I bury my face against him and let myself cry. For him. For myself. For everything that’s happened these past few days that I haven’t yet had time to sort through in my head.
It’s almost too much for Andre. I can feel him struggling, trembling, but he stays with me. As it fades, I realize that I have a fist clenched in his hair. I loosen my grip. I start to pet him. I start to hold him. I don’t know if he notices the shift, but he accepts what I’m doing in a way I don’t think he would have earlier.
We’re still on the couch, finally quiet, when there’s a knock at the door. Andre jolts. I slide off him so he can get up.
“Stay here,” he orders.
I don’t know how he so quickly puts aside what he was just feeling, but I watch him do it as he stalks to the door and looks through the peephole. Then I watch him relax.
He opens the door and pulls in the cart that’s been left. As he secures the door, I get up from the couch. There’s a dining table at the edge of the living room, but I’m not surprised that Andre rolls the cart to the kitchen. He would know that I always eat there.
“Ah shit, the coffee,” he mutters.
I start unloading the trays while he goes to push down the plunger of the press pot. He makes my coffee how I like it. He knows more about me than I know about him. I’ll have to catch up.
My stomach wakes up when I smell the food. It’s steak and eggs with chimichurri sauce. There are potatoes and toast on the side, plus dressed greens and fruit.
“Oh my god,” I mutter and sit down. I forget my manners instantly, digging in before Andre even arrives.
He sets my coffee by my plate and pets my hair. I pause with my fork in my mouth. God, I love this affectionate side of him. I would never have expected it.
He sits beside me and starts to eat. When he swaps fruit bowls with me, I realize that I took his plate without knowing it. I hunt for the differences. I got rarer meat than I’m used to, but I actually like it. Andre didn’t complain about his being overcooked for his taste, but he did swap the bowls.
“You don’t like bananas?” I ask.
He shudders slightly. “No.”
“What else don’t you like?”
“Yogurt. It’s fineinthings, but by itself it makes me gag.”
“Huh. What’s your favorite food?” I ask.
“I bet you can guess.”
“Steak.”
“True,” he admits, “but I guess I was thinking guilty pleasure.”
“Ah. Potato chips.”
“Especially the ones from—”
“Remy’s,” I supply.
He smiles a little, pleased that I’ve paid attention. I’m pleased too. I know him better than I thought.
When we’re done eating, we load the dishes onto the cart.
Andre says, “I’m gonna put this in the hallway, then I’m going up to the penthouse for some clothes. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“We could go up there,” I suggest, thinking he might prefer being in his own, larger space.
But he says, “No, I’d rather be here.”
He doesn’t look at me as he says it, so he doesn’t see my nod. Wearing only his boxer briefs, he takes the cart outside and leaves.
When he returns ten minutes later wearing black sweatpants and a white t-shirt, I’m drinking a second cup of coffee on the couch. He pours himself a second cup as well and comes to join me.
