He turns, spatula in hand. “What?” He looks down at his body, his pants from last night on but the buttons open and wearingmyhot-fox Robin Hood T-shirt that I wear to bed.
“You’re stretching it.” I point to fabric, thinned at his shoulders. It’s too short for him, exposing his midriff.
“Nora, it’s like twenty years old.”
I climb onto one of the two barstools on the other side of the kitchen island, grumbling. “You’re lucky it looks good on you.”
He grins, the towel turban listing to one side.
Part of me wants to reach for my phone to take a picture of this, but maybe it means more as just a memory.
He tries to convince me to do a shot of maple syrup with him before we eat, but when I refuse, he does his and then mine and looks sick for the next half hour. But that doesn’t stop him from pulling his weight, piling dishes next to the sink, collecting trash from under the coffee table, and making countless trips to the garbage chute.
Then he hangs up the towel and washes dishes while I dry, and it feels like every New Year’s Day has been like this. Us working in tandem, in comfortable quiet, except for voicing our memories of the night before.
“This is nice,” he says, handing me a pot.
I wipe down the stainless steel. “Yeah.”
“Maybe we can do it again sometime.” His tone is so carefully casual, it takes all my self-restraint not to fall on the floor and kick my feet.
“I’d like that,” I say, just as casually. “When’s your next trip to Berlin? We’ll probably have to plan around that.”
Finn is quiet for a beat longer than usual. I look up at him.
“I, uhhh.” He smiles with one side of his mouth, awkwardly. “I might not be going to Germany anymore.”
I turn to put the pot in the drawer. “Is your firm pulling out of the merger?” I ask over the clatter of rearranging pots. When I turn around, he’s holding out the pot cover for me.
Finn turns off the water, drying his hands on the dish towel tossed over his shoulder. “More like the firm wanted me to work in Berlin,” he says, leaning against the counter. “For at least a year, maybe more?”
I feel dizzy, grab the counter to steady myself. “Oh” is all I can manage.
He smiles. “I’m not going, though.”
“What do you mean?” I ignore the flush of relief through my limbs.
He closes the space between us, settling his hands on my hips. His hair is drying in soft waves that I want to finger comb. “I said I’d think about it, but I want to stay here.” He kisses me, a soft brush of our lips. “With you.”
The dizziness returns. “Like, they’re giving the Berlin post to someone else, and you’ll work here but still travel back and forth?”
He pauses again. “Like, I’m turning it down and finding a new position. Somewhere else.”
“You’re turning it down,” I repeat. “For me?”
He scratches the back of his head. “I mean, yeah. I guess.”
I slide between his body and the counter behind me. I need space, air that isn’t filled with the scent of my shampoo on his hair. “You can’t do that.”
“I can do whatever I want, Nor,” he says softly.
“It’s irresponsible.” The second I say the words I want to take them back. The thing is, yes, it isirresponsible, but—I trace the earrings, still in my ears, with the tips of my fingers—Finn kind of has a thing for grand gestures.
Finn laughs, the first note of acid in his voice. “I thought it was kind of romantic.”
“It is.” I take his hands in mine, look at them instead of his face. “It’s just, you’ve had this job since you graduated. You worked so hard to be there.”
He squeezes my hands. “I’ve worked hard to be right here, too.”
