He cocks his head at me.
“I just mean, Bella said.”
He nods in response.
What Bella actually said was that he made butternut squash and sage risotto, but before she could have one little bite they’d had sex on the counter, right there in the kitchen. I blink away the image and run my hands down my face, shaking my head.
“So is that a no on guacamole?”
“What? No, yes, definitely. I’m starving,” I say.
“You have interesting ways, Ms. Kohan.”
He starts piling ingredients onto the counter: onions, cilantro, jalapenos, and a variety of vegetables.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“You can open that tequila,” he says.
He gestures with his head to the countertop, where our booze for the weekend is artfully displayed. I find the tequila.
“Ice?” I ask. “I’ll pour.”
“Thanks.”
I take two small tumbler glasses down from the cabinet and pour a finger of tequila in each one. I pull the ice tray out, careful to hold the bottom drawer of the freezer when I do—another quirk of the house.
“Heads-up.” Aaron tosses me a lime. I miss, and it rolls out of the room. I’m chasing it on my hands and knees when Bella comes floating down the stairs, still in her blue tunic, hair now up.
“Rogue lime,” I say, snatching it before it scurries under the sofa.
“I’m starving,” she says. “What do we have?”
“Aaron is making guacamole.”
“Who?”
I shake my head. “Greg. Sorry.”
“What do you guys want to do for dinner?” Bella asks us. I follow her into the kitchen and she snakes her arms around Aaron’s waist, kissing him on the back of the neck. He offers her up his tequila. She shakes her head.
I know, of course, that they’ve gotten closer. That while I’ve been at work all summer, Bella has been falling for this man. That they’ve been to museums and outdoor concerts and cool, tiny wine bars. That they’ve walked the West Side Highway at dusk and the Highline at sunrise and had sex on every single piece of furniture in her brownstone. Almost. She’s told me all of it. But seeing them now, I’m met with a prick in my chest that I’m not entirely sure how to identify.
I take a seat at the counter and pick a tortilla chip out of the bag that Aaron has set out. He scoops some diced onions onto the back of a knife and dusts them into the guacamole bowl.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask. Anyone with knife skills impresses me. I like to believe it’s the one thing that prevents me from being a good cook.
“I’m kind of self-taught,” he says. He nudges Bella to the side and opens the oven. In goes an array of sliced peppers, onions, and potatoes. “But I grew up around food. My mom was a cook.”
I know what that means. It’s not the words themselves, although they are markers, but the way he says it—with a slight bewildered edge. Like he can’t quite believe it, either.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He looks back at me. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”
“Dinner?” Bella asks. Her hands are on her hips, and Aaron loops his arms through hers, pulling her in and kissing her on the side of her face. “Whatever you want,” he says. “I’ve got snacks covered.”
“Tonight we have reservations at the Grill, or we can walk to Hampton Chutney if we’re not in the mood for something serious,” I say.
