“Now you’re here,” he replies cheerfully, leaning back so he can view me better.
“Now I’m here,” I echo. I am so giddy that I’m making myself ill. If this feeling is what I think it is, I’m going to die. This cannot be sustainable. How do couples spend whole years feeling like this about each other? How do they not combust?
“Ready for five-star cuisine?” To my surprise, he sidesteps the red booth and takes us to the counter, pulling out a stool for me like a gentleman.
Subway is one of the only takeout places in Top of the World, the other being Benigno’s, a little pizzeria. They sit side by side in a building that used to be a sawmill and sabotage each other’s advertising signs. Thunder cracks over the house as he pushes me in, foul weather interfering with the static that seems to be the only sound Wesley could coax out of the old radio.
“So this is what you’ve been doing all day.” I can’t get over it.
“Just the clouds. The rest I’ve been doing whenever you’re out of the house, or asleep.” He pulls two hot chocolates from behind the counter, setting them before us. You wouldn’t think that hot chocolate and veggie sandwiches would pair well, but he’s noticed my favorite drink is hot chocolate, andthatmeans everything. “What haveyoubeen doing all day?”
Other than crying over my hair, my day’s actually been rather productive. “I had a chat with Ruth’s daughter Sasha over the phone.”
“Really? Why?”
“The last time I talked to Ruth, she mentioned her daughter had quit culinary school to get away from an ex-boyfriend. I’m going to have my hands full around here—preparing three meals a day would take up too much of my time. Plus, I’m good at baking but I don’t have the range for lunches and dinners day in and day out. I wanted to know if she’d consider being my chef.”
“What’d she say?”
My adrenaline is surging so high that I can’t taste any of my food, which I eat anyway, feeling that rise of excitement and stress flood me all over again. Excitement and stress is the line I’ve been straddling for a while now. “She’s going to come over and discuss the possibility in a couple of weeks. She wants to see the kitchen first—I’m gonna have to get a second fridge, and maybe otherappliances, if she needs them. She wants freedom to plan her own menus.” I add in a rush, “All vegetarian meals, of course.”
Wesley puts his sandwich down. Stares at me. “You don’t have to do that.”
I wave him off, inexplicably blushing. Maybe it’s because I’m showing my hand here, betraying that what is important to him is important to me. “No big deal.”
He’s turning pink, too. “I would never pressure you to only serve vegetarian food. It’s a personal decision. I don’t expect—”
“I know.” I cut him off with a pat on the hand. “Do you honestly think, though, that after hearing about your childhood pet cow, I’m ever going to bring meat into your house? Nope.” I take a sip of my drink in aCase closedgesture. “Not happening.”
We stare down at our plates. We are both flustered, both unable to take a compliment, both wanting to give compliments rather than receive them and both being bad at verbalizing our feelings. I’d laugh out loud at how disastrously awkward we are if I weren’t channeling every drop of energy into staying put on this stool when all I really want to do is maul him.
He reaches for a Subway napkin. Takes a pen from inside his jacket and unclicks it, hand poised in midair for three seconds.
That is very wonderful of you, he writes, and slides the napkin over to me.
My face heats even more. I take much too long settling on a reply.You make it easy.
He rereads that line over and over. “You make it easier,” he says finally. “So we’re really doing this, then.” He pushes his plate away. “A hotel and an animal sanctuary. An interesting combination.” He clinks his mug of hot chocolate against mine. “To Violet.”
“To Violet.” I finish my drink, then add, “Thank you, by theway, for taking care of her. I’m sad that I never met her as an adult, and built a relationship with her as two adults rather than caregiver and child. I think we each thought we’d failed the other.”
He listens. Nods slowly, writing on the napkin some more. “She would have liked adult Maybell, I can tell you that. She would have liked who you’ve grown up to become.”
I lean into him, more for the excuse to be close than any other reason, and smile to see that he’s sketching me.
“Your pendant,” I muse, tapping the miniature version in ink.
“Yourpendant,” he says, briefly touching the one that rests against my chest. My skin responds with goose bumps. “Looks better on you.”
I prop my elbow on the counter, chin in hand, posing for him. His eyes flicker from me to the drawing, me to the drawing, the edge of an amused smile flirting at his lips. “You can move a bit, you know.”
“Hm?”
“You’re being so still.”
“I don’t want to mess you up.”
He tips his head back, searching the ceiling. The sound that escapes his chest is a cross between sigh and laugh. “Maybell, I can draw you from memory. With my eyes closed.”
