“Science.”
“Music.”
A bewildered laugh bubbles up. “It’s all those things. It just takes a little care, and you can turn something humble into something incredible.”
He takes a sip of wine, then looks down at his plate as he asks, “Do you make it often?”
I’m oddly relieved that I can tell him, “No. It’s special to me. I don’t make it for anyone because I don’t want to give it to someone who wouldn’t understand.”
Another smile and a lingering look. Always that sadness in his eyes. It is a sad thing, this dinner. A bittersweet thing. But it’s always there. And I want to pluck it out of him.
“I never made it for Jon. Not once.” I’m embarrassed at the way that spilled out of me, so I throw in, “He doesn’t eat vegetables anyway.”
August laughs in response, a light scoff.
“I ditched him last night, by the way. After I left you. I told him to keep the key, and that I never wanted to see him again. And I feel great.”
He settles his wine glass on the table. “How long were you together?”
“Seven years.”
“Fuck!” he announces, and fair enough too.
“On and off. I won’t say it was a waste, because I learned a lot. But funnily enough, I’ve learned more with you in the past few days than seven years with him taught me.”
His smile turns quizzical, a gleam in his eyes. “What did you learn?”
“That I like nice men.” Fuck, do I look that pretty when I blush? Christ, I hope so. “And if you leave?—”
“WhenI leave.” He corrects me softly but starkly.
I chew over the words, “Whenyou do, I’m… I’m not dating anyone, I think. I’m just not interested. Not unless it can be like this. Not unless I can make them nice things and have them understand.”
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve gone too far. He’s not my boyfriend. I haven’t known him long. Maybe it’s not the smoothest move to drop something like that on him.
Maybe he’s desperate to get out of here now.
Christ, I’ve blown the whole thing already and made this awkward as fu?—
“Can I ask you something?”
The meal turns to lead in my stomach. “Of course.”
“If you were going to die, would you want to know?” He stares dead into my eyes, like my answer is somehow incredibly important.
“Well, that just got dark.”
“I’m sorry.” He laughs, but there isn’t much humour behind it.
I guess we are eating our dead mother’s favourite dish, so it’s no surprise he might be thinking morbid thoughts. He expands a little, “I sometimes wish I’d said things to them before they went. But that’s because I went on.Wewent on. And I feel like they might have wanted to say things to us too.”
“They might have liked to,” I reply softly. “But I think we know what they’d have said. Because they said it all when they were living. And for me, so long as I’m like that…” I take a sip of wine while I consider the idea. “No, I don’t think I’d want to know if I was going to die.”
“You wouldn’t?” His brow smooths, possibly for the first time since he arrived.
“No. I think if I knew, that’s all I’d think about. And maybe I wouldn’t waste so much time listening to records and drinking tea. But is that time wasted, really, if it makes me happy?”
“No,” he says very fast.
