“What?!” he half-shouts.
“There are like, seven different types of fruit in here?!” I yell, appalled. “Vegetables? Is this kale?! Organic chicken breast? Quinoa? Whole grain bread?! Is this…” I whisper, lifting a box, “…bran cereal?!”
His gorgeous face shows extreme irritation. “Well,excuse mefor wanting to eat a vegetable once in a while.”
“I willhateyou if you force me to eat all of this,” I growl at him.
He throws his hands up in the air. “We can’t just live off of ice cream this week, Georgia!”
I move down the candy aisle, picking up bags and boxes at random and throwing them backwards into the cart.
I march to the ice cream aisle and select no less than six cartons of ice cream, with Oliver grumbling behind me.
I throw in a bag of Takis (Fuego) in for good measure.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Can’t we at least get Blue?”
“Don’t be such a lunatic,” I snap.
Other than this highly romantic incident, we spend every single day of winter break together in domestic bliss, giddy, borderline disgusting in what feels like a newfound love and affection.
He wants to watch a documentary, but I want to watch another horror movie.
We compromise on The Blair Witch Project, because I convince him it’s a documentary by three student filmmakers about a strange woman who lives in the woods in Maryland.
“I hate you,” Oliver tells me an hour later, while standing far across the room, completely out of the line of sight of the television.
“Shhh…” I tell him from under a blanket. “This is supposed to be the best part.”
He teaches me how to cook. Well, he prints out a chart of the safe minimum internal temperatures for various meats. He shows me where to stick the thermometer, and it’s not just on the surface of the meat.
He lets me make a mess of his kitchen while we bake something called canelés. He happily cleans up after me.
I love him, and he’s passing the test.
THIRTY-FOUR
Georgia
Remember my therapy homework?Great. I didn’t either.
I’m on a video call with my therapist, and seeing her face reminds me of said homework, but I don’t think it matters anymore.
“I’m happy,” I tell her.
“Well, that’s really great to hear, Georgia. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Sure. Remember that asshole? Well, we’re together now.”
“Hmm. How’d that happen?”
“Sex. Lots of it. Well, at least that’s how it started.”
“Okay… How long ago?”
“Since mid-November, maybe.”
“So, a little over a month?” She asks it without judgement in her voice, but I can still feel it.
