He likes me. He likes me back. He’s so hot, and he likes me back.
I’m not going to think about any of what he said about us parting. I’m going to seduce him with cookery and hair metal, and he’s going to be mine.
The beef skewers are almost ready. I ran out and got the beef this morning before work, leaving it marinating in garlic, lemon, and oregano all day. That should be nice. I got fresh bread on the way home, and I’ve got a salad almost ready. But I know the zucchini is the star of the day.
I hadn’t expected him to react like that. Yet I’m glad he did. I’m glad I was there when he did. I’m glad I didn’t cry, for once. There’s something full circle about it, making the food that was provided for me, providing it for him. Taking that care and passing it on. To take care of myself in taking care of both of us. It feels right.
All of this feels more right than anything I have ever experienced. That’s why it can’t end. Why I know it won’t end. August’s on it, and tomorrow, if he’ll let me, I’ll go back to his place and we’ll work again. And again. Until we crack this. Inever thought I was a ‘love will find a way’ type of person, but maybe that’s what I am.
Not that I’m calling it love, for the record.
But it feels like it could be. One day. Maybe.
All I know is right now there’s a hole in my heart when I think about him leaving. So I don’t. I take the wine and the plates and put them on the table, adding a candle for extra boyfriend-material points. He’s turning the beef while I dress the salad. The bread’s on the board. And he knows what comes next.
When we take the zucchini from the oven, grilled and glistening strips, it’s a race against time to compile the thing and keep it hot.
Five pieces laid side by side, August dollops on the Greek yogurt, sharp with lemon juice and raw garlic, seasoned and full of basil. He’s generous with it, as he should be, and it starts to melt on contact. I drop a shower of toasted pine nuts, then crisscross the next layer of zucchini on top, golden olive oil mixing with the charred zucchini and yoghurt, spilling down the side in rivers of flavour. Up and up, we build it high, a towering achievement of deliciousness, a monument to simple home cooking and the way those humble moments can become your whole world when they’re gone forever.
Or when you thought they were.
Not anymore.
Now August’s got the meat, I’ve got the zucchini, and he’s shuffling things around to fit it on the tiny table. I’m having the first candlelit dinner of my life. With me. And I could not be happier.
Not until we’re seated, and he lifts his wine glass, leans in, and says, “I’m so lucky to have met you. Thank you. For doing all of this.”
“You did half of it.”
His slanted smile and raised eyebrows suggest I’m maybe deflecting his compliments again.
“I mean… Thank you for coming over. To share it with me. I hope you like it.”
“I’d like anything you do.” He taps his glass to mine, then watches me drink while he does the same.
The best thing is, I believe all these things he says. I don’t feel the tension of having made something for someone, wondering whether it will be good enough to impress them, to capture their attention, to keep them with me next time their phone buzzes. August doesn’t even have a phone. He’s completely in this room with me, not dreaming of his next trip away, and I’m sure he’s not thinking of anyone else. Not judging by the way his eyes run down my neck when I swallow.
I want his tongue there. I want it everywhere.
I start cutting into the zucchini pie, because everyone loves a man who can cook. But a man who can cook your favourite ever dish like a pro? Boyfriend material.
Our plates are loaded. There’s a hesitating dance between me trying to act normal and not stare at him, and him waiting for me to start the meal.
So, I go straight to the zucchini pie. The sharp knife glides through the layers like they’re air, brilliantly silken. He does the same, and my eyes flick up to his. He sees, and his smile, wide and bashful, lights my heart on fire.
I go first, because that’s probably manners for a host, but he’s only seconds behind me. The flavours are balanced: sharp lemon, delicate grilled zucchini, unctuous yogurt and olive oil, the crunch of the earthy pine nuts. It’s a perfect mix, enhanced by a thousand memories.
For the billionth time, I feel a simmering guilt for how often I turned Mum’s food down, picky child that I was. I wish she couldhave known how strong this memory of her is. What it means to me. I wonder if she ever did know.
“That’s incredible.” August’s words are quiet, but firm. “It’s exactly the same. It’s the same flavour, and I never thought… I don’t think I realised how much I miss this.”
“I’m so glad you like it.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve had in years. Not since she was around.” He takes another bite. His eyes are glistening, but this time he’s not trying to hide it from me. I’m a mirror to him. But I’m not going to let him get down.
“It’s underrated, don’t you think? If you tell someone the ingredients, it doesn’t sound like anything special. But when you stick them together, it’s alchemy.”
“Magic.”
