the box.
“Dinner?” he asks, gesturing a hand toward my pathetic evening plans. The easy way he braces a hand on the edge of the counter and the calm, even way he asks his question—void of any judgment—makes the gratitude claw up my throat. As does the need to sink into his wide chest. A warm place where I can enjoy some sushi and easy conversation.
I look down, avoiding his eyes, and nod, swiping the Lean Cuisine out of sight and walking it back to the freezer. “I’ve had a long day,” I tell him. “I just needed something quick and easy.”
He nods, adding a gentle smile that quickly vanishes. He starts to undo the ties of the bag and opens everything up in front of me. He lays out a selection of rolls, steamed edamame, and a small side of ginger and wasabi. Buster whimpers at his side, giving Andrew a perfected set of puppy eyes, and Andrew acknowledges him with a playful scratch under his chin. He continues, undoing a pair of chopsticks, pulling apart the tough planks of wood, and rubs them in his palms to buff off any loose splinters before extending them in my direction. I don’t miss the domestic touch of his movements. His shoulders hunched over this task he assigned himself, making sure everything is within arms-length for me. He does everything with a soft ease that doesn’t make me feel like I’m an imposition. In fact, if I suddenly decide I want to take over—nudging the food closer to him and urging him to take the first bite—he’d probably refuse. Those chopsticks, still in its paper wrapper by his side, would remain unwrapped until I popped the first piece of sushi in my mouth.
I take the chopsticks from him—a peace offering, it seems—though not without a beat of hesitance, and poke at a fresh California roll. “So, you just thought to order some sushi and bring it over?” I ask as I stuff my face.
He shrugs, as if it was something less thought out than that. Like he just happened to visit a sushi joint close to my house, and he coincidentally decided to drive through my neighborhood on his way home, and he chanced an impromptu food delivery to my doorstep. But I know him better. I don’t expect to, but I realize I do. He wouldn’t do this on a whim. It was planned, probably while he was still at work, and he played a little gamble. A risky game I was completely unprepared for, and he was at a great advantage with his delicious sushi and his kind gesture.
“Something like that.”
We eat in silence, the clicks of our chopsticks and the sharp rubbing of Styrofoam creating filler noises so it doesn’t feel like our dirty little secrets are being screeched into all of space. The silence continues as I bring him a cold bottle of water, omitting the opportunity to ask him if he has a preference for something else.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I answer quietly. I keep my gaze on the food, too timid to hear the truth, when I ask, “So are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”
